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Harriet Cleve Sep 2019
Slick Brick Mandini, half Irish -half Italian, was raised in the Dublin slums. Around the corner from Henrietta Street, Europes biggest slum, was the Italian quarter of Smithfield.

Slick Brick knew every stone and alley, every hawker and scumbag, every dark street in the North side of the fair city.

A tall, good looking man with a penchant for riding street horses late at night. Many the harmless vagrant were run over and trampled to death as Slick galloped his piebald down North King street into the early hours. He could turn that horse on a sixpence, with the deft assurance one would normally attribute that skill to an Apache or Commanche warrior from North America.

North America would beckon one day but for now it was the mean streets of Dublin that tried to contain him.

Everyone knew he had a brain and could recite his Shakespeare as well as the Bard himself. In his own mind he was a MacDuff ready to take on the Macbeths and weird sisters of life.

An incident in secondary school which he evaded suspicion of set him on the road to criminality.

Brother Lugnaciois was patrolling the school corridors that fateful day. 'The Lug' as the schoolboys called him behind his back was a vicious *******. A Christian Brother with a passion for violence and intimidation. His leather strap hung from his swaggering hips like a gunslinger from the Old West and many's the hand he welted with pure savagery. Lug's favourite torment though was to pull a young school lads locks and lift them up off the ground in one horror filled moment.

Slick had the misfortune to be returning from the school toilets and was confronted by Lug. For no reason other than the infliction of base terror Lug grabbed Slick by his locks and twisted his ears for good measures.

It was expected from Lug and retaliation meant sustained torment.
Slick pulled a flickknife from his waistband and slashed Lug under his left eye. It took a moment for Lug to realise what had happened.

Stunned at the emerging pain and gush of blood from his face, Lug went into a rage.

That was when Slick's fathers tutelage came to his mind.

'Always remember, Son, a swift kick to the lower nether regions will stop a racehorse'

And Lug became a racehorse in that very instance of thought.

He reared up to grab Slick by the throat when the kick landed to his nether regions.

First he went purple then green then a fury arouse on his countenance. With what must have been a testimony to the power to retain control in extreme pain Lug lunged at Slick for revenge.

Slick knew it was a life or death moment. He deliberately and calmly drew the knife across Lugs throat. Even that was not enough.

From his pocket he took out his pistol. A silencer had been fitted.

The horror with which Lug's eyes met Slick's was one of disbelief.

'You ***** toe rag!' Slick uttered and pulled the trigger.

Lug's head exploded in a spray of red death.

At all times Slick had retained his composure. He had opened the door to the underworld and eagerly walked through.

In time the world would come to know of the foul exploits of Slick Brick Mandini. Only a few close friends would ever know who murdered the ******* Lugs.

Slick would lie low for a while and it would be some time before Dublin was shook by another ******. This ****** would be the one that placed Slick Brick Mandini firmly in the gaze of the police.

For now Slick smoked a cigar of Cuban origin and felt proud of his efforts. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled Lug's terrified and confused countenance.

'You had it coming you *******' he thought as he held his war trophy.
The leather strap which would never again inflict pain on a schoolboys hand.
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
L B May 2018
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
for yellow
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  _
opening a car door
at the shore's
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
For my daughter, Phoebe and my mother.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a *****.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.

Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****.
I'm on a diet from death.

Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
that's it!

My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.

I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.

It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
seethroughme Nov 2009
ek dryf in koperson
want wolke is te wit om op te trap
en blou lug te min om my te hou
ek dryf in illovo-stroop lig
wat om my vou
soos ‘n ma se hande wat skulp
om ‘n kind se huil
Forbegging yay Progress, me Most High Lord
Besoothe thaye Stock's High-Cast-Baste-Reborough
And Livvenny-Lug, quain Twill-Truth's-Be-Word
Would Sluggenny-Bust thaye Pell's Arthorough
Aye, take them Less to thore Summerful Sum
Therr quine bemime blubber-boost up-to-front
Shanty ye, Crown, dow Caraparcel's Hum
Laugh more shan't take much Desire on Wont
We porkify Lub-Senses wore Jiggers clude
Feast-Tea ye Merry; Jolly-Cant, digress
Till Ferry thaye Maidens; And Torque-Pie, ****
Rode ye Arkins - Road! Be thaye Kiss address.
Labber ye, Throne, deserve Cot's Privilege
Roar Pull-Course Attract; Mine Concubinage.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Arizona Indigo Jan 2013
Will it be that phantom lovers

Illustrate kisses of moon flowers

Within Its dreams and send it

upon your woozy current of sleep?

How they press upon your pillows

for souls to speak a fragrance ever so sacred

Never for a soul to keep.

So shall it be with a moment

when you draw in its scent

Will the summoning of you fall echoing

in every depth of your endless compass,

Indulged in content

Reaching you to the shadows of  the naked trees

Where the bats come to greet

thrown into the swelling of the seas- surging

And thronging of the white blooded elite

amidst the women, who are oh so petite.

I realize

I am in my dream.

Walking abundantly in my spiked sheath

Matching the flickering of the suns wreath

Offering the sacrifice of my fanged teeth

To halo the acres of sunflowers

That beam from your face.

Only true mother nature can tremble a thousand souls of envy

by the extol that is not from her grace

In that case

**** all that is true

Send it to the dreams of hell

in a black box adorned with fine lace

With kind words of thank and you.

I stay green all through my rind

I tell myself, don’t follow the blind

I tell myself don’t act unkind

I tell myself don’t abide combined

Speaking malign

Whispers now become wails preaching

Be in the right state of mind!— Peace of mind.!

Abandon the unrefined!

Remind that we are all mankind

!that we have been assigned

to stay on the grind!

And meanwhile find

The shadow we leave behind!

And finally answer

why do we comply to a life so confined!

And all in all

I am still asleep

Concocted  in a libertarian dimension so passionately deep

Driving my souls energy to rejuvenating madness it weeps

Emptying clouds carrying legions upon

legions of breathing ancient seas.

Reducing utopia, exiting the scenes.

Now choked door and blackness

Weightless amongst the scanning of chakras

Here iam

Dragging of feet through meadows of red

Could it be that I have awakened in the land

of the dying and dead?

Where the blood paints the sky an awful shade of red

And no specific cry will you hear

But a simultaneous screech cementing your ears.

It is not my feet that I lug

But my ****** knees that on its own dug

A grave ever so snug

That when it hugs

Ribcages become holding hands

While flesh is the feast to underground larva lands.

Like the beggar with hands who wishes for hands of alms.

Like the reader of fortunes with no voluntary palms.

As it is like a land force-fed with war and never ending bombs

These are sights that awaken me with qualms.

This poem is distinctly about when one is about to sleep and sees nothing but nonsense and then finally falls asleep and then shifts from dream to dream or as i would like to call it, dimension to dimension.
WordWerks Feb 2013
My red wagon, in my youth,
Kept things some thought quite uncouth,
Like fishing line, crawdad bait,
A model boat, old door plate,
Copper rupees from Nepal,
Ancient skull, an old softball,
And I still wish I had them all,
Those fine treasures of my youth.

Though years have past since that day,
I, again, still lug that dray,
But I often can recall,
All the stuff I used to haul.
Though no longer filled with junk;
I don't use it like a trunk.
This lesson I didn't flunk.
It's filled with my kids at play.
Carsyn Smith May 2013
Have you ever
carried the world
and not known it?
Went on with your
life, without care?
Collecting stones,
shining pebbles,
weighing pearls.

When you can't feel the mountains protruding from your back,
crashing behind
your eyes,
                                    in your ears;
the devil in your head,
and the angel in your heart.

When you don't know
they're there, you grow
envious of
other people's
treasures. They lug
heavy buckets
of stones, pebbles,
and pearls while
it seems you own
a small pouch that
is worth nothing.

