"mandibles" poems
Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars, cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola! Ebola! sympathy is not a vice, but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka *** kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74, shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola! my prayer to you is as brief
as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen!
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Ebola
Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars ,cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola ! Ebola ! sympathy is not a vice , but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka *** kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74 , shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola ! my prayer to you is as brief
as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen !
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Burnt adolescence, the smell of survivors
The satiric regime beholds.
White-gloved landlords, picking at grapefruit
By what means was this chapter told?
By a pigheaded guerilla lad
In a trench coat and top hat
With an ego to the distance of the sun
Alcohol is flammable
To the ones with sharpened mandibles
For myself, it was all jolly good fun
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
In a second grade classroom
a tiny ant with a treasure thinks only of taking it to his colony.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.
he drags
and pulls
and tugs
On a second grade classroom floor,
the ant's work is hard but will be worth it.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.
he drags
and pulls
and tugs
On a second grade classroom rug,
the ant's task seems insurmountable but he knows of no other way.
So for an hour, he retraces his path backwards dragging a piece of popcorn
across the classroom rug.
He drags
and tugs
and pulls
In the open of a second grade classroom,
the ant feels exposed on the carpet but cover is closer now, he can feel it.
It's just there, where the wall meets the carpet.
A space just big enough to hide an ant.
Closer and closer.
He tugs and pulls and drags his prize closer still
Pulling and dragging the popcorn lurches across the carpet.
His rear legs reach cover
Then his thorax, his abdomen, his head with antennae and mandibles
then
The Problem.
and...
In a second grade classroom
a line of popcorn rests
where the carpet meets the wall.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
pretty new blooms!
don't fear the ants
they are not who ***** you worst.
their bites will come
and their bites will go
but in the end, they will only take the bitter sap of you
and let your petals unfurl.
no no, do not fear them
but draw tight against the frost
who sings sweet serenades in the moonlight
and clings to you come morning
this insidious beast
will freeze your cells
and let them burst
letting that pretty pink soul
come flowing out
less sharp than mandibles
more of a constant tug
a pull
a yank
a collapse of self
do not fear the ants!
fear the long lasting dread!
and oh,
fear the cold
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
The leopard and the lion chose to become friends,
For they were all proud of claws on their paws
They each glorified one another for their mighty,
Ability to live on meat of other fauna throughout a year,
They each admired one another for running speed,
They each remained firm and loyal to one rule;
Lions don’t eat leopards neither leopards eat lions.
They felt warmth in their companionship without verve,
Until the time they initiated a certain joint venture;
To hunt an antelope as it was famed to be the sweetest,
Again, there had remained one antelope only in the world,
They dilly and not dallied anyhow about such glittering project,
They both endevoured to set forth by each dawn for a whole year,
Tediously hunting throughout a day, the lion doing a great part,
Setting ambuscades and arduously sleuthing to orient on trail,
The leopard severally fainted in the field due to exhaustion,
On one eve of christmas day, the lion captured the prey,
When the leopard was a sleep shivering in fevers of malaria,
Their prey was a middle aged female antelope with swollen hips.
The leopard was sparked to fire of life by a mysterious fillip,
He boldly requested work, now to help the lion in carrying,
The un-suspecting lion relinquished the carcass to the leopard,
Feat of shrewdness gripped the leopard, he took off
Running away with a lightening speed, the antelope on his mouth,
The lion again began to chase, shouting to the leopard,
To be a gentleman and stop running, for them to share the plunder,
The leopard never listened, he craftily climbed to the apex,
Of the most tall and most slippery tree, he perched at the peak
With the antelope on his muscular mandibles of voracity,
The lion remained at the stem, wailing like a toddler
His family does not climb trees, not even a shrub,
The lion wailed, using all styles of wailing,
Pleading with the leopard to donate even an iota,
Not even a small piece of antelope bone dropped
To drop on the ground for the lion to taste,
Human leopards are not good hunting companions.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
I am named wrong,
They don’t care,
Those humans who decide everything,
Do I look like a Stag with Antlers?
NO…my mandibles are strong and proud,
I’m a grand beetle,
Royal and fearsome (in appearance),
But don’t worry I won’t hurt you.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...repress !!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 December 2009
www.worthyofpublishing.com
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:15 PM UTC
Tantalus tartarus tortures through time tremendous
Amber ambition aback at arousal
Menacing mandibles munch my member
Eating eruptions eeriest ***********
Docile delusional damp dame do digest
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
The Spoon
I’m a spoon.
