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Adam Childs Aug 2014
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with  beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.  

As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's  stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world

There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him  
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions  
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth  
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him

There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
just decided to take my two poems about a LION and remove all the dead wood and see what I came up with . not sure but I love some of the lines individually
iamtheavatar Nov 2016
This world is but a graveyard
Of kings and kingdoms
Of philosophers and freemen
Of sacrilegious arrogance

For we live in a vast wasteland
Of prospectors and merchants
Only a few steps from oasis
Battling for a distant mirage

Humans are mere beasts
Like hyenas and lionesses
Fighting for supremacy
In this endless ephemerality

**iamthe_avatar ©2016
Thoughts about life.
DAVID Dec 2014
Y can feel the cold wind
the moon is high , the lion inside
crawls , the helmet stop the metamorfosis
mi tooths are sharp my roar is crawling to
my throat .

in the night , think in licans , mi hearts is with them
mis claws are poping out , the lion is out ,
and y feel pity for the little creep .

mi head is booming and i can't stop , the roar
is stock in my throat , it comes out , is not a howl ,
is not a cry , is the lion in my guts asking for a way out ,
his claws , are my claws his teeths are mine ,

y think in the beauty , and her beasty **** eyes ,
a roar comes out , the bikes speed up , thinking in
gonzo  ,  running his bike ,  touring his lican ,
avoiding the **** , a claim for mercy for the
mortal , while the beast crawls for the skin .

suddenly the beast is out , everything around you sounds
different, night is yours , the claws are out ,
feeling pity and a rush , loews night , the effect is cool .
you keep speeding up , you feel the rage , making your roar ,
put fith , 120 km. are enough , hopefully .


you speed up , the bike don't go faster , the rage is booming
the eco in your head , claims for the blood of fresh **** .
the full moon talks your language the city is your hunting ground ,
thinking in lestat ,  hearing bach under a howling moon  , the claws get to your gloves popping out, full moon again son , carefull says lestat voice .



but the full moon talks your language  ,  she talks to your lion ,
she says in his ears , feed lion feed , take your paws , use the fangs
the city is your hunting ground , the lion is out your eyes are red
the beast took your heart , think in dogs , licans are lucky they have their clans , youre alone  ,  the city is ******* yours to take , the lion's walks alone .


think in nat geo , hoping they show some fresh **** ,
hoping for a lions feast , eating , with ****** faces , and a full
mouth , thinking in
mi lyonnesse . feeling ***** , the beast is out ,
cant stop , looking people like prays , in your hunting
ground ... every one is a pray  , looking for a child molester ,
for an assassin , there's no crime in killing creeps , the lion
makes excuses , for the **** , moon is up , you wait for a while
then speed up , and again thinking in the little creep . you scream impotent , it was your right , little beasty knows , he was lucky  , now they know how lucky they ***** , claws come back in . your  lucky to be live .

the moon is gone the lion is in , waiting to crawl back out , thinking in the running , in the heart of a creep , the feast of eating his creepy little heart , gas is enough , y will make it to the  cave , thinking in beautiful
lionesses , naked lionesses , their skin their softness , thinking in the
beauty that loves you but is too scared to face the music in her chicken **** heart , good tastes  too many wrongs , she  cant handle it .



the lion crawl back in ,  the helmet deed his job and protect mi head ,
the blood taste in my mouth , feels good , the fang is always out , like
a remainder ,  a message to your face , be cool , the bike brakes in the red light , you look the little creep , crawling to you , you see his dog out , he smells you , the roar scares him , his creepy yellow eyes , but he knows better .


the hummingbird of the morning sings , talking to the sun , mi eyes are hurting me . the night was good no one died , only the lion ,  rest in peace , very deep inside my chest .
the blood moon wakes you up , think in the coliseum ,the  loews feasts
the killings , the blood , the roman ladies , in the streets no one , looks at you , beneath the monet sykes , everyone , walks with the certainty , for their  own certainties , the blood moon wakes every cell in my body the lion claims for a way out , y only see prays , in a ****** red moon .
    


the house is quiet , my teeths are in , y bite my lips ,
take the shorts  up for a run  , throwing all the rage , in the ****** moon the creeps knows better ,  but still , thinking in the cowardness of being inside , having a creep , inside a ****** closet with 80 years old , pitty is an excuse , he knows better deep in his creepy little heart knowing he was ,  only a lucky little rat .


the feast in natgeo , is cool thinking in the creepy enemy , getting eaten alive by hyenas , eaten to the bone , screaming for mercy , thats  happy
or wishful thinking , oh the beast is there ,  yet , deep down you know that is there , waiting  , looking the prays , but that is the secret , that everyone have  it , only few knows it , and control it , as y do
screaming and roaring beneath the ****** moon .



now i'm calm waiting for a day sleep , having the certainty that my beast is controlled , and the blood feast , are just my wishful thinking .
in the nigth ride , think in blake , tiger tiger in the night .
why your eyes shine so bright , that's my line , your eyes shine , the night is your day , the creep is everywhere , here i am  scream some creep defender , thanks the lord , for your life , and dont scream at me defending that crap . the lion talks to people , don't defend **** ,
luckily i'm used to hold on and hold back , in the ****** night , someone says here we are ,  y say , so what , nothing works for you ,
, whats the point , of being there , illogical and creepy , think again your lucky to be alive . y hear knives out by radiohead and  y think in destroy that creepy evil little rat , that almost destroy mi life , and y say to the rat your ******* lucky to be alive .

       c'est tout, je adore.
temporary not finished , lack of sleep , ***** and beneath that same ****** moon ,
Olivia Kent Jun 2014
Lift me up,
let me drift on a tide of rising air.
I am strung below an ******* rush of burning air,
at the mercy of the pilot,
let me ride the sky before I die,
Sprinkle me with pepper dust,
not to make my eyes sore,
but to make me feel alive.
let me feel the sensation of the zephyr cruising past my face.
Enter my vision stage left,
the scene from above looking downwards,
savanna flowing,
rolling out protected and free,
as free as me,
just plain old me,
the lioness in the basket drifts,
she's watching the lioness snaring today's tea.
and so the delicate zebra falls,
as of today, she can run no more.
The lioness in the basket,she sips her tea from an old plastic mug,drifting onward,
regardless.
(C) Livvi
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
    
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
                    herrdildomaschinekopf...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself
vulnerable...

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
             "mobility"...
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.

_______

.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
******.
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
     what?!
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             what?!
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
                      no...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt

to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of brilliant stars
bright with lapis stones,
you illuminate all lands!

...

The person who put this tablet together
is Enheduanna.
My king: something never created before,
did she not give birth to it?



Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Sargon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. She was high priestess of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, translation, Eresh, Nisaba, Akkad, Sumer, Ur, Sumerian temple hymns



Temple Hymn 15
to the Gishbanda Temple of Ningishzida
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Most ancient and terrible shrine,
set deep in the mountain,
dark like a mother's womb...

Dark shrine,
like a mother's wounded breast,
blood-red and terrifying...

Though approaching through a safe-seeming field,
our hair stands on end as we near you!

Gishbanda,
like a neck-stock,
like a fine-eyed fish net,
like a foot-shackled prisoner's manacles...
your ramparts are massive,
like a trap!

But once we’re inside,
as the sun rises,
you yield widespread abundance!

Your prince
is the pure-handed priest of Inanna, heaven's Holy One,
Lord Ningishzida!

Oh, see how his thick, lustrous hair
cascades down his back!

Oh Gishbanda,
he has built this beautiful temple to house your radiance!
He has placed his throne upon your dais!



