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"liquidated" poems
The Story by Kamal Nasser translation by Michael R. Burch I will tell you a story ... a story that lived in the dreams of my people, a story that comes from the world of tents. It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror. It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees. Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels. It is the story of the suffering ones who stood waiting in line ten years, in hunger, in tears and agony, in hardship and yearning. It is a story of a people who were misled, who were thrown into the mazes of the years. And yet they stood defiant, disrobed yet united as they trudged from the light to their tents: the revolution of return into the world of darkness. Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser. Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people. Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
0
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Translation of "The Story" by the Palestinian poet Kamal Nasser
The Story by Kamal Nasser translation by Michael R. Burch I will tell you a story ... a story that lived in the dreams of my people, a story that comes from the world of tents. It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror. It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees. Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels. It is the story of the suffering ones who stood waiting in line ten years, in hunger, in tears and agony, in hardship and yearning. It is a story of a people who were misled, who were thrown into the mazes of the years. And yet they stood defiant, disrobed yet united as they trudged from the light to their tents: the revolution of return into the world of darkness. Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser. Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people. Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
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25
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
0
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
connecthook
Agitating the Spin Cycle
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
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16
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory. Because flowers. Supposing friendly. What if therefore. You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery For after yellow. Beside a lake. Through crimson humility. I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale Melodic franchise. Hypothesize sunbeams. And if replace me. You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of liquidated mellow jurisdiction.
0
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
laurel-elizabeth
Mind Industrialization
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory. Because flowers. Supposing friendly. What if therefore. You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery For after yellow. Beside a lake. Through crimson humility. I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale Melodic franchise. Hypothesize sunbeams. And if replace me. You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of liquidated mellow jurisdiction.
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15
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
0
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
five croutons and two pieces of sushi
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
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50
it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat, the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it. disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable. no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights, don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head. you are a molecule. molecules are small, you are small. on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world than what i would change. consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity. segregate mind from self. seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation. inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out. and again, i spat out black, fine lined ******** there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me, i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet: go ahead, drip-dry from my dignity. it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage. because freedom is threat: consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision. but there is still room for appreciation: for the consistency of light, warmth and relativity. swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce. what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten, the lie is still that you're twenty-seven. but what drove through, down, enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored. my loyalty proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked. just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident, no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back. so just let me burn in the grass. because it'd only be wasting my time, airing out. it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe in the gravity you say forced you to fall into me. one day you'll laugh. one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places. one day the water will stop running from our taps. i'm sure you realize i sexualized you, like the young thing i am. i should apologize, but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind. rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.
0
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
helena-1
facts
it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat, the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it. disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable. no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights, don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head. you are a molecule. molecules are small, you are small. on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world than what i would change. consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity. segregate mind from self. seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation. inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out. and again, i spat out black, fine lined ******** there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me, i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet: go ahead, drip-dry from my dignity. it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage. because freedom is threat: consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision. but there is still room for appreciation: for the consistency of light, warmth and relativity. swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce. what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten, the lie is still that you're twenty-seven. but what drove through, down, enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored. my loyalty proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked. just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident, no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back. so just let me burn in the grass. because it'd only be wasting my time, airing out. it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe in the gravity you say forced you to fall into me. one day you'll laugh. one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places. one day the water will stop running from our taps. i'm sure you realize i sexualized you, like the young thing i am. i should apologize, but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind. rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.
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53
If I'm not the problem, there is no solution. Destiny disrupted by rusted liquor lust. Liquidated terror is the soup du jour. Stale coffee exacerbates the problem. Relapse hangs overhead like a grotesque mobile of alcoholic death. There's glitter in their eyes and a bottle of pills in their pocket. Smoking as self care. I want her to carve her love into my clavicle; I'm dangling by a thin gold chain.
0
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
andi-leigh-bradford
#7
If I'm not the problem, there is no solution. Destiny disrupted by rusted liquor lust. Liquidated terror is the soup du jour. Stale coffee exacerbates the problem. Relapse hangs overhead like a grotesque mobile of alcoholic death. There's glitter in their eyes and a bottle of pills in their pocket. Smoking as self care. I want her to carve her love into my clavicle; I'm dangling by a thin gold chain.