So you spend your days at the river,
collecting stones,
                 shining pebbles,
                              weighing pearls.
With some, they can see
                                          the storm coming;
                                                         ­                                               hear the thunder
before the lightning strikes.
With me,
it was
a pebble,
a shiny pebble that
                                                            ­                                                       jumped
from its bucket,
flew up: past the angel, devil, oceans, and storms, landed on the mountains and crushed
under its weight.
The mountains shook and
crumbled from the weight,
crashing and
churning –
The storms
                       made me
                                                              ­                 deaf
but I can still hear
the devil screaming
and feel the angel dying.

I have no choice
but to proceed
to lug heavy
buckets of stones,
and of pebbles,
and of pearls
while the other
people go on
without a care;
with a small pouch
that is worth so
much – that I’d die
to hold again.
*If youre reading this on a moble device, tilt your screen in a horizontal mannor; it will show you the poem's structure*

Thanks to Anna Pavoncello for the awesome title :)
Anna's hellopoetry:
From grey plaster dwellin’s they come to us
fer enough sun t’ melt their lollies but
after sun-burnt migrations, some remain
as they can choose our shacks fer their castles
and their spawn breaks the spines on each weaver
and fer their red-faced fuss ‘e is broken.

The ‘ermit crab too takes ‘is leave broken.
The ‘ome ‘e made now closed to all of us
Not passed by ta’ooed ‘ands o' net weavers.
The painted shells still litter these streets but
suited slugs paint gray on our small castles
till only mockin’ shades of age remain.

“Shave off, *******’ll pick till none o’ yer remain”
screamed mad John as relaters “fixed ‘im” broken
into some plastic ‘ouse from ‘is castle.
‘ow ‘e used t’ tell those old tales to us
'o the deep places and the things there but
they ‘ad ‘im by the gills, poor old weaver.

Spines down, in nets made by ‘is own weavin.
we did it to ourselves, we can’t remain
Wi’ nets o’ money, o’ *****, o’ smokes, but
black flags still fly, bein’ bent never broken.
Cross-bone attractions will be left as us
‘eld by those who took away our castles

Stormin’ beaches to kick down our castles
the sandy ‘oles and ‘ides of those weavers.
Sellin’ our anger like lug, dear to us
cast from the sea of us that will remain
‘ook lipped, ring-eared, ink-stained and not broken
nothin’ t’ be fixed and no-one changed but

In come those nets, I ‘aint been caught yet but
that gray, that London gray sweeps my castle
away where the concrete can’t be broken
t’ reach lug beneath dried surface weavers
as gulls break beaks t’ peck at the remains.
yes, we’ll eat each-other if they take us.

Take enough of us, and leave shell castles
no ‘ands to ‘old jolly Rodgers and sing
‘appily swear, or dance on tables but
**** that.
A sestina, using phonetic language, on the immigration of Londoners on my seaside home (a weaver is both a spiny fish and a fishing net maker).
Bryan Muller Jun 2016
Die verwoesting van die velede loop uit in die hede.
Hier waar als tot rus kom met die lug wat soos 'n skarlakenrooi duin al *** stywer smeul, met die spanning klop in harmonie met die donker kol in my hart wat die toekoms verniel. Die bloedsaar le rooi op die horison soos 'n verlore asempie van 'n kind en die gefluister van die wind begin praat in die dieptes.
Die verwoesting le in die rooi lug soos 'n sluier...
andy fardell Feb 2012
woof woof woof went the doggy
woof woof woof in me head
woof woof woof went the doggy
sweepy let me sleep i must be dead

bark bark bark hear the woofer
bark bark bark hear the growl
bark bark bark hear the woofer
sweepy stop that racket stop it now

slob slob slob in me lug hole
slob slob slob hear it now
slob slob slob in me lug hole
sweepy what the hell ..I'll let you out

bark bark bark hear the woofer
bark bark bark hear the growl
bark bark bark hear the woofer
sweepy stop that racket stop it now

yap yap yap is it dinner
yap yap yap no not now
yap yap yap is it dinner
sweepy go to sleep its 3 am

bark bark bark hear the woofer
bark bark bark hear the growl
bark bark bark hear the woofer
sweepy stop that racket stop it now
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
The old saying talks about
Being snug as a bug in a rug
But how can you feel that way
If you never ever get hugged.
If you hug your loved ones
They may not need drugs.
It’s an inexpensive medicine;
The basic household hug.

Worse things could happen
Than to catch the hugging bug.
It’s a better remedy than you
Can find in an apothecary jug.
It doesn’t require prescription
And is no big weight to lug.
You always have one handy,
The standard loving hug.

A hug can be the cure for you
When you are in a purple fug
And your face begins to look
Like a rather dyspeptic pug.
Somebody wonderful arrives
And gives your heart a tug
By giving you the all-time best
Wholehearted, loving hug.
Adriaan Harms Oct 2014
In my droom wereld...

Daar, in die verte, is n bed vir as ek moeg raak.
n Berg wat ek gebruik as n kuns muur.
En n oop veld vol rose.

Bo my, die blou lug met reen druppels wat val, maar wat nie nat maak nie.
My gedagtes wat rond sweef.
musiek wat gehoor word maar nie gesien word nie.
En dan, jy.

n Bed vir my en jou.
Jou naam op die berg met klippe, gevorm soos harte, gepak.
n Oop veld rose wat jou emosie kleur wys.

Reen druppels wat val, wys my jou trane.
My gedagtes wat vir jou wys *** spesiaal jy is vir my.
Musiek om als te laat kalmeer.
En jy, vir my om lief te he, sonder om te stres oor wat jy sal **** of se as jy weet jy is die een wat ek wil he.
die wind
die angst
van my voorkop weg