The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines, an Excerpt
Nin-me-šara by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lady of all divine powers,
Lady of the all-resplendent light,
Righteous Lady clothed in heavenly radiance,
Beloved Lady of An and Uraš,
Mistress of heaven with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess,
Powerful Mistress who has seized all seven divine powers,
My lady, you are the guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the divine powers,
You hold the divine powers in your hand,
You have gathered up the divine powers,
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!
Like a dragon you have spewed venom on foreign lands that know you not!
When you roar like Iškur at the earth, nothing can withstand you!
Like a flood descending on alien lands, O Powerful One of heaven and earth, you will teach them to fear Inanna!



Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt
to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O, high-situated Kesh,
form-shifting summit,
inspiring fear like a venomous viper!

O, Lady of the Mountains,
Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!

O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep,
your walls high-towering and imposing!

O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains!...



Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt
to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed
in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!



Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O, house, you wild cow!
Made to conjure signs of the Divine!
You arise, beautiful to behold,
bedecked for your Mistress!



Temple Hymn 26: an Excerpt
to the Zabalam Temple of Inanna
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O house illuminated by beams of bright light,
dressed in shimmering stone jewels,
awakening the world to awe!



Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt
to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba
by Enheduanna
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of brilliant stars
bright with lapis stones,
you illuminate all lands!

...

The person who put this tablet together
is Enheduanna.
My king: something never created before,
did she not give birth to it?



The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines and Excerpts
by Enheduanna, the daughter of Sargon I of Akkad and the high priestess of the Goddess Inanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lady of all divine powers!
Lady of the resplendent light!
Righteous Lady adorned in heavenly radiance!

Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!
Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!
Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her own high priestess!

Powerful Mistress, seizer of the seven divine powers!
My Heavenly Lady, guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the seven divine powers!
You hold the divine powers in your hand!
You have gathered together the seven divine powers!
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!

You have flooded the valleys with venom, like a viper;
all vegetation vanishes when you thunder like Iškur!
You have caused the mountains to flood the valleys!
When you roar like that, nothing on earth can withstand you!

Like a flood descending on floodplains, O Powerful One, you will teach foreigners to fear Inanna!

You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!
The storms do your bidding, blasting the unbelievers!

Foreign cities cower at the chaos You cause!
Entire countries cower in dread of Your deadly South Wind!
Men cower before you in their anguished implications,
raising their pitiful outcries,
weeping and wailing, beseeching Your benevolence with many wild lamentations!

But in the van of battle, everything falls before You, O Mighty Queen!

My Queen,
You are all-conquering, all-devouring!
You continue Your attacks like relentless storms!
You howl louder than the howling storms!
You thunder louder than Iškur!
You moan louder than the mournful winds!
Your feet never tire from trampling Your enemies!
You produce much wailing on the lyres of lamentations!

My Queen,
all the Anunna, the mightiest Gods,
fled before Your approach like fluttering bats!
They could not stand in Your awesome Presence
nor behold Your awesome Visage!

Who can soothe Your infuriated heart?
Your baleful heart is beyond being soothed!

Uncontrollable Wild Cow, elder daughter of Sin,
O Majestic Queen, greater than An,
who has ever paid You enough homage?

O Life-Giving Goddess, possessor of all powers,
Inanna the Exalted!

Merciful, Live-Giving Mother!
Inanna, the Radiant of Heart!
I have exalted You in accordance with Your power!
I have bowed before You in my holy garb,
I the En, I Enheduanna!

Carrying my masab-basket, I once entered and uttered my joyous chants ...

But now I no longer dwell in Your sanctuary.
The sun rose and scorched me.
Night fell and the South Wind overwhelmed me.
My laughter was stilled and my honey-sweet voice grew strident.
My joy became dust.

O Sin, King of Heaven, how bitter my fate!

To An, I declared: An will deliver me!
I declared it to An: He will deliver me!

But now the kingship of heaven has been seized by Inanna,
at Whose feet the floodplains lie.

Inanna the Exalted,
who has made me tremble together with all Ur!

Stay Her anger, or let Her heart be soothed by my supplications!
I, Enheduanna will offer my supplications to Inanna,
my tears flowing like sweet intoxicants!
Yes, I will proffer my tears and my prayers to the Holy Inanna,
I will greet Her in peace ...

O My Queen, I have exalted You,
Who alone are worthy to be exalted!
O My Queen, Beloved of An,
I have laid out Your daises,
set fire to the coals,
conducted the rites,
prepared Your nuptial chamber.
Now may Your heart embrace me!

These are my innovations,
O Mighty Queen, that I made for You!
What I composed for You by the dark of night,
The cantor will chant by day.

Now Inanna’s heart has been restored,
and the day became favorable to Her.
Clothed in beauty, radiant with joy,
she carried herself like the elegant moonlight.

Now to the Noble Hierodule,
to the Wrecker of foreign lands
presented by An with the seven divine powers,
and to my Queen garbed in the radiance of heaven ...

O Inanna, praise!



The Love Song Of Shu-Sin
(the earth's oldest love poem, Sumerian, circa 2,000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.

You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!

Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
In the bedchamber, dripping love's honey,
let us enjoy life's sweetest thing.
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!

Bridegroom, you will have your pleasure with me!
Speak to my mother and she will reward you;
speak to my father and he will award you gifts.
I know how to give your body pleasure—
then sleep, my darling, till the sun rises.

To prove that you love me,
give me your caresses,
my Lord God, my guardian Angel and protector,
my Shu-Sin, who gladdens Enlil's heart,
give me your caresses!
My place like sticky honey, touch it with your hand!
Place your hand over it like a honey-*** lid!
Cup your hand over it like a honey cup!

This is a balbale-song of Inanna.

This may be earth's oldest love poem. It may have been written around 2000 BC, long before the Bible's "Song of Solomon, " which had been considered to be the oldest extant love poem by some experts. The poem was discovered when the archaeologist Austen Henry Layard began excavations at Kalhu in 1845, assisted by Hormuzd Rassam. Layard's account of the excavations, published in 1849 CE, was titled Nineveh and its Remains. Due to Nineveh's fame (from the Bible) , the book became a best seller. But it turned out that the excavated site was not Nineveh, after all, as Layard later discovered when he excavated the real Nineveh.

As a surrogate for Inanna, the bride's mother would be either Ninlil or possibly Ningal, both goddesses.

As a surrogate for Inanna, the bride's father would be either Enlil or possibly Suen, both gods.

Shu-Sin was a Mesopotamian king who ruled over the land of Sumer close to four thousand years ago. The poem seems to be part of a rite, probably performed each year, known as the "sacred marriage" or "divine marriage, " in which the king would symbolically marry the goddess Inanna, mate with her, and so ensure fertility and prosperity for the coming year. The king would accomplish this amazing feat by marrying and/or having *** with a priestess or votary of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of love, fertility and war. Her Akkadian name was Istar/Ishtar, and she was also known as Astarte. Whichever her name, she was the most prominent Mesopotamian female goddess. Inanna's primary temple was the Eanna, located in Uruk. But there were many other temples dedicated to her worship. The high priestess would choose a young man who represented the shepherd Dumuzid, the consort of Inanna, in a hieros gamos or sacred marriage, celebrated during the annual Akitu (New Year)ceremony, at the spring Equinox. The name Inanna derives from the Sumerian words for "Lady of Heaven." She was associated with the lion-a symbol of power-and was frequently depicted standing on the backs of two lionesses. Her symbol was an eight-pointed star or a rosette. Like other female love and fertility goddesses, she was associated with the planet Venus. The Enlil mentioned was Inanna's father, the Sumerian storm god, who controlled the wind and rain. (According to some god/goddess genealogies, Enlil was her grandfather.)In an often-parched land, the rain god would be ultra-important, and it appears that one of the objects of the "divine marriage" was to please Enlil and encourage him to send rain rather than destructive storms! Enlil was similar to the Bible's Jehovah, in that he was the supreme deity, and sometimes sent rain and plenty, but at other times sent war and destruction. Certain passages of the Bible appear to have been "borrowed" by the ancient Hebrews from much older Sumerian texts such as the Epic of Gilgamesh. Such accounts include the creation myth, the Garden of Eden myth, and the myth of the Great Flood and a mankind-saving ark. However, the Hebrew scribes modified the accounts to suit their theology, so in the Bible there is only one "god" who controls everything, and thus behaves like an angel at times and like a demon at others. And that is understandable if one posits that one god controls the weather, since earth's weather is unpredictable and at times seems like a blessing and at other times like a curse.



Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, Poetess, Sumer, Sumerian, Akkad, Akkadian, Saragon, Ur, High Priestess, Hymn, Hymns, Hymnist, Psalm, Psalms, Psalmist, Prayer, Prayers, Lament, Lamentations, Goddess, Nanna, Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Aphrodite, Sauska, Ornament of Heaven, mrbtr, mrbtran, mrbhymn
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
Roaming lioness,
Through the plains
Yearning for a mate
Yearning for a pride
In which is gone

No lion in sight,
The lioness softly roars
In emptiness and sadness
Her cries not heard
By a single ear of a lion

She lies softly in the dry beige grass
She wants to give up
It's all she can do
She roars again in frustration

She is the last of her kind,
Why must it come to this?
Last of the lions and lionesses
Killed by careless humans

Last survivor
Last warrioress
Lost hope
Kim Yu May 2015
Even lions have the strongest hearts
But they still fall weak to lionesses,
A man’s heart can tighten in all parts
It only takes a ´touch´ to bring him to pieces

When a man falls weak to his world
A part of him has leaped over a wall
The tricky phase is to retrieve his part
Searching the world with an incomplete heart,
The finder of his heart is always his near-God
But finders only leave men in a melting ***

Men are known to be tearless
They don’t cry and in pain they remain fearless,
Men are fragile and sensitive
Listen to him and see the world in his perspective,
Men will live on ‘til the last survivor
Because men are forever…
friends or frenemies (feminist safety instruction card)

a coastal flight, boredom has me riffle through the various
offerings in the seat pocket, and on the safety instruction card
come across this...
<•>

she’s blunt, direct, proffers me an either/or choice,
game on either way, pick door A or B, up to me,
she’s no lady, but a hipster shooter using semi-automatics,
three lines of verse, rat-a-tat-tat, your guts spilling,
hoho you’re dead or kicked in the *****, at the minimum

if only she knew what she was up against

I got words for which there ain't no antidote,
can whip her into a lovers frenzy with cooing metaphors,
slap her with stingers so that she’ll retreat hasty to another site

friends or frenemies, how juvenile, how sweet, how absolutely
childish girl, no interest, play in my arena, I have studied with
the masters and lionesses and offer you no terms but this:

be my lover

extend your reach, speak slow and soft, open and willing,
my sonnets demand close attention, slowing and holding,
building links into chains that make boundaries into a single
tie that binds, not for now and not for later but for the only measure that poets alone command: forever

concede and give up that conceit that tough is a defense,
lose everything for rewards you have yet to witness, conceive,
in my circle is in my circle where the intuitive rules and gasps of shocking come so frequent, they are normal breathing

be my lover

knowing that we will never meet never see the inside of
the furnace that can be dreamed-created with tonguing verbs,
adjectives that dance intertwining pas de deux,
oh my femme fatale, my agent provocateur,
let us learn together how,  to teach each other
come,
will be the only action word ever required

come
come write me
come together
come close my eyes
come open them wider
come free me to be a one two

anger is false brevity - loving is the languid forever languishing flames of golden burning orange caramel, word chips of
liquidity that verses, penned passioned calculations,
see how takes many stalks needy to  birth bound into a
single sheaf, count the wips of smoky wispy slivers,
combine and separate, the calculus of recombinant,
offering a unique poem with a momentary invitation,
an equation of equality and there is no diverse different


<•>

the first class steward sh/wakes the dozing body
with an apology;
“landing soon, would you like some breakfast before we land?”

the sleepy soul replies,
come to me with water,
just water...for my dream
Vidya Sep 2012
I. introitus

you join the procession of the
weeping daughters of jerusalem
but you
arent sure what theyre
weeping about.

perhaps they weep because they saw you
shipwrecked on the shores of
my body—
the fishermen howl, their painstakingly
hewn vessel
lost to the south wind.

or perhaps because you
charted my topography climbed up
my ******* and never came back

perhaps someone has died,
possibly you.

at your own funeral, you shed no tears.

II. kyrie eleison

at 8:56 am on judgment day

the cicadas start to
scrape against my skull

roaring like the lionesses that
rip open your chest in the tall grass they
lick your blood from their fur, pick
your bones from between their teeth and
recede, sated, into the
shade

the hyenas arrive at sun-
set and leave only
the weeds to glut
themselves
on your carcass.


III. sequentia

its all just flashes of course: the whys and wherewereyous and the
wildness in your eyes that said if someone snapped your neck i mean wrung it like a spring hen
you would still
be staring into some vision only you could
see.

sometimes it is not enough to eat humble pie.
we have to chew our cud and spit it back out and i am a
fool, a ruminant lying in the pastures waiting
to be taken one thousand seventy-four miles
home:

when you kissed me flowers bloomed from my
navel as if to say—
Yes yes yes yes yes.
blood rising behind my
lips pumping in all its holy majesty
burning metallic against my skin and i thought let me be branded by
you.

you, gift-wrapped in linen and old
spice, sunlight peeking
out through your smile lines
the surprise the perfect
O of your lips as we
made love amid the skyscrapers of cardboard
boxes as we
leapt across your mattress like buzz
aldrin like
children;

i take your hand and you lead me out the
window for a cigarette and a
better view of the moon

both are made of
paper

IV. offertorium

a.
a thousand
miles of orchard—
fruit laced with one point
oh seven four kg of powdered
kisses i havent yet given you

if you crave their nectarblood dont
blame me if you must
drink up the sea to quench
your thirst

b.   
I will sink into you like
a warm bath I will
lie back and eat mangoes and
let the juice drip
down my chin from my
fingers into you

V. sanctus

a.
i come in the name of
the woman inside whose body you were
sewn;
inside my body your seams
will be ripped.

b.
i come in the name of
the woman inside whose body you were
sown;
inside my body your harvest
will be reaped.


VI. agnus dei

the bridegroom lies
in tatters at the
altar,
reaching out to the
bloodied lamb beside him.

we cover him in
wool and
pull it over his eyes,
kissing his hand as we lower
him into the ground,
hoping to be blessed by his
blood. some of us get
drunk instead.