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1
is       speaking in french, wrapping our tongues around foreign                                                                                          flavors and vowels,           intertwining with each other,                                                                  whispering                                                                                         mon amour,                                                                                                 my         love love love love love love      what                              *her hair and his eyes, gold liquidated, pooling               in glass orbs and strings,*       shards and pools colliding and cascading love                           is this truth?                 she takes his hand and mind        all at the same time and they both cry what is love?
0
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
kjpainter
love, what? is
is       speaking in french, wrapping our tongues around foreign                                                                                          flavors and vowels,           intertwining with each other,                                                                  whispering                                                                                         mon amour,                                                                                                 my         love love love love love love      what                              *her hair and his eyes, gold liquidated, pooling               in glass orbs and strings,*       shards and pools colliding and cascading love                           is this truth?                 she takes his hand and mind        all at the same time and they both cry what is love?
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19
Populations all wiped out, Liquidated with no doubt. All life, gone in a flame; No one left to take the blame. Existence cries of extinquished life, Taken like the blade of a knife. Fallen civilization now imploded, Atomic weapons all exploded. Life is gone, taken all away; Life is gone, long gone astray.
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Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
Darkpoetsoul
285: Planet Fall
Populations all wiped out, Liquidated with no doubt. All life, gone in a flame; No one left to take the blame. Existence cries of extinquished life, Taken like the blade of a knife. Fallen civilization now imploded, Atomic weapons all exploded. Life is gone, taken all away; Life is gone, long gone astray.
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10
"You control our world. You’ve poisoned the air we breathe, contaminated the water we drink, and copyrighted the food we eat. We fight in your wars, die for your causes, and sacrifice our freedoms to protect you. You’ve liquidated our savings, destroyed our middle class, and used our tax dollars to bailout your unending greed. We are slaves to your corporations, zombies to your airwaves, servants to your decadence. You’ve stolen our elections, assassinated our leaders, and abolished our basic rights as human beings. You own our property, shipped away our jobs, and shredded our unions. You’ve profited off of disaster, destabilized our currencies, and raised our cost of living. You’ve monopolized our freedom, stripped away our education, and have almost extinguished our flame. We are hit… we are bleeding… but we ain’t got time to bleed. We will bring the giants to their knees and you will witness our revolution!" ~ Jesse Ventura
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Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
alan-black
We Ain't Got Time To Bleed, All Poets Must Fight These Monsters!
"You control our world. You’ve poisoned the air we breathe, contaminated the water we drink, and copyrighted the food we eat. We fight in your wars, die for your causes, and sacrifice our freedoms to protect you. You’ve liquidated our savings, destroyed our middle class, and used our tax dollars to bailout your unending greed. We are slaves to your corporations, zombies to your airwaves, servants to your decadence. You’ve stolen our elections, assassinated our leaders, and abolished our basic rights as human beings. You own our property, shipped away our jobs, and shredded our unions. You’ve profited off of disaster, destabilized our currencies, and raised our cost of living. You’ve monopolized our freedom, stripped away our education, and have almost extinguished our flame. We are hit… we are bleeding… but we ain’t got time to bleed. We will bring the giants to their knees and you will witness our revolution!" ~ Jesse Ventura
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1
I wonder if you can hear the sound of my heart breaking With each and every lingering moment that passes between us Creating an anomaly of congealed insignificance and broken pieces Pieces of what we used to be when our passion was harder than any metal I have to wonder if you see who we've created among our tapering bodies To bear witness to such atrocities held deep within our disturbed souls To think it does not phase a single cell of your beautiful and vigorous brain When I say my heart is breaking I mean with every fiber of my being That the longing aches are gradually moving in with cancerous tendencies Due to the lack of blissful love and happiness you bathed me in Perhaps I shall not advance for the benign lies you carefully present Underlying the very truth that pours from your soft and lush lips Every liquidated word that snakes down into your veins as chills Shivering through the marrow of these tired and heavy structural bones Attacking my nerves and ravaging upon what is left of my being After the emotional and physical terror you have inflicted upon me I still run back into your wicked and wanting arms of caress
0
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
amber-bowen
Heartbreaking
I wonder if you can hear the sound of my heart breaking With each and every lingering moment that passes between us Creating an anomaly of congealed insignificance and broken pieces Pieces of what we used to be when our passion was harder than any metal I have to wonder if you see who we've created among our tapering bodies To bear witness to such atrocities held deep within our disturbed souls To think it does not phase a single cell of your beautiful and vigorous brain When I say my heart is breaking I mean with every fiber of my being That the longing aches are gradually moving in with cancerous tendencies Due to the lack of blissful love and happiness you bathed me in Perhaps I shall not advance for the benign lies you carefully present Underlying the very truth that pours from your soft and lush lips Every liquidated word that snakes down into your veins as chills Shivering through the marrow of these tired and heavy structural bones Attacking my nerves and ravaging upon what is left of my being After the emotional and physical terror you have inflicted upon me I still run back into your wicked and wanting arms of caress
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17
I can't sleep...like King Midas I learned a lesson Like a wild stallion advancing with his stesons.. **** the obvious I want you like you want guitar lessons... **** I just want to be your everything Without IG or FB causing a calamity scene Vibrate...like the trumpits of Jericho decimating your inner walls of wet moist  Marley green....smoking hot... My thoughts liquidated Jack and Jameson only to execute a formulated high of her.....making that "Beyoncé" trot **** it I'm high and drunk off her love and inner being that is.....HOT.... Can't catch a break but I'll catch her heart from escaping mine in time of a simplistic woven knot... Knot or not....bartender, twisted but not stirred in a ***
0
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
oceanic-liquidity
My dreamscape of a nightmare
I can't sleep...like King Midas I learned a lesson Like a wild stallion advancing with his stesons.. **** the obvious I want you like you want guitar lessons... **** I just want to be your everything Without IG or FB causing a calamity scene Vibrate...like the trumpits of Jericho decimating your inner walls of wet moist  Marley green....smoking hot... My thoughts liquidated Jack and Jameson only to execute a formulated high of her.....making that "Beyoncé" trot **** it I'm high and drunk off her love and inner being that is.....HOT.... Can't catch a break but I'll catch her heart from escaping mine in time of a simplistic woven knot... Knot or not....bartender, twisted but not stirred in a ***
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10
i beseech thee to answer is there still hope??? Forgetting their vows of chaste they become lecherous fighting for power, they become ambitous. their actions make people shock for they forget why they put on the cassock. respect for God, our clergies no longer have but so greedy with the things they have. they dont mix with the poor to help them spiritually but go for the rich to enrich themselves. churches are now business centers for money clergies bless only those who make the offertory box full. SO BROTHER, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? They stand as if pious to duty but these our policemen are pious to money, they check not the motor but go for “500frs” which is their motto. they can be seen standing with zeal hands stretch, they stand still first, they could be seen to stamp after collecting bribe, they champ SO SISTER, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? The rich live mysteriously and enjoy themselves like angels while the poor live in mysery and die because of negligence TO YOU, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? Embezzlement in Cameroon is a virtue it is practised in all offices thieves go in broad daylight unscathed while the innocent ones are caught and they cant fight My country is said to be democratic but elections have never been smooth for thirty one years the president has stayed in power using deceit and the gun to rule. IS THIS HOW IT SHOULD BE?? virgins have now liquidated themselves they prefer being ravished everywhere you go you stumble on prostitutes. my black girls don’t like their colour they prefer to strive to be whites thus, monsters they become in a bid to peel their skin very few believe in “black is beauty” Brothers copulate sisters while fathers copulate daughters. IS THERE STILL HOPE??? Source; IS THERE STILL HOPE???|Inspirational Poems
0
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
temajung-michael
is there still hope?