I turn concoctions
I poor innocence into a caldron of imbibe, ********** and violence.
I’m rusted from acidic negligence.
I burn the hand that Weals me.
When I make her bleed, truth crunches between my mandibles.
It’s cruel and scrumptious. I drool over its potential.
But the sheets don’t touch father sun before I leave.
She cries alone.
I cry alone.
I scoop the unknowing up. I throw them into a world of trouble and confusion.
My tongue passes my name, vowels never remembered.
My lips **** hope and maintain an emotional facade.
I like to push it in.
It hurts and I feel nothing.
But I move on.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
smelly cherries
taste quite subtle
Like stale dr. pepper
With no fizz
One Thursday
In a dream
Stinky cherries spoke to me
Do not eat us!
Or we eat humans
Said they
But I like smelly cherries
And I continued to eat those
Plump
Subtle
Crimson
Soft
Juicy
Cherries
Until next Wednesday
They squeezed past my door
Walking foot by foot
With big mandibles
For chomping humans
And I scream
Don’t eat me!
But they speak
Cherrinese
So i cry to myself
Goodbye
As the smelly cherries
Eat me alive
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Drooling from pharmaceuticals,
and being told what's beautiful.
Recklessly using our mandibles,
and idolizing party animals.
No time to get personal,
Cuz I must go out and buy the product being scammed on this commercial.
Back.
Intelligence being blinded by fear,
So many don't pay mind, too full of beer
and confused why they can't see clear,
or even eye to eye with their closest peer.
Time spent pointing fingers
and wondering why "bad luck" lingers.
A society high on measurements and value measured by possessions.
The "Iwant" society diseased with obsessions.
Sold opinions with television and magazines,
Never realizing the atrocities behind the scenes.
More psych evaluations and pills to swallow,
Or open love connections and spirituality to follow?
Many homeless, while uninhabited homes shows a higher amount.
Pop-culture won't show ya, can the counter-culture even count?
Fatty fast food paired with fast athletes, just to get a meager billion some dollars.
There's still time to change though, which is why we need to bother.
Too cheap to buy selfless items, well then at least pay attention.
See me for clarity, there's a wealth of info I didn't mention.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Declared to be the home of the ants,
the barn was, also, shared by the dogs
and the big lizards who stored
formidable teeth opposite the nipping
mandibles. Each moment the favorite
spaces became temples traversed by
wandering dotted lines while,
certainly, a pause to clean the claws
gave time for articles of memory. Attire
provided a music festival to brighten the
warm days with delicate sounds within
dark recesses where chilly dust filtered
the beams to secure the rafters. Along
these trails, the plight was relieved; the
threat was removed to slumber waiting
for a wind swept rush of fur. Pulling
the shutters back from the eyes, the
working specks of the ants proclaimed
their choices and followed these
implications into predicaments leading
them to be wise. The influence
demonstrated the passing of lives into
praise for the correct answers by which
the ways advanced to persist. There was
plenty of empty, sweet time hovering
above their heads yet leaving them
impatient to see a transpired eternity,
gathered in a massive tribe, ready to
explore the encroaching season with its
microscopic grasses and piles of stone.
As an institution, the old, red building
weathered its boards in the valley,
forgotten by more pragmatic industries
in cans and bottles of plastic. To wear
the collar of the ant or the lizard was a
rare honor not granted in the homes
of many house wives. It was as rare as
gold to find lodging with the fascinating
mercy of the human outlook. It was a
great deal of trouble to look after these
others, small or large as they might be.
Seemingly, it was difficult to explain the
logic intended to regulate the wild,
independent lives, and, as they were
misguided, an anger tended to drive them
closer rather than away. Under the skin,
it was very close to an intolerable form of
humor, but what explained itself as being
very funny also remained the hostility
alienated and inevitable, like the slamming
horns of the sheep and goats, like the poetry
of the birds and the herds.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
I want you to fall in love, with my mind.
They say that romance is dead.
Aesthetic adoration is too easy to find.
I will dig deeper, doting the components of your head.
I ask that you return the favour.
No need for laboratory lobotomies.
There need not be forced labour.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.
And my mind on my mandibles.
I speak it. Repeat it.
The source inches above my clavicle.
It is replete with ****
But it has it's moments too.
Though it's subject matter is grey,
a lot rings true,
from this pinkish purée.
I want you to find the harmony,
with my spinal chord.
And say with absolute certainty:
We will never be bored.
The feelings, that from my brain stem,
will be fully frontal.
From my toes to my cerebellum,
I would be yours, in total.