VII. communio

i dont know but Ive been told
that good bread and wine is
the best meal but
no bread breaks better than
your flesh no liquor goes down smoother than
your blood no
light shines brighter than your eyes
(blue moons in a scleral
sky) and when they spark like flint
and ignite my soul will you
remember to scatter my ashes into
whatever poison you drink
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
A L Davies Jan 2013
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...

there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia     g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
'some girls' (insp.) / kanye west taught me a lot about supermodels.
lionesses made  it.  Australia they got beat
world cup it is waiting right there at there feet
only one team left spain is in the way
then they can lift the cup at the end of play

make the country proud make the people roar
bring the cup back home.  since 66 once more
a piece of history lionesses they will make
one match left to win. then world cup they can take.
Redshift Sep 2013
i wish i wasn't so afraid of my forehead.

afraid i'll brush my bangs just the wrong way and someone will remark
"my god! that girl looks weird with her forehead showing."
afraid like i could change a part of my face.

i guess i could if i was one of those rich ******* on "housewives of ---"
or jwow on jersey shore
i could go shopping for new noses
and larger cheek bones.
like changing a feature of my face will make me more wantable
when it's the crap that comes out of my heart people don't like
instead

i wish i could bare my forehead
stick my ******* right up there for all to see
but i am afraid of my forehead

what is a forhead?
just a bit of skin
just a little forehead
that is what scares
this redheaded leopard

this is why lionesses hide in kitchens
majestic ******* that should be out there running things
this is why there are no women presidents
because we are afraid of
ourselves
JJ Hutton Apr 2011
the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.
- From Anna and the Symphony
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
I. written yesterday

i can't remember the last time i had so much fun with music, i put it down to recently seeing them live... and **** me, on both days they played the London Stadium and having such an arsenal of songs they would play two different set-lists... honest to god, i've never had so much fun with music than i'm currently experiencing with the Red Hot Chilli Peppers... perhaps it's not that i saw them live recently... i also attribute seeing them 20 years ago back in 2002 at the now non-existent London Arena in the Docklands... i should have ditched the guitar and picked up a drum-kit... i just can't stop drumming on my leg... grooving with my shoulders and imitating a pigeon walking: which is not exactly head-banging...

there's only one thing greater than cycling...
well: i don't mind not going at the speeds
of a motorcycle -
there's this book: i found it... laborious...
in all honesty...
      i don't understand the fame behind it...
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance...
like i side: a very laborious book...
i'd probably rewrite it as
Tao and the Art of Bicycle Usage...

in between talking to a newly acquired
"friend" in the Arab world who opened up
a conversation with me the word FAKE...
i replied: HAREM and
                      ختان (khitan) - circumcision...
like in Hindu: the H is a surd...
               i guess that's how the Tetragrammaton
structures itself around those tongues...

i prayed for a day like today...
            it was truly amazing... i rarely get into
arguments with motorists...
you could ask any van driver in central London...
i love van drivers:
apparently a car has to pass a cyclist
in a range of 1.5 metres...
van drivers? they're like: **** it...
i'm not driving a tank... he'll be alright...
and they're not shy either...
they don't stalk you on the rear faking
eyesight: pristine spatial-awareness...

fair enough... this one time i was cycling
from the supermarket in the night months
of late winter and this guy slows down
and asks me the question:
- where are you lights?
- what lights?
- exactly...

                   i should have hollered back: thanks dad...
lights or no light: you see me then?
oh look! pedestrians! no high-viz. jackets!
yeah: if it was a country-road: that would
be a fair point... unless of course the street
lights started blinking...

but today was spectacular:
there's only one thing better than cycling:
swimming on a hot day and...
getting angry at motorist when cycling...
******* tourists... Sunday type drivers...
careful! careful!

getting numb-nut words thrown at you:
trying to impress his girlfriend...
blah blah idiot blah blah that...
ooh?! ******... come here! so i caught up
with him and started spewing a list
of profanities... i'm such an adrenaline *****:
and becoming infuriated is like a caffeine-alcohol
overload for me...
i could swear that my iris and sclera disappear
and there's only blackness in my eyes...
- ******! stop the car and let's have a fight!
lucky for me this happened as we passed
a bus stop...
by then he rolled his window up...
or rather: she did... having spotted me gearing
up to have an argument...

what? a bicycle is less than a motorbike?
i like the idea of generating my own momentum...

but the second incident was more
impressive...
i'm working a shift at Wembley tomorrow...
at first i was like: women playing football?
but i'll just be watching them... not the football...
tattoos... long hair... ooh! there's an odd Pixie
short haired type i'm so into...
then i was like: eh...                 not that bad...
plus the crowd will be easier to control...

now i'm like: the lionesses have to win...
i don't support the English football team...
i support the male German team:
don't ask me why...
          i was thinking about it once...
the three colours of the France kit...
                       blue shirt white shorts
and red socks...
the German kit would look so awesome if
it imitated the flag...
   black shirt red shorts and yellow socks...
instead?
                      white shirt black shorts white socks...
and why?
    the Teutonic flag... Germany should change
it's flag to something akin to the crosses of
Scandinavia or the flag of St. George,
i.e. the inversion of the flag of Cornwall...
a black cross on a white canvas...
since... the colours of the football kit represent that...
the Teutonic Cross...

Spanish teams and of course because of Rapahel
Nadal have his word of encouragement
to keep them going...
bamos (i.e. vamos)
       there's a word in my zunge that can be
used to similar effect...
sometimes you just need a phonetic outlet
to match-up the exertion of the body
with the absence of any necessary mind...

DAWAJ - da-VAĪ...
                 looks super-slick in Cyrillic:
ДABAЙ!

       at university: oh god... i wish it happened
in a supermarket...
i went to this one gimmick party:
we were expected to attend wearing pajamas...
i started talking to this one German guy
and he told me he adored the word
KURVA (*****) he said:
there's this relief-release from uttering
that word...
i guess we saw it written in katakana...
it just didn't make sense at the time...
until only recently expressing :
                                                      ДABAЙ
in exasperations while peddling!

huh?! push-bike?!
since when is a bicycle a push-bike?
what am i pushing?
sure... hoo-lie-noga: you can push
a scooter...
what are we even talking about?
chess or brick walls?!
                         one of those conversations
at work... what push bike?
what am i pushing?
i'm peddling...
- a peddle-bicycle sounds double weird...
- thanks, but "push-bicycle" is altogether
weird too:
five blind men and an elephant sort
of weird... that "infamous" story of rock-hard
anti-Braille re-reading....

- this second incident was spectacular...
the lionesses better win...
i was reduced to roaring: RA! as she didn't catch
my indicating... as we pulled up to the roundabout
and started screaming blasphemies only
men hear from women...
    after she finished her little rant...
i caught up to her and ROARED... because?
i didn't want to scream any obscenities myself:
not at a girl... so i roared that mighty syllable R'AH!
perhaps the syllable once shared the name
of an Egyptian god: but not in these parts...

two provebs:
   when walking among the crows one is best
to croak like them
   (jesli wchodzisz miedzy wrony -
   musisz krakac tak jak one) -
which implies that if you walk among the German
tribes (which includes, by extension
the Anglo-Saxons) you have to speak their language
like they speak their language...
ergo? what am i? i'm an Anglo-Slav when it
comes to any ethnicity debate...
after all: Polacks have as much place in British
culture as all people of the former Empire...
now that empire is nothing more than
the Commonwealth & games...
      after all: ****** spitfire pilots fought in the Battle
of Britain: squadrons no. 302 & 303...
there's even a placard in the catacombs of St. Paul's
cathedral dedicated to their memory...
   which is why when come post-colonial former
British empire gust of mango and banana and
sugar cane wind comes flocking to these shores
i find my place too...
                                  
i found it so amusing... i roared and?
                   she roared back! ha ha! a lion to a lioness...
and i thought: this be an OMEN...
if i can turn this into an omen of good faith i'll
have fun tomorrow...
    if i roar at an English girl when she's seriously
having anger management issues
it might just be that i might capture a little splinter
of a collective imagination and turn that into
a victory for the female football team tomorrow
against the Fräuleins...
                    as that story goes: about the butterfly
effect... a butterfly in one place of the world
can create a tornado in another place of the world...
of course i'm not deluded that this has any
actual effect: hypothetically-chaotic and rightly so...
but if i can gear up some random girl driving
in a car with a roar and she roars back...
    maybe that might translate into a victory of sorts...
here's crossing my fingers that i'll be right
come tomorrow...

II. written today

ha! apparently i was right... the lionesses won
the Euros... my god... this is going to rub off so bad on
the male ego of the male team...
i try to avoid the argument: the team is not diverse enough...
only white girls... most blonde:
i never thought there were so many blondes
in England until i started paying attention
to female football...
                  
   i'm still not going to be convinced by club-level football:
but women's international football is... d'ah BOMB...
woke up at 8am... left the house at 9am
having eating nothing but half of a day old croissant...
next time i ate? after the match... 9:30pm...
i almost felt like a Muslim during Ramadam....

coming on the train: lucky me... caught the fast one
from Southend - the train that only stops at
Romford and Stratford and whizzes past all the stations
in between... there and back:
back at 22:22pm... lucky ******...
anyway... while i was going to work i realised...
i have this nugget of **** still in me...
but i'm nervous... i felt frozen into the chair...
i tried breathing really quickly... closing my eyes...
but i already knew i was constipated...
this nugget of kakashka (little ****,
an endearing term my former Russian girlfriend
used to use for me)
            would stay with me for the rest of the day...
nerves... about that OMEN from the previous day...
i woke up today wanting to be so right!
not in a way a betting man gambles on being right...
a different sort of being right...
on a hunch and a plethora of feelings...
strapped into the chair... head pulsating...
heart attack? stroke? three times as a headache...
a head-numbing pulsation...
        memories from being a teenager...
i had these three or four incidents...
i would snap my teeth... releasing this numbing-electricity
that pulsated from my jaw down my body
into my stomach... squeezed the stomach:
and i began pseudo-epileptic convulsions...
in absolute agony...
   for months i would fall asleep in terror
unable to clench my teeth...
in fear of replicating this pseudo-epileptic attack...
there's nothing more vivid in life
than pain...
                 it begins with an easiness of
an air-head... and then that numb-aching that translates
into a pulverising brain: trying to jump out
of your skull... it's not a panic attack as such....
just a head-heavy top-down...
at Liverpool Station i walked into the toilet
and thought that vomiting would help me...
mind you... i did learn the ancient Roman way
of "bulimia"... at first i used ******* down
the throat after i binged on food...
i was so body-conscious back then...
   after enough practice with ms. index and mr. middle
i built up an automated response of the esophagus
and throat...
                just my luck:
you can't exactly puke up half a croissant...
instead? i was... an anemic seagull trying to feed
my youngling with the delusion that i actually ate enough
for the both of us...
puke puke: yup! yup! nothing... bloodshot eyes
and tears... nothing... the light-headed magnetic bulge
of brain and an embarrassing forehead kept at it...

only when the shift started proper did the feeling ease
and *******...
lucky me... i was placed on level 1: great view of the match...
and among the German fans...
i thought: time to practice some Deutsche...
ar du haben ein gut zeit?!
                 eine gute zeit haben!

Jemmina popped up again... who's Jemmina?
she's like Ovid's Corinna...
although... she's not married and i didn't impregnate
her that she might suffer from having an abortion...
i was walking up to the sign-in area
and this woman i work with told me:
oh... she's working for me now...
you know how she and Melanie had a spat...
i just told her: i don't want to know...
but i liked Jemmina... i kept the part where
she blocked me on a messaging-service for no good reason
i should know about a little ***** secret...
well... if this woman is employing Jemmina...
and i just dropped the words: i really like her...
who knows!

the match itself? absolute brilliance...
1 nil up... and then the German equaliser... i thought:
oh ****... no point having roared to hear
a roar back...
extra-time... first half of extra-time... nothing...
and then BAM! a goal with 10 minutes to go!
keep it up... keep it up...
                               ah... the omen paid off...
the lionesses won...

but the biggest caveat wasn't me roaring and filling
my heart with a want for them to win...
sport's sport and it's only that...
there's still that hurt male-ego hanging over England...
coliseum after coliseum reinvented
and revisited: Rome the meteor
and these grand rising craters in the ground...
even with the crucifixion the joint
conspiracy of the Greeks and Hebrews could
never make this script as extinct as that
of the Cuneiform of the Babylonians...
it's already meshed up with the digital footprints
of ghost-robots and robot-men...

              but like i already mentioned:
the best caveat came when i finally decided to
feed the beast... walked into a Subway...
i thought: i've had enough of this deep-fried chicken...
burgers... i need something wholesome...
a sandwich will do just fine...
came to the order... a fine Italian loaf... turkey *******...
on the conveyor belt came to the guy who
was dishing out the sauces and vegetables...
people prior to me were so picky with the vegetables...
four Spanish girls chose as little as tomatoes
and iceberg lettuce... a few others chose even less...
this has always been my experience
in a Subway... i don't understand the ad gimmick
where people are picky about what vegetables
are put in their sandwiches...
and the guys on the conveyor belt of making sandwitches
are usually Hindus...
so when he asked me, which vegetables?
ALL OF THEM...
a flash of happiness in his eyes... all of them?
yeah... all of them...
low fat mayo and that sticky onion sauce too...
****... no black olives... never mind (i thought)...
mash-up grub in a 6incher...

once you have been fasting for almost 10 hours...
oh man... it's like Socrates said:
some people eat to live...
while others live to eat...
                      i have absolutely no problem
eating alone in public...
i've heard from those closest to me that
i eat with such finger-licking poise...
as i sat down two children sat either sat
beside me and enjoyed their own food...
and always: always have a napkin ready...
let's face it... no need for leftover sauce or crumbs...
on or around your lips in your beard
and moustache...

but that was the biggest the joy that came from
today...
all the vegetables i said:
all the vegetables?! he replied... yeah...
all the vegetables...
                what a wholesome little treat...
eating my sandwich with two children
sitting either side of me eating likewise...

like animals akin to like children:
as much as i dream up the companionship
of women...
    i'm more wholesome around animals
and children... i feel a sense of gravity
that's unlike gravity...
they're not my own: but, do they have to be?!
it's enough that i had to deal with
a bunch of Germans wanting to buy me a beer
in order that i might support their team...
got patted on the shoulder
by.... the crowd was mixed... no segregation line...
when i was first "initiated" / naturalized
into the British society i refused to sing
the national anthem...
now? i murmur it... i'm not confused:
i'm just conflating... i'm sniffing the death
of a queen... eyeing up the next king...
and there are two in waiting... hell! there are three!

the 2nd Elizabethean Age is coming to an end
and i'm gleefully asking for the best of the best
clocks of Zurich...
   no death of a Pope will be so profound...
the closure of the 20th century:
moving toward a newer, braver, world...

perhaps the Chinese reinvented themselves
by abolishing the five? or is it three old Cs?
culture, custom... i don't remember...
here's to me rekindling an interest in the Tao:
i have no interest in Zen...

chasing Penumbras and Chimeras...
don't even mention the umbra and the antumbra:
same heads of the same beast...
     man as incomplete as the schematics he's
presented with...
  of the Freudian dictate: ego, superego, id...
i'm building up an aftertaste for a a taste
of grapefruit...

          i was listening to two American girls
talking on the Metropolitan line... for once i started
to adore the accent... i undid my shirt and sweated
like a boar in a hunt... i like it when girls play
with their hair...
                i like it when girls play with their hair...
i was about to jump in with where they should
look next to live... if Whitechapel is ****** enough?
look to Wanstead!
                      
but i was so right... i roared: she replied with a roar back...
today can be salvaged as a success...
handshakes and all: job well done...

now i'm sitting in a leather chair farting
into an empty couldron of the intestines being emptied...
one can truly lament
the overthrow of old Chinese customs
by the Maoists... esp. concerning the Taoist rebellion
against Confucianism...
                     why wouldn't i sample some thinking
from the Japanese: to therefore counter
the onslaught of the CCP information warring?

but now... dearest sleep...
                      dearest of all... a sleep that might envelop
a decade's worth of rest...
and a memory of a: very beautiful sandwich...
oh... but that ROAR was heard...
from a little roundabout in Romford all the way
to Wembley...
      but i did have cuckoldry on my mind: throughout...
this is not going to work: in the long-run...
fair enough... it was great seeing
Alex Jones up close and personal...
but... n'ah...
there's something "wok awong wong"...

   it's unlike female tennis players... unlike female
Olympians...
                          appreciating sport that was
originally designated for men... is a bit like...
watching and nodding to... transvestites...
i'm not saying it's wrong:
but the appeal will never be there...
                        on an international level: for sure...
but on a club level? hardly...

what's football without rowdy male teenagers
trying to prove that they own *****?!
sort of boring... and... ugh...
women imitating men... they look so ugly...
so... butch... i don't think i've ever seen so many lesbians
in one evening... mind you: at least two lesbian
converts...
           of course you're going to come across
lesbian would-be converts...
it's usually the butch lesbians that are eyeing you
up... the more plump the ones with crew-cut hair
eyeing you you up...
oh no... not the submissive of the pair...
the butch-lesbians...
                                    they're playing with
the drama of being the pretend-man looking
for a man while dating a woman...

i like them... i like butch pixie-pizza-date-girls
of that sort... fine skin...
  i like short hair too...
                                i can't compliment on their skin
enough... i couldn't possibly stroke ivory enough
to reach that sort of complexion...
i wouldn't dare to lick it: let alone touch it:
i'd ******* have to frame it!

hey presto! one fetish emerges after one just finishes!
my favorite mousy was also there today...
to hell with me and my weakness for
ginger haired girls and freckles!
mousy! she figured out a way to change her hair
to become more appealing...
mousy! mousy! i won't give you her name!
mousy is mousy! she's a ginger hybrid!
i like her strawberry ginger-ness...
which is not a strawberry-blonde...
it's... tickling something akin to "something"
could be teasing more auburn clashes of shade...
never mind... the freckles are a bonus...

mind you: it's still too hot to venture back into
the brothel... i need late August to keep my tongue kept
to return to revisiting the brothel...
i need the weather to cool down...
not after that *******...
it was never going to work akin to how it "works"
in a pornographic flick...
two girls: two condoms...
the best you can do is ask for a pair of ****
from one and a hand-job from the other...
no one is catching any germs today...

my beard is a violin and a cello...
while i stroke it... trying to summon the winds
for the brass-stroke of genius...
i try to also remember...
miracles began with both Jesus walking
on water as they began with the madness
of Xerxes lashing the Aegean sea with whips
to calm it down...
for one? i find the latter more probable
than the prior; the poetics of abandoned genius:
and within its confines...
the cringe Christianity of what change would
later come.
We oughtta consider bringing back
old-fashioned Gladiator Arena combat
as retribution or as a chance at vindication,
depending on how well one performs,
for those who are most deserving:

Those who seek to spill innocent blood or to oppress the masses,
the most corrupt Politicians, Lawmakers, Enforcers and Judges,
overtly violent supposed "'Protectors", such as Soldiers or Police,
the scheming Bankers, that is to say "the House",
deliberately misleading Authority figures,
whether in news or in the world at large:
all the malicious Religious figures,
power hungry Narcissists,
abusive Demagogues,
subversive Tyrants;

if these people have a place,
it's center stage in a Coliseum with little else aside from one another,
their choice of melee weapon and/or shield, some leather armour, and a roaring crowd.
Let's not forget the HD cameras with hyper-telescopic lenses so we can see their faces live in 1080p!

Maybe even add a few hungry Lionesses from time to time
or perhaps some ill-tempered Sharks..
or, a pack of quite irate Wolves.

Our Imagination is truly the Limit!

We could even run ads in between rounds
and sell foam novelty items
and overpriced water
when it's 115 outside.
https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/gladiatorial-justice <-- Me reading this poem

(My satire senses are tingling!)
Stunning photo of the Roman Coliseum:
http://www.wallsforpc.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Roman-Coliseum.jpg

Also,
I take a modicum of pride in the fact that I'm the first to upload a thing entitled "Gladiatorial Justice" to Hello Poetry.

Spawned of a few conversations with my Roomates
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Love Song Of Shu-Sin
Earth’s Oldest Love Song (circa 2,000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.

You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!

Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
In the bedchamber, dripping love's honey,
let us enjoy life's sweetest thing.
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!

Bridegroom, you will have your pleasure with me!
Speak to my mother and she will reward you;
speak to my father and he will award you gifts.
I know how to give your body pleasure—
then sleep, my darling, till the sun rises.

To prove that you love me,
give me your caresses,
my Lord God, my guardian Angel and protector,
my Shu-Sin, who gladdens Enlil's heart,
give me your caresses!
My place like sticky honey, touch it with your hand!
Place your hand over it like a honey-*** lid!
Cup your hand over it like a honey cup!

This is a balbale-song of Inanna.

NOTE: This may be earth’s oldest love poem, written around 2,000 BC, long before the Bible’s “Song of Solomon,” which had been considered to be the oldest extant love poem by some experts. “The Love Song of Shu-Sin” was discovered when the archaeologist Austen Henry Layard began excavations at Kalhu in 1845, assisted by Hormuzd Rassam. Layard’s account of the excavations, published in 1849 CE, was titled "Nineveh and its Remains." Due to Nineveh’s fame from the Bible, the book became a best seller. But it turned out that the excavated site was not Nineveh, after all!

Shu-Sin was a Mesopotamian king who ruled over the land of Sumer close to four thousand years ago. The poem seems to be part of a rite, performed each year, known as the “sacred marriage” or “divine marriage,” in which the king would symbolically marry the goddess Inanna, mate with her, and so ensure fertility and prosperity for the coming year. The king would accomplish this amazing feat by marrying and/or having *** with a priestess or votary of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of love, fertility and war. Her Akkadian name was Istar or Ishtar, and she was also known as Astarte. Whichever her name, she was the most prominent Mesopotamian female goddess. Inanna's primary temple was the Eanna, located in Uruk. But there were many other temples dedicated to her worship. The high priestess would choose a young man who represented the shepherd Dumuzid, the consort of Inanna, in a hieros gamos or sacred marriage, celebrated during the annual Akitu (New Year) ceremony, at the spring Equinox. The name Inanna derives from the Sumerian words for “Lady of Heaven.” She was associated with lions–a symbol of power–and was frequently depicted standing on the backs of two lionesses. Her symbol was an eight-pointed star or a rosette. Like other female love and fertility goddesses, she was associated with the planet Venus. The Enlil mentioned was Inanna’s father, the Sumerian storm god, who controlled the wind and rain. In an often-parched land, the rain god would be ultra-important, and it appears that one of the objects of the “divine marriage” was to please Enlil and encourage him to send rain rather than destructive storms!
Simon Clark Aug 2012
They call him the King of the Cats,
It’s easy to see why,
He roams with graceful dignity,
And has that look of focus in his eye.

They call him the King of Cats,
With his mane soft and long,
With his pride of lionesses,
He knows just exactly where he belongs.

They call him the King of Cats,
The plains are his homeland,
He fears the human intrusion,
Standing in the sun; looking proud and grand.
written in 2009
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.
You’re constructed out of the same elements
That stars and lionesses and
Even your sister wolves are.
Through your heart pumps star poison!
The very iron in your capillaries
Would destroy something
As extraordinary and enormous as a star.

Your organs are padded with the same
Water that used to carve away
Amazing things like the Grand Canyon,
Your insides are bursting with water
From dissolving meteors- from deeper in space than you know.

Your bones can survive tornadoes,
Hurricanes,
Massive disasters-
And you’re still pulling out your hair and
Tearing at your skin?

You may feel like you have nothing
Left inside your core,
But your heart is still beating, isn’t it?
Your lungs still intake oxygen-
Adept in fueling fires to level entire forests-
Even though all we are is
Carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, iron, and phosphorous.

But men still charge into collapsing fireballs
And mothers still hold their crying children
And clouds still hang in the stratosphere and
You can still make it through this
Because every day is something new.
Black widows drink white wine.
Magnetic lionesses creep, cold and calculating.
Drunken sobs echo, under locked bedroom doors.
As toppled shot-glasses lay, in scattered pools of ***.
Poolside lounge chairs plummet, making argyle splashes,
Coming to rest with cell phones and wallets.
Frigid lake water, antagonizes moonlit lovers.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies, unlocking elusive touches.
These alabaster halls consume infant minds, yet
Not tonight.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.
Wk kortas Feb 2017
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter,
Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub,
A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae,
Leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
Sufficent and necessary in their presents and futures.
I occupy a bench in my own shambling manner,
Denim-clad most days,
Perhaps affecting a less humble khaki
If I am feeling particularly grandiloquent,
Redeployed here from more rough-and-tumble of more avenues,
Among the bar-and-concrete hosteled llamas and coyotes
(Probably closer kin, if one is being honest)
Simply an ornamental thing, overgrown garden gnome
Or bowdlerized lawn jockey, unobtrusive and unnoticed
By those who would coo at the macaos and mandarin ducks
Or shudder at the offal left uneaten by black bears and maned wolves.
And so such days proceed, from my convenience-store coffee arrival
To such time that something approximating dinner
Must be conjured or cadged from somewhere,
My thoughts tend to stray not to the lionesses
Nor sleek Catwoman-esque jaguars,
But to the unpretentious turkey vultures of the fields of my youth,
Circling warily, inexorably in threes and fours above
And I know there is neither ennobling nor annihilation to find here,
No outcome but to simply await.
Adam Childs Aug 2014
My appetite for life
And all its pain I have
Often felt has shrunk
Under all its challenge
As I have even sort to
Unconsciously share some
Of my precious pain
But that was as a young cub
Not a fully grown male Lion

But here I stand in the chaos
Of one of my fresh Kills
I have let to many voices in
Who are all these animals
Trying to devour my
My **** , my pain

ROAR !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AND ROAR !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Get away from my ****
For you deny me my strength
My beautiful Lionesses and Lions
Return to ferociously feed
For they are all ravished
This is my pain so keep
Your distance little ones

Please do not diminish
My power by hiding my
Truth within your sweet lies
Or guesses , guesses and guesses
Please do not insult my strength
By creating a make believe world
And do not cover me with
Scaffolding so that you
may work on me , for I am
The finished article

I do not need to be
Held up or supported
With your ropes and strings
For I am no ones puppet
I pace and growl to warn many of
Who have eye's for my **** for they
See the strength it gives me
As my pride feasts
I stand tall with a dignity

As I own my space I grow
In statcher and my wobbly
legs feel like pillars of strength
My soft pads meet the earth
With a deep silence and alertness
As I stand strongly because
My feet always touch the earth
As the power of my leap is
Governed not only by the strength
Of my spirit but also with the
Firmness it meets the earth
For my power explodes when
The strength of my soul hits the earth
So I growl at all avoidance
And hunger for the truth

My Lions seem so alive
As they ravage and feast
While I stand and shine brightly
In my yellow sandy coat
Which glistens in the sun
As streaks of pure Gold
Start flashing and flashing
As the worlds projections
Reflect and bounce of me
Dare they look into my eyes
And see the ownership of my being

Learning to devour pain in life
Is not easy , but we need not
Look any further than
THE LION'S FRESH ****
And some where in their fury
We shall find our freedom
LikeLike ·  · Promote · Sh
just exploring myself
Eryri Jan 2019
Such a people person,
Such a kind person,
Such a loving person,
Such a sociable person
A well loved person.
Yet, not a curious person.
No questions asked of others,
No intrigue as to world affairs,
No who, what, where or when
Of matters outside of family.
You nurtured me,
Protected me,
Literally saved me once,
Yet my curiosity has no bounds.
I waste time in tangents,
Learn a lot about nothing,
Shoe horn facts into conversation.
Yet you are always content,
Like a lioness watching her cubs.
Lionesses' weights can vary from 150kg to 250kg and may give birth to four cubs at a time.
Still Crazy Nov 2014
For Al*

your limbs,
a finger, a toe,
an arm, a leg,
cannot be amputated,
without your presence...


when the men
drive in the car together,
the women, best friends,
absent,
temporarily away,
their men,
time release the
the secret shavings
of truthful conversations,
the unconstrained sharings,
spoke, untold,
free from the raised eyebrow,
the serious shushing
of censoring partners,
Lionesses-in-Absentia

who else
where else can you tell
the complaints unspoken,
the peculiarities, the ironies,
that make you smile/wince
laughingly grimace

and now the men are
friends

so when he asks,
come to the movies with us,
tho you are neat beat,
dead on the feet,
you now know,
too late, too late,
always and evermore
say sure,
cause,
now that he is gone
in a single swoop felling,
his oak trembling,
fallen
oh my friend,
now on his side,
lifeless

you say sure,
always
sure,
cause you have to be there,
just in case,
it is time they declare
to severe sever
one of your very own
limbs
Have you ever felt so alive, so truly alive
that it seemed as if the birds sing for you
that the sun turns up every day, to say How do you do!
the waves come crashing to the shore,
to bring you news from the sea floor
the winds whistle and crash through the trees
rushing to you to do as you please
the tigers and lions and lionesses roar
to applaud your presence among all the bores
that the clouds thrash and thunder and burst
to give you a cool drink should you feel the thirst
that all of nature has come alive
to stand witness to you embracing your life
I felt like this today, when a loneliness was driven away
two eyes, two ears, two legs, two of everything
but the heart is always alone, that poor old thing
so when such a lonely soul finds its match
to play with, dance with and if fall then catch
then it would seem all the world is thine oyster
of your fate and destiny, thou be the master
One more mushy poem about love.. sorry!
Davneet kaur Jul 2017
She doesn't own a fighter's body
Neither does she carry weapons
But the thing they have in common
Is... She has a fighter's heart
She fights for her daily bread
The world is her battlefield
She's a lionesses well challenged
Her battle is internal
Between her soul and her body
She chooses to work than to beg
The bread she earns is her trophy
Sarah Mar 2016
He once looked at me like I was his world
No action by me was ever wrong
Now that she has shown him the universe
I am only a twinkling star in the night

I never truly loved him
No wait that’s not true
I loved him but not in the way he wanted
Why does it hurt so much to know that I've lost his love
To be discarded like I mean nothing

Didn't I at one time mean something?
Wasn't i his everything
Within days of talking to her,
we are dust
I hope that the universes you find together last longer
For ours is a black hole
Filled only with lionesses and confusion
How could someone destroy his world so mercilessly?
Erin Jan 2018
There are butterflies in your stomach?
They flutter when you see him;
a furious blush paints your face,
raw brush strokes and
unadulterated emotion
leaving behind a rich pigment
known as cluelessness.
Mix in a bit of pallor,
and it's embarrassment.
They beat their mosaic-printed wings
with a stumble of your feet
or a failed exam,
a 68 in Applied Physics
when you should have pulled a crisp 69.
They find Eden-tier gardens with excitement
on par with that of a pajama-clad kid on Christmas morning,
and I bet you relish in the feeling.
But little did you know,
Miss Little Innocent sitting there
with her head weighed down  
with her heavy thoughts and knock-off Docs
pigeon-toed in a less than symbol
(don't you know that, sixty-eight?),
had elephants,
                          prides of lions,
                                                    *******,
                                                                ­­         the whole savanna
housed inside her ribcage,
bones rattling from deafening roars;
a cognizant mind stumbling from the seismic waves
of leviathan footsteps,
shaking the ground she walks on.
The pain in her chest,
the god awful attempts to provide
for her own microcosmic ecosystem
wracked her frail frame without mercy.
She continued to bounce her knees
and answer your questions
with breathy, exhausting syllables,
but you put yourself out of commission.
You write and write about your butterflies,
but think about how
it must feel to have to accept
lionesses gnawing on your shoulderblades.
Would you ask for your beautiful ******* back?
I jotted this down one night after having a particularly rough patch, and it seemed to apply to my feelings tonight. Sorry for the vent, but just typing this straight from my messy handwriting felt a bit like therapy. Thanks for reading, if you managed it.
Edit: I rewrote this a few nights ago; to that one person who I know will worry, don't.
Liz And Lilacs Dec 2014
He
He called me his lion,
even though I told him
female lions are lionesses.
I opened my eyes
and he held my hand.

but then I swallowed the pills
and he saved me life.
I sobbed, disgusted by myself,
that I was still alive.
He simply held me and let me cry.

He stopped the bleeding
and took care of me.
He dealt with my mess and
loved me anyway.
I just don't understand why.
but i love him back
Boaz Priestly Jun 2016
the breathing of the world
is erratic
but for some it has stopped altogether
and i worry
i wonder if it could happen to me
because of course it could
but just the act of thinking that
i could be calling you
texting you frantically
because i have not heard from you
and the phone is just buzzing next to you
but you can’t answer it
baby you can’t pick up the phone
why can’t you pick up the phone
please pick up the phone
good god please answer
is simply too much

and to think that
a fellow human being
would do this to you
my brothers and sisters
is sickening
the world is at war
and it is not on foreign soil
it is right here
in the streets
and the night clubs
where we should be safe ******
because we need safe spaces
for this exact reason
but how safe can it be
when you can’t pick up the phone
baby please pick up the phone

and even though
none of my blood and bone
were there
i feel this deep in my core
a kind of sadness
that makes me cry in coffee shops
rocking back and forth
in front of people that i don’t know
and i can spend hours curled up
in a chair
making myself smaller and smaller
maybe i will disappear altogether
and this will not happen again
but of course it will
it always does

because
the right to carry a gun
out of the spacious locker in
their homes
and into the streets
is more important than your lives

and god i am so sorry
that you have to live among these people
that you
my beautiful wolves and lionesses
have become the hunted
we are not prey
we are not wrong
we are not a sin
and this
being yourselves
and loving who you want to
should not be a death sentence

#prayfororlando
Rune Sep 2018
I want to have you tattooed on me. In True size.
Every point copied; Pierced through my dermis and dotted under my skin. Line by line. Your soft curves imaged. The pretty picture you are.
The artist has to capture your look and feel.
Grasp the splendour of your character; without taking it from you whatsoever. You are far to untamable to be pinned down like that; there is a reason butterflies  are being framed and lionesses not.

Suddenly you stood there, and I was ****.
Nobody could forsee that I were yet to see a godess. They are not made as Beautifull as this anymore.
Seldom before and with greater exception after.
An attempt to translate stumbeled Words I drew in dutch with incomparable results and the question whether it is or isn’t a succes.
I am a lone Lion.
Running through the Pride Lands
Although my heart is big and quite brave
Lionesses seem to treat me like a loon with
a hospital band.
My age might be of middle measurement
I am still young
Yet the jungle treats me as if I'm of Antique Procurement
An old dusty relic as released from the museum
Darkness such as energy clung
to the muscles of the huge beating heart


Other lions fail to notice the sound of my heart's beating
They exclude me from their pride as I am "Stranger"
A wandering Threat

A hateful movement
I pass by and I vent
Access energy to refresh my enlightened soul
From the judged
who deserves no warm greeting
Through all of this
I remain strong and I run
I forgive and I understand
I shot out of the Roar
A sound to welcome those truly heartened and  open eyes
Glancing to see my stronger and more impressive form
to see the real me. Who offers rewards
Friendship,love, Undying Partnership and loyalty.
Real treasures.
For this Leo offers more..

The king of his life and of his craft
A Lion King
Who never stays defeated and down he stays and lies..
Wade was deep in the grasses.
As he lies there lost in pity
his life and self at a stand still.

Racing past those Prides who cut him out
He starts on his own
A new pride.
Their  members let Roars Sign Happy and Strong Energy
Which shine out
Out

The life-blood of the largehearted  Leos and the Lionesses
Those who refuse to stoop low, believe in the ignorant, or ever
from the heat and tribulations of the  jungle..
They hold their heads up and they  never hide.
They banded together
To care for one another
and forget the other sickness of the lazy and heartless entitled ones.

Their kindred-ship and family shall last for eternity
Unable to be measured
Past the other end.
For these beautiful creatures
Are the Bright and Legendary Ones

Their legends shall be forever implanted in the jungle
As the true royalty that defeats all darkness
The battle for all kind creatures forgotten and neglected...
For them...those battles they helped fight and have always won.





equal to the other monarchs
cast out do to younger trends
Temporary Collections of Faces
Who shall fade to nothing
Once their time and age is past the clock
Measuring the alarm to sound off their limit
to be cast asside and remain "part of the scenery"
enter them into their own museum
Andrew Philip Sep 2017
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I stop drinking
or smoking,
or, god forbid,
both.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I think I might
do something really stupid
like pray,
or move to California,
or get a tattoo
of an empty pale blue dot,
or throw myself to the lionesses,
or write poetry,
or call her.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that lilacs turn black.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I make statues
of happy people
out of the rocks
at rock bottom.
Sometimes
it gets so bad,
that I shoot
hummingbirds
with 24 caliber regrets.

There are sidewalks
soaked with apathy.
There are ladders
that were intentionally
built to be
almost tall enough
to reach the fruit
on the tree that your soul aches for.
You'll thank yourself later.
It will always mean more to you
if it is constantly just beyond your fingertips.

Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I see the ghost
of the person I thought you were
In the smiling
eyes
of a brand new human.
I see fire escapes
and think of the best hypomanic episode
I ever had.
And then
It gets so bad
all of it rushes back
and the knife
that once cut me free
guts me.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I dare it to get worse.
And then it does
and I start to laugh
like some kind of
*******.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I start
to love myself.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that caterpillars
make me cry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I melt away,
and all that is left
is the music of revelry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I wear down cinder blocks
with my tongue,
and those black lilacs
don't get their color back,
but I see them as August.

— The End —