die skerp sout lug
vul my met
die prag
wat voor my

al die onsekerheid
soos sout wat
met water meng

the wind
my anxiety
away from my brow

the sharp salt air
fills me with
the beauty
that appears
before me

all the uncertainly
just like salt
that mixes with water
© jeannine davidoff 2012
Lauren Randall Apr 2016
So we saunter up to each new prospect,
slow and sly and seductive in our invitations.
"Look at what made me this way.
Wouldn't you like to see?" More
and more until we've disrobed and dismantled ourselves
to the absolute limits of our abilities (our willingness?).
We repeat this display of sacred
shedding until we finally elicit that awe-inducing look
of "concerned understanding" -  we complain
that we are misinterpreted in Cassady fashion
when we make no real efforts to be understood.
"Care most about me." Let me mystify you with myths of me,
perverse nursery rhymes lulling you into a slumber inside my skull
from which you will wake with a start,
demanding release from that citadel you so wished to infiltrate
when it was your hands that needed warming.
Siska Gregory Dec 2016
Die fluister van my hart...
Ek raak stil en luister *** fluister my hart.
Die liggiese geklop in my keel maak my bly oor die lewe wat ek voel. Myne praat van die ope lug so blou, ek hou dit vas, en van die wind wat vry waai sonder om toestemming hoef te vra.
Van die son wat vroeg oggend goud op kom met die begin van nog n nuwe dag, wat warm bak teen jou rug as jy dit die minste verwag.
Van harde hande werk in die kombuis na die tuin wat vra vir bietjie liefde en gesels.
So is die lewe vol lewe, vol kere vir lekker lag.
Ja dit gee mens krag om die mooi te sien, in elke dag. 2016-11-28
jimmy tee Mar 2014
step right this way
the curly haired whispers of long ago
dirt on the steppes of Maui
life and death
the boldness of breath
tea sets invented
natures idea of hooking
the falsehood of feelings
since you can sense the release of chemicals
into the gut from the gut
art is an effort
all roads are connected therefore lead nowhere
the impossibility of a paper bag
well that’s why you got the people you do
blistered surfaces
magical marketing
lost time is all its good for
other beings
the past is as real as the now
the future not so much
look for answers under slimy rocks
mark the trail with crumbs
holiday pay eligibility
pig latin verse
loose lips sinks fish
headlines of tomorrow list all your deeds
originality pounds it out
a ground game if there ever was one
marginalized in a riotous way
spit shined shoes laced real tight
if you stayed this long you must get it real good
explanations spellchecked edited cast aside
meaning lost found lost and lost again
bury your words
measure the sun as a star
triangulate emotion in order to set free the main ingredient
the Bosporus the smallest gap imaginable
a wayward telephone number listed
a matchbook
adding depth to the photograph by controlling aperture
roulette craps poker slots Chinese checkers
numbers never end
gymnasium antics
mans best friend is a meateater
fall follows autumn in the southern hemisphere
three dimensions are all you need all you require
deny both the entity and the substance found ahead
synchronize your watch with mine
sand as a tonic baby oil pine
money buys packaged happiness
there was this guy named Shakespeare
opinion calls for differences version 2.0
you find the zoo to lead so very far
swing for the fences
jump rope skip sidewalk
mow the concrete lawn from here to horizon
jump rope skip sidewalk
learn forget then act dumb
exit stage left
what is behind animal eyes big mystery
exponential units forge toward the final group session
king me
did the butler do it with the maid
how often is crying necessary
pound for pound the best boxer in the mid century bout of pneumonia
digital meanings end in analog discussions
legions of admirers blinded
where to turn when the lights are forever out
invest in mystery
disappoint those who will never know you
you know it
there is a dogma in need of a collar out there somewhere
temptation looms
the holy word of snowflakes delve into deep philosophy
but I always got along with everybody
why work
pituitary gland
announcing for the first time on record
prince spaghetti and salad extraordinaire
the alphabet ends in z
puddles form on distant planets that orbit toothless suns
loud music still comforts the savage beast
years like a tape measure stills the ragged poor children
never to be found never ever ever
solvent says eat thou peas
silo bag deliver us from the tall neighbor police
sidestep any issue involving toys
mounds of troubles can be climbed
Kansas wind also flows down the plain
think about it the sea is mostly under itself
most things look better from behind
a major felony on your record
knowledge in the form of easy chew tablets
hounded by creditors bobby laid low
actors actresses chumps
results are mixed as the queen leaves daring long behind
punctuation fits into softly lit areas of the mind
stay loose
breakdown the door then apologize some more
I left home for this
mistakes are what we call experience
the smiles on bubblegum cards just as real
twenty dollars invested in nothing
pin air to itself
buy time sock it away watch it grow grow grow
cool is always enough for matty
god that guy could drink ant sanitation member into the ground
leaves are raking themselves these days
so long in the past stood there with sled in hand
photographed by a grandfather clock
black envelopes glued by hand in an everlasting jump off point
poetry bound and gagged for fun and zero profit
movable type static feasts
in the groove piled high with the color that represents lament
fifty thousand big ones aint so big anymore
the river left town
cannon at the gate corded shot ingenious ways to destroy people
support the troops
he say one thing then did another wow does that hurt
memory votes early and often
nobody knows the troubled bean
it all hinges on my word being accepted
china feels so very close
the sea full of carp moistened in salt water ** boy o boy
Vermeer at the loom
the bronze age must have been heavy
time waits around the corner selling amphetamines
queer beings exit the saucer and head right for the local hobby shop
end game
paint as a medium large
pine scented maple trees win the prize
in my book the covers speak for themselves
close up to the camera waterfall
find the picture inside the cavity send help
amid ship is the place amid
of course some things are missing
ghost register to vote
went fishing came home with a tummy ache
spend your last dime see the world as it truly is
between avenue b and c there lies a small wombat
fend off the high climbing stairs that offer busy bees
mind the gaping hole that leads to oblivion ny
fog in my ear
steam punk can you believe it had to be invented
the f drive taketh away
sing a song about the street we used to chug a lug at
view my elbow rock
know thyself from the middle ages on toward the detail
love pander both you know
mom became tonnage displaced and torpedoed
you are very astute now quit it
this meeting is over like so many before it
collapse my finger into red colored dust
round up and whittle down the masthead
toothpick sized brains
its no bother at all fire away with logical pounds
page that squire knight the tree stand hunter in velvet horn
live as the yo yo
beat it now not later now before the sun sets far into the Japanese
planning a child check our bargain bins first then decide
overtime halts the easy chair
mounds clopping at the level of good mine
piles of good old fashioned nonsense
home grown
sunny side up way up
carry a friend everywhere you travel
catch a rising star and keep it there
an alarming increase
happiness is a warm puppy
many are called but few are winners
put in your time split and repeat
wrinkles seem to be catching on
break the law go to *******
now is the time smack in the middle of touchy feely
mountain of jelly
pound of brown
highway exits in turning lane
polished sayings die in mid form
butterfly of course
bank on it twice
inform the theologian that grace is universal
one unit is enough to bounce the basket ball
larcenies are a regrettable offense for jumble minded
loud is the hammer of life by golly
far away lies the land of nod no wait mod
never saw it coming
mud in your minds eye
clean up before the mess is tabled
throw away all hits
kong king
mondo longo pongo in delicate dancing
bear in mind that bares the soul to influence
set up the new roux
pint sized followers found via radio
fell asleep in wonder fat
knives sharpened better get a move on
loudly express a final punt
line one line two line three
when did farming become cold
disease jumps as the trampoline handles wind jammers
night can be fun but girls are more down there
love me back
mindful of the garter you can relax next year
backwards as a mean average statistical oops
venting hot gas adds to the thrill
is this thing on
and and and and and and and
call the water department I am ready to fly
listen the goat will never know what hit him
long on flavor short on towels
company insists on a quaint meal of posies
behind a successful man is a chair of some kind
got milk
my friend can be talkative but never mind
rounded surfaces slip into nothingness a modern age affliction
we will escape scot free
badness baldness daily princess
puzzle in mind he left his denial on the riverbank
on the reindeer hoof we ride
how can it be hey baby that’s what we are here for right
the plays is not the thing
work your **** off then find the instruction manual
beep buzz bop
it appeared right there but is gone now
HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth took him to her stony care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
That Time can never mar a lover's vows
Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.
He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers:  without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice --
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace.
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his bones
proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
That from those fingers glittering summer runs
Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
The man has found no comfort in the grave.
Star BG Apr 2017
Hug-a-lug out to dear you,
cause it's what I want to do.
To hug with love is grand your see.
 it opens heart so I fly free.  

Free to drift in morning light
The feeling it is out of sight.    
So in my day, I’ll send out love.
And then we'll fly like sacred dove. 

Hug a lug, oh Hug a lug! 
I send it now to fill a jug.
In mind please do yes drink away 
as blessings now I send today.

StarBG © 2017
Johan Nel Jul 2016
Teen die hange van die berge-nag
Speel die donker op die ligte sag
Die kalm daal op die chaos-stad
Van klank en mense op elke kronkel pad
Dit voer jou mee in 'n sterre mat

In skoon lug met 'n oop kop
Kan gedagtes net vloei en skrop
Aan dinge wat is en kom
Aan mens wees, goed en krom
Aan die eenvoud en dit wat verstom

Woorde lê in 'n niks-wees dwaal
Dis rou, dit is maar net  -  dis kaal
Net om die stemme wat skree te verlos
Dinge wat 'n uitlaat soek in die kosmos
Dit het ink gevind, soos vuur in fynbos
© Johan Nel (written in December 2015)
Ottar Nov 2013
In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.

Aodhán Corr Jan 2014
Down to the docks, every Friday night
Goes a man with a glint in his eye
He says “Gather all around, all you boys and girls,
And I’ll show you how to conquer the sky
Yeah I’ll show you how to conquer the sky
Yeah I’ll show you what your money can buy

“You gotta put your best foot forward
If you wanna go far
Forward like a speeding car
Yeah, forward like a freight train
With fifty cars full of coal
The world’ll try to swallow you whole

“But you gotta keep moving
Keep moving; keep grooving
Dancing to the beat of a thousand drums
A thousand hums
Vibrations; gyrations
Twiddling a thousand thumbs

“Gotta beat out a thousand dum-dums
For your spot on the throne
Way high up on Olympus
Drink your ambrosia Jack!
And don’t ever look back
At that man that you used to be

“Can’t you see?
You’re better than that, now
You’re new, you’re fresh, you’re cool
Too cool for school
Relaxing by the swimming pool
The swimming hole

“Sitting with a fishing pole
Gonna catch the big one
Gonna reel it; keel it
Lug it in and tug it in
And hoist it up over your head
Like the champion you are

“You’re gonna be a real big star
Gonna be one soon
Picture in the paper
Gonna land on the moon
See you later, alligator
Stand up a little straighter

“You need a haircut
You need a new coat
You gotta buy a boat
You gotta buy a car
You gotta buy a big *** pile of gold bars
Buy silver

“Silver, silver, platinum, iron ore
You need that iron core
Get right down to that iron store
Get steel
Get real, get steel

“Unlock that inner potential
Go commercial
Get the **** out of residential
Totally existential
The steps on Jacob's ladder are entirely sequential

“You're gonna be great, kid
And you’re gonna have greatness
And that greatness ain't never gonna wane
Just get on the next train
Get in the fast lane
Go batshit Roman emperor insane

“You’re Nero! Caligula!
I figured a
Guy like you would be sold
It’s stone cold
It’s a deal
It’s a ******* steal

“Don't get it?
Don't sweat it; forget it
It’s not for you if you’re happy with all this
Happy being soaked in blood and sweat and ****
That’s just fine
‘Don’t cast your pearls before swine’

“You drink your watery beer
I’ll drink whiskey and wine
And special French cognac you can only get in Delaware
How can a fella care
With that kind of life?
No worries and no wife

“So get paid, and get laid
And get ready to wade
Knee deep in an ocean of *****
You’re the best
Puff out your chest
And the rest got nothing, absolutely

“Prosecute me, if I steer you wrong
If I appear too strong
Just don’t refute me
But if you want a stroke of luck?
Wanna get ******? get your little **** ******?
Then, first I’m gonna need a buck.”
Aidan Corr Olsen (c) 2014
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.

Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?

I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.

Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.

I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.

Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.

I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.

He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.

He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****!"
His boon companion smiled.

I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.

Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.

As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.

His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"

" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."

So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.

After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.

I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.
My father, a nineteen year old Irish immigrant, was attacked by a Xenophobic Englishman in a Lancaster pub where he was working.
I have told the tale as it has come down to me over the years, working in first person point of view.
ryan Apr 2014
Red yellow blue green
Things aren't always as they seem
You have to look a bit beyond
The things your ears get dumped upon

Blue green red yellow
All their words taste like morello
They're filled with black, just chests of stone
It's hard but you're not on your own

Yellow blue green red
I wasn't lying when I said
Your orange is my favourite drug
Away with all my love you lug

Green red yellow blue
I'm all for one, I'm all for you
It's your rainbow that's got me
In euphoria, loving endlessly
ERR Nov 2012
Most days it is felt in the bones
Sometimes it moves to my
Soap, or my
Belt, or my
Lighter, I burn it into
****** circles in whatever page I scar
I feel it in my hands when it
Flows in peace, sweet release
I never feel it in my guitar, I thank

A harmless exoskelocreeper darts along the
Wall and the sick pit of belly says ******!
But things have been so
Transparent of late I would hate to
Move and sad statue watches crawling, powerless

These stones we lug, do they make us strong?
My back sores with
More pain than progress

I feel it when they speak
The stinking breath of some
Who have never looked up
Or did and got dizzy frailneck

I feel it in the not now

I feel it in the dreams
Where waking comes after death

I feel it in the mornings
Planting palmonn wall to balance liquid lover
I swear, I went right
Through it like
I wasn’t even
Becoming less of something lately
Or, more of a slim
Quantum chance (?)

It is like we walk among the
Subterrain thinking we are
Open air, I can hear the
Footprints above, everywhere
And the true sky beyond imagination
I can feel it
When they haven’t
We reach and
Reach like emerging
Gravewalkers, desperate
For something
Sun on our hands, run them through
The breeze and think we’re free

When it rains, blind grasp
Turns out not the soothsayer
We question the water no origin exposed

I feel it in the mirror
And in groups
I feel it in the hairs on the back of my neck
I feel it in everything
My beautiful virus

Is not right
stars crinkle under our feet
bouncing off the blades of moonlit grass
carried downstream in the canal behind
my house
I walk down memory lane with my brother Lou
Lou lost it in his teens diagnosed schizoid
but able to function under guidance and meds
together we lug a cumbersome old wooden box
to the trash
gently I quizzed him
“do you remember us when we were little
on our sled all the snow and fun we had?”
Lou stares blankly into the night,
“I was never small, I was made 6 ft. 3 in.”
“but I have a photo of us”
again Lou denies that such a time ever existed,
insisting that he sprang full-grown
from the mind of some unknown madness
Christmas lights blink coloring his face
red then green
“That's alright Lou, I remember....”
whispering goodnight
I tuck Lou under the blankets
of my heart
and watch him trudge away
a small boy in a gray snowsuit

“Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you”

(Simon & Garfunkle, 1968)
st64 Mar 2013
Ring-a-ring-o' Ruth, goin' round and round.....
Ring-a-ring-o' Ruth, goin' round and round
She dare not lose it, but she couldn't keep it
Not anymore
No, not anymore!
For the rings of Ruth
The one she wears, oh!
They keep her in her place
He keeps her mind in place.........
Dare not spill your red treasure on his floor
Oh poor woman, watch your step
Contain yourself...........
Daren't let him in, oh Ruth
No, daren't let him in, uh-oh Ruthie
Why lug around his le-ga-cy in your mind?
Of relentless rings of insanity.....goin' round and round.......
Ring-a-ring-o' Ruth, goin' round and round
Come on home, dear Ruth and flush 'em fears away
Watching you, my Ruth, I can see you from afar
Won't hurt you anymore, won't make you run away
Your heart will sing the Truth that the sands of Time will veil.
So, come on home, dear Ruth
Come home......
Come home!

Star Toucher, 13 March 2013
(Written 2007.
Posted elsewhere before....
Inspired by novel "Rose Madder" by Stephen King)
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...

they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.

the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.

a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Matthew Mar 2014
Turtles in a river,
Mother and its kit.
Wood stove in a blizzard,
why don’t you google it?

Kayak tipping over,
Mittens newly knit.
Luckless little clovers,
why don’t you google it?

I’m staying inside today, if you please.
I’m staying inside today, leave me in peace.

Pebbles crunching softly,
Lantern left unlit.
Morning grass is frosty,
why don’t you google it?

Field’s cicada army,
Endless laughing fit.
Some song by McCartney,
why don’t you google it?

I’m staying inside today, if you please.
I’m staying inside today, leave me in peace.

Accidental ****-touch,
Waxy candle wick.
Silver greasy lug-nut
why don’t you google it?
For Carrie
Molly Hughes Feb 2014
I'm not me.
I struggle through life with my
siamese twin.
It's getting stronger than me.
It's lied alot in the past,
first white lies,
then little fibs,
then real lies
and now we're here
and I don't know who to believe.
I think this time it's telling the truth.
I think this time the boy's not crying wolf.
I think it's just me doing the crying.
Nobody seems to help,
nobody seems to understand
how big,
how tiring,
how cumbersome
my twin has become,
what I have to lug about
every day.
Nobody understands how much it's
distorted reality,
so I don't what's real
and what isn't.
But no.
This time I think it's being honest.
And isn't honestly the best policy?
they also say
ignorance is bliss.
I wish I had an on/off switch for my twin.
I wish I could turn off the power.
I can feel somebody hovering over mine.

— The End —