i beseech thee to answer is there still hope??? Forgetting their vows of chaste they become lecherous fighting for power, they become ambitous. their actions make people shock for they forget why they put on the cassock. respect for God, our clergies no longer have but so greedy with the things they have. they dont mix with the poor to help them spiritually but go for the rich to enrich themselves. churches are now business centers for money clergies bless only those who make the offertory box full. SO BROTHER, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? They stand as if pious to duty but these our policemen are pious to money, they check not the motor but go for “500frs” which is their motto. they can be seen standing with zeal hands stretch, they stand still first, they could be seen to stamp after collecting bribe, they champ SO SISTER, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? The rich live mysteriously and enjoy themselves like angels while the poor live in mysery and die because of negligence TO YOU, IS THERE STILL HOPE?? Embezzlement in Cameroon is a virtue it is practised in all offices thieves go in broad daylight unscathed while the innocent ones are caught and they cant fight My country is said to be democratic but elections have never been smooth for thirty one years the president has stayed in power using deceit and the gun to rule. IS THIS HOW IT SHOULD BE?? virgins have now liquidated themselves they prefer being ravished everywhere you go you stumble on prostitutes. my black girls don’t like their colour they prefer to strive to be whites thus, monsters they become in a bid to peel their skin very few believe in “black is beauty” Brothers copulate sisters while fathers copulate daughters. IS THERE STILL HOPE??? Source; IS THERE STILL HOPE???|Inspirational Poems
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47
Mother me in this maze Blood transfused in your gaze The flood is high in confined quarters your eyes shimmer like coins on dying days The passage through unknown waters The light reflects white through our barters My hand extends to a friend, briefly we make amends with the alignment of lines on our hands Bull and battered man combined brute force with a weak mind but even your unkindness inspired warmth in my eyes Tears tear holes in maroon silk Blood red rubies fall from the slits in our faces The salty seas add insult to injury transport power from poor workers to hungry eyes We are mere travelers blessed with wooden cognizant hearts Secretly teasing the embers of life to ignite our hearths There is more to see than raging seas of empty flesh Crimes of passion and tears of possession are weaved and liquidated Run after the river of your ancestor's pursuits Bright and beautiful lights bouncing off the mirrors Enticing secular exchange in specular reflection The same mistakes are made for eternity since antiquity
0
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
alina-katura-burniston-perez
Race to the Pinna
Mother me in this maze Blood transfused in your gaze The flood is high in confined quarters your eyes shimmer like coins on dying days The passage through unknown waters The light reflects white through our barters My hand extends to a friend, briefly we make amends with the alignment of lines on our hands Bull and battered man combined brute force with a weak mind but even your unkindness inspired warmth in my eyes Tears tear holes in maroon silk Blood red rubies fall from the slits in our faces The salty seas add insult to injury transport power from poor workers to hungry eyes We are mere travelers blessed with wooden cognizant hearts Secretly teasing the embers of life to ignite our hearths There is more to see than raging seas of empty flesh Crimes of passion and tears of possession are weaved and liquidated Run after the river of your ancestor's pursuits Bright and beautiful lights bouncing off the mirrors Enticing secular exchange in specular reflection The same mistakes are made for eternity since antiquity
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22
The Alchemist made potions he had a workshop, mysterious it was ever in motion the atmosphere, serious the walls were covered in books tomes of questionable origin apparatus to cook and a rusty old storage bin spoked wheels spun pistons reciprocated condensers did hum solids liquidated viscous and translucent solutions illuminated slightly florescent masses accumulated he will put it on heat and add a caustic injection hit a switch at his feet and pause for reflection all the ingredients for his ultimate goal he could finally achieve it turn iron to gold!
0
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
ChipWheatly
The Alchemist
The Alchemist made potions he had a workshop, mysterious it was ever in motion the atmosphere, serious the walls were covered in books tomes of questionable origin apparatus to cook and a rusty old storage bin spoked wheels spun pistons reciprocated condensers did hum solids liquidated viscous and translucent solutions illuminated slightly florescent masses accumulated he will put it on heat and add a caustic injection hit a switch at his feet and pause for reflection all the ingredients for his ultimate goal he could finally achieve it turn iron to gold!
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24
The carts' been put before the horse again and now the goods spill to the floor Your market shares have been inflated and you feel more worthless than you did before The black wagon liquidated the assets to begin fresh so you can start over once more This isn't the bottom it's an inevitably to the top apply the failure to the fulcrum and break through the door.
0
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
dwayne-richardson
Black Wagon
The carts' been put before the horse again and now the goods spill to the floor Your market shares have been inflated and you feel more worthless than you did before The black wagon liquidated the assets to begin fresh so you can start over once more This isn't the bottom it's an inevitably to the top apply the failure to the fulcrum and break through the door.
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16
.*even the norsemen fathomed a disgust for encouraging **** and cannibalism, even if it was: christian metaphorical*... the air has a whiff of soap in it, unlike the casual association of bourbon to a brothel...        the air... nearing the end of spring... at night...           and it has the scent of soap... scent of soap: a liquidated toll of melting, butter...   but with perfumery additions... like... once upon a time: squeezing lavendar...                  molotov chamomile? seriously... a bottle of bourbon can remind you of visiting a brothel... but... the night...    remidning you of melting butter, butter infused with chamomile?     night-time... and soap... soap...        no angelina jolie salt...                no salt: all, about...         soap! seriously, is it chamomile soap?             it's buttery glue sickly snort...                   "doodle"...                               and when all the president's men... oh when all the president's men... go marching in...    oh when all the president's men... go marching in... oh when all the president's men... oh when all the president's men... go marching in...    the president's men, the president's men... go marching in...    i want to be, in that, tabloid spew! oh when all the president's men go tacky 'em 'selves in on in;     i want to be in that "'umber"...               because otherwise the sun would never...           try being smart... contra the tabloid press...       i want to be... in that header... oh when all the president's men grovel, at ever, having marched in. you either learn the flute: or you learn to play the tongue - the equivalence of music here and the equivalence of music throughout...             i had to toy with diacritical marks because i wanted to be less jealous of people able to read music               script; it's not that poetry became a lesson in elocution:      but being able to make the distinction,        in that english has dyslexia while polish has orthography...         and there's always a democratic complexity of god to return to.    then again i do slur when it comes to practice:    but that comes from having observed:        the eyes read more than the tongue bothers to recite.       yet the crow is persistently consistent with its croaking: as i will be: adding accents... not for a reason to agree with a uniformity as the end results:   it's just that i don't like eating food cooked by other people, a friday night's fish & chips                               cooked by turks?
0
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 5:53 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
freeing all the drafts: soap no salt / southampton city blues
.*even the norsemen fathomed a disgust for encouraging **** and cannibalism, even if it was: christian metaphorical*... the air has a whiff of soap in it, unlike the casual association of bourbon to a brothel...        the air... nearing the end of spring... at night...           and it has the scent of soap... scent of soap: a liquidated toll of melting, butter...   but with perfumery additions... like... once upon a time: squeezing lavendar...                  molotov chamomile? seriously... a bottle of bourbon can remind you of visiting a brothel... but... the night...    remidning you of melting butter, butter infused with chamomile?     night-time... and soap... soap...        no angelina jolie salt...                no salt: all, about...         soap! seriously, is it chamomile soap?             it's buttery glue sickly snort...                   "doodle"...                               and when all the president's men... oh when all the president's men... go marching in...    oh when all the president's men... go marching in... oh when all the president's men... oh when all the president's men... go marching in...    the president's men, the president's men... go marching in...    i want to be, in that, tabloid spew! oh when all the president's men go tacky 'em 'selves in on in;     i want to be in that "'umber"...               because otherwise the sun would never...           try being smart... contra the tabloid press...       i want to be... in that header... oh when all the president's men grovel, at ever, having marched in. you either learn the flute: or you learn to play the tongue - the equivalence of music here and the equivalence of music throughout...             i had to toy with diacritical marks because i wanted to be less jealous of people able to read music               script; it's not that poetry became a lesson in elocution:      but being able to make the distinction,        in that english has dyslexia while polish has orthography...         and there's always a democratic complexity of god to return to.    then again i do slur when it comes to practice:    but that comes from having observed:        the eyes read more than the tongue bothers to recite.       yet the crow is persistently consistent with its croaking: as i will be: adding accents... not for a reason to agree with a uniformity as the end results:   it's just that i don't like eating food cooked by other people, a friday night's fish & chips                               cooked by turks?
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84
the darkness seeps from its lair infecting all it can and those it cannot are liquidated by those it can.
0
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
nivek
corruption of the truth
the darkness seeps from its lair infecting all it can and those it cannot are liquidated by those it can.
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4
The jumbled froth of life A frayed tapestry of ruin Made sodden by the rain Concealing a malignant thought Those ancient instincts Become my own tormentor Filled with the reek of forests in decay Merging dark in the webbed greasy darkness Singing for the road These levelling times A brainless mechanical automation of jangling discord Within the silt of memories liquidated to the transitory currency of destruction A drowsy chaos of reasoned passions written on the passing wave Dawn - hints at the shape of things - flexes Through the struggles of our ancestors Forever haunting the abbreviated memory of flesh In our braided stream of citizenry We are all the dead and dying.. Gypsy
0
Aug 21, 2023
Aug 21, 2023 at 8:38 PM UTC
Gypsy
Dead Inside
The jumbled froth of life A frayed tapestry of ruin Made sodden by the rain Concealing a malignant thought Those ancient instincts Become my own tormentor Filled with the reek of forests in decay Merging dark in the webbed greasy darkness Singing for the road These levelling times A brainless mechanical automation of jangling discord Within the silt of memories liquidated to the transitory currency of destruction A drowsy chaos of reasoned passions written on the passing wave Dawn - hints at the shape of things - flexes Through the struggles of our ancestors Forever haunting the abbreviated memory of flesh In our braided stream of citizenry We are all the dead and dying.. Gypsy
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21
MOTECUHZOMA Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. You know that since our founding fathers’ reign Our kingdoms have been linked like tilting twins, Sharing the fruits and frowns of war alike, Two striding shanks, each foot outreaching each, My Mexicans, the eagles of this island, Across the lake, your leopards of Texcoco, Dainty Tlacopan third and least of all. CUITLAHUAC But, since the death of wise Hungry Coyote- Your father- one alone has hitched the wind, One arm engirdling our fractious state, Which on one mighty truncheon hops her way. MOTECUHZOMA Our Triple Alliance therefore is dissolved. Now must this galled umbilical be clipped, Tlacopan liquidated for our bullion, And you to trudge your solitary trail, With gods’ best blessings for your bond and bail. HUNGRY PRINCE [aside] Oh, let my heart freeze up at this cold news, For if this tongue should blab the ****** thoughts These staunchless chambers seal inside my chest, The tyrant should extract this swollen fruit, And make my skull the drinking cup of God. Thus should I truly mirror this prodigy- A heartless sap, who’s plainly lost his head. TLACAELEL Hungry Prince, Take aim at only what is possible, For you and I alike both know the fancy Of human justice only enters where The pressure of necessity is equal, And that the stout and rivalrous exact All that they can, the weak grant what they must. Of gods we do believe, of men we know, That by a natural proclivity, Wherever they can wield the whip, they will. This primal rule was not drawn up by us, Nor were we first to heed its nascent call. The trail’s long blazed, and we do but inherit This trait, and shall bequeath it to all time, Content to know that you and all mankind, If once enfranchised vast as we are now, Would do as we now do. Exit all but Motecuhzoma and Hungry Prince. HUNGRY PRINCE Thus it must be, Since thus you have declared it for a rule. And though this outlook seems the sophistry Of inharmonious and immoderate minds, Who will say ‘no’ when you have said ‘it’s so?’ MOTECUHZOMA Do not return, when taxmen come to call, And whine that I require too much of you, Since now you nod assent to my decree. You know the fortune of capricious war: Today for you, tomorrow it’s for me. Exit. HUNGRY PRINCE Then revel it, old ruffian, while you may. Tomorrow’s but a fitful sleep away. Exit.
0
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
david-betten
The Floral War 1:2:156-207
MOTECUHZOMA Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. You know that since our founding fathers’ reign Our kingdoms have been linked like tilting twins, Sharing the fruits and frowns of war alike, Two striding shanks, each foot outreaching each, My Mexicans, the eagles of this island, Across the lake, your leopards of Texcoco, Dainty Tlacopan third and least of all. CUITLAHUAC But, since the death of wise Hungry Coyote- Your father- one alone has hitched the wind, One arm engirdling our fractious state, Which on one mighty truncheon hops her way. MOTECUHZOMA Our Triple Alliance therefore is dissolved. Now must this galled umbilical be clipped, Tlacopan liquidated for our bullion, And you to trudge your solitary trail, With gods’ best blessings for your bond and bail. HUNGRY PRINCE [aside] Oh, let my heart freeze up at this cold news, For if this tongue should blab the ****** thoughts These staunchless chambers seal inside my chest, The tyrant should extract this swollen fruit, And make my skull the drinking cup of God. Thus should I truly mirror this prodigy- A heartless sap, who’s plainly lost his head. TLACAELEL Hungry Prince, Take aim at only what is possible, For you and I alike both know the fancy Of human justice only enters where The pressure of necessity is equal, And that the stout and rivalrous exact All that they can, the weak grant what they must. Of gods we do believe, of men we know, That by a natural proclivity, Wherever they can wield the whip, they will. This primal rule was not drawn up by us, Nor were we first to heed its nascent call. The trail’s long blazed, and we do but inherit This trait, and shall bequeath it to all time, Content to know that you and all mankind, If once enfranchised vast as we are now, Would do as we now do. Exit all but Motecuhzoma and Hungry Prince. HUNGRY PRINCE Thus it must be, Since thus you have declared it for a rule. And though this outlook seems the sophistry Of inharmonious and immoderate minds, Who will say ‘no’ when you have said ‘it’s so?’ MOTECUHZOMA Do not return, when taxmen come to call, And whine that I require too much of you, Since now you nod assent to my decree. You know the fortune of capricious war: Today for you, tomorrow it’s for me. Exit. HUNGRY PRINCE Then revel it, old ruffian, while you may. Tomorrow’s but a fitful sleep away. Exit.
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61
I musta been t’only fruit on the tree Or never you would’ve picked me I liquidated the first one in fear If not for me, they should be here You caught me at a bad time Mostly all the fault is mine You placed yourself in serious peril A long date with a scarred devil Drew the blank in a deck of 53 Should have run away in glee Wasn’t bad always I suppose Better when it came to a close I marvel at your maturity now I wanted to, didn’t know how Travelling now with the best Easier now you got rid of your pest
0
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
robert-jaensch
To Victor and Dot's Daughter
I musta been t’only fruit on the tree Or never you would’ve picked me I liquidated the first one in fear If not for me, they should be here You caught me at a bad time Mostly all the fault is mine You placed yourself in serious peril A long date with a scarred devil Drew the blank in a deck of 53 Should have run away in glee Wasn’t bad always I suppose Better when it came to a close I marvel at your maturity now I wanted to, didn’t know how Travelling now with the best Easier now you got rid of your pest
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16
I have a poster of fame Posted on every building and street corner in America I am an outlaw on the lamb as I am running from the "Law of The Land." A "dangerous flame." I am not of criminal nature. I seem to have let down those who have arrested me Investments that couldn't be made due to accidents and Ill Receptive Moments I broke from a dark cell to seek a land which will accept outlaws such as me. Such events Transformed friends into Law Seekers Running after a "rogue comrade" To be liquidated from the inventory the names of entities Scratched off the List of people   who are titled the  "Accepted Glory." Friends lost the notions of "balance" as certain rewards were notable to be  banked to be received as amounts of funds As the situation grew dim with tragedy To the court of "The Worms Wall" He was sentenced to exile Without a chance of debating the Liability No Balance Without his own counsel This fugitive never stood his chance. Wishing to have someone to become his friend He was drawn into the darkness from understanding's light As the empty chair in the court room They were not there I sat in the Witness Box Shivering in the coldness of the Verdict's Plight To where I am supposed to go while now on the run I need a retrial To prove my name of the  truth As such titles should   be replaced on the list Until such My tour shall be advertised on Wanted Posters all over Friendship city Until I can prove my true blue loyalty I have no dignity I am now the lost one.
0
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
kevin-michael-kappler
Deserts of Wanted Posters
I have a poster of fame Posted on every building and street corner in America I am an outlaw on the lamb as I am running from the "Law of The Land." A "dangerous flame." I am not of criminal nature. I seem to have let down those who have arrested me Investments that couldn't be made due to accidents and Ill Receptive Moments I broke from a dark cell to seek a land which will accept outlaws such as me. Such events Transformed friends into Law Seekers Running after a "rogue comrade" To be liquidated from the inventory the names of entities Scratched off the List of people   who are titled the  "Accepted Glory." Friends lost the notions of "balance" as certain rewards were notable to be  banked to be received as amounts of funds As the situation grew dim with tragedy To the court of "The Worms Wall" He was sentenced to exile Without a chance of debating the Liability No Balance Without his own counsel This fugitive never stood his chance. Wishing to have someone to become his friend He was drawn into the darkness from understanding's light As the empty chair in the court room They were not there I sat in the Witness Box Shivering in the coldness of the Verdict's Plight To where I am supposed to go while now on the run I need a retrial To prove my name of the  truth As such titles should   be replaced on the list Until such My tour shall be advertised on Wanted Posters all over Friendship city Until I can prove my true blue loyalty I have no dignity I am now the lost one.
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43