I want to fall in love with your mind.
Invest me in your intellect.
It will take time.
But it's all temporal in introspect.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
You Know.
You love to feel. Really feel.
Not all that pony phony excrement.
NO
I want to feel. I want to flow.
And now I can.
No longer does my mind win/
Now I am free to lose my body to my surroundings.
To listen to the rhythm of my cells, the rhythm of my blood.
My heart beats
and I listen.
Harmonize the sentiments.
Float on the the synchronicity.
Extricate the energy
vibrating pulsating reverberating Charge.
Tinge with respite. Ignite the tinder
of my uninhibited beauty. EXPLODE in oneirostatic luminance
Leave your brain, but find your body.
And with them find your self, finding them. E
vaporate, into infinite Tactation.
Consummate the Sensations of your wordless soul.
What we cannot express with our words we express with our skin.
See me. Feel me. Touch me. Feel me.
Lick the tentacles in my pores.
**** the mandibles from my constant bite wounds.
The seed of intertwining life sought through the seed of the lymnescate.
Transference
Note to my plural self: Listen to my thoughts more often,
especially when they don't come from my head.
Rhythms carry time. Flow rhythms water the timewave. Grow rivers find the groove. DANCE the current and find the soothing bedrock rootscape.
Find it with your ultimate states of dissolution.
Find it and it will carry you.
Find it and explode.
EXTRICATE EUPHORIA
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Secrets of Wysteria flow in the vessels of my brain
And so I do not hear, nor comprehend the calling of my thought’s train
Vowing to never be held again in constrain
Eradicating the rotten fingers pointing to my disdain
Muses of bruises, callouses, and roses
Excuses the clueless, hung in ruin’s nooses
Flagitious tongue sharpens itself with sprawling centipedes
Rusted teeth from perilous mandibles bleed as it feeds
On the oozing, ****** veins of the wicked ****** as it pleads
Maybe these are too much for one’s avaricious needs?
Mindful, careful, piercing the syringe of refrain on plump flesh
Yeuking as the substance flows on blood so raw and fresh
Amid all, the past and future gather in Sheol’s pavilion
But missing is the presence of present in emblazing vermillion
Yet fleetly missed as the siren descanted her composition
Somber statues of ivory pretense witness with volition
Saints and snakes tear each other’s throats in a languish cotillion.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...suppress !!
M.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Whispering pine bows
caught in the slightest breeze
shift gently, from right to left
with a mild up and down action
dry needles float effortlessly
to settle on the forest floor
giving new depth
to the thick carpet.
Three red ants march
single file
scouting for food and fodder
strong enough to repair the mound.
With a flick of the antennae
the lead insect turns
towards a new scent;
each ant uses its mandibles to gather
whispering pine needles
gently carpeting
the forest floor.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
How to start an ode to one’s dear daughter
Remains a true protégé to her mighty gist
In the beautiful pearls that they are not loyal
Brains and poetry are not loyal to one,
Yes, they can find abode in any and all,
As the spectre of poetry is haunting Africa,
It comes straight from University of Wits,
Beautiful like an angel in a lion’s roar
She sings and chants in a unique power,
Perhaps available in the paragonic muse,
The voice of reason is out above vice
Often laziness pays as tribute to virtue
As her excellence habitually comes forth
The daughter of Africa here heals my heart
Her small mandibles crests my soul to bliss
Her powerful poetry does marvel to my home,
Vuyelwa is bound above the scent in the name
As she puts melanin in the injured chocolate skin
To restore Africa back to her pedestal of glory
As positive shame in the name devoid of Christ
Is effortlessly condemned to ash pit of selfish culture,
To-night she bits you not to **** her blackness
Nor to accuse her again of being a black Soweto
Out of racial envy to preserve your intolerant self
She has promised freedom of space in your bed
Freedom of space in your royal cultural bed,
Vuyelwa my daughter your birth was happiness
To our poor home in the blackness of Maluleke,
Your slender and tall physique; goddess’s poise
In her holy ministry of poetized freedom to all
Whether white like snow or as black as Africa,
Your only anchorage of prettiness to sing my songs
Sing my songs in the name of our mother
You do Africa proud to manage your gods,
As the spectre of poetry foot loose from nether
Is haunting Africa, with art in vogue and reason
Singing to Africa what others derided to eerie
Africa can too sing in the voices of excellence
In lyrics and other all Africa can sing
African can sing Vuyelwa can sing
Can sing and chant in the voice of the people.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
Carnivourous teeth
Masticate everything near
Mandibles of prey
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC