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The match started with control going from one team to the other kicks being made and players jumping on the ball hoping to score the first try
And then it happened the first penalty going to Queensland and kept it for a while but couldn't make it over the line
NSW took the ball and not much later got a penalty oh yeah hoping they will break through, they charged and charged right to the line and the maroons stole the ball ready to bring it to the other side forcing NSW into defence
And the mistake happened The blues got the ball and kicked it way way back the maroons grabbed the ball and kept them it in the defence and kicked it up forced the error and gained another penalty to them
The maroons were running up ready to break the defence and kicked it through and the blues brought the ball to the attack
Still no score still no score
But both teams are putting up a fight and then the maroons got the ball and with great offence
Dived over for the maroons first try and the crowd roared ever so loudly and smith converts it to make the maroons have a 6-0 lead and the XXXX is looking ever so sweet
But they have to get back to the game and the blues sent the kick to them and ran down to the tryline, only to have the try dissallowed and for the maroons it was still 6-0 but the blues had possession of the ball and they kicked it up and possession went back to Queensland and they ran a bit and kicked it up and the blues grabbed the ball, then they kicked it and straight back to Queensland it goes and they kept it with them for a while
A scrum came with the blues winning it and ran a while then kicked right down the Maroons throat and after a bit they kicked it, the 6-0.lead was looking good after the ball went loose for NSW and Queensland did a kick and chase with the blues looking to grab the ball
They did but not for long and after a few passes the maroons were running and passing and then dived in to score the maroons 2nd try, to make the score 10-0 to Queensland
And smith yet again adds the extra's and suddenly the maroons were looking very good and yes, the score changed to 12-0
After both teams getting a hand on the ball? It was the blues who gained possession but they lost it and this was making NSW very angry, I wonder what
The people in the clubs in NSW are thinking after the maroons good, then the battle between the both teams as the tackling gave the blues a penalty but after a lengthily run the maroons got a penalty and took
The ball over to the NSW defensive area and then they kicked it and it went into touch
And the blues got the ball and lost it down the field and the maroons ran down and put the ball down but it was a forward pass and then the blues ran with the ball right to the other side but Queensland yet again looking too good and then sent out a high bomb deep in the nsw end and the blues ran it down but was tackled and yes the maroons go into the half time break with a 12-0 lead
And I wonder what will happen in the 2nd half
And now the two teams are entering the field and the crowd is totally cheering and the maroons are kicking off and it went straight down the blues throats and went straight into the maroons defence line and they kicked it up and now the maroons have the ball but made a small error forcing the blues to steal it from them and after a few runs the blues lost it and the maroons grabbed the ball
And ran staring toward the line but lost the ball right in front of the blues defence line and the blues started to run it down by passing it a few times and then made a woeful kick to put the maroons back into attack and then after a comedy of errors the blues kept the ball and continued to run toward their line and then the blues kicked it down and Dugan scored the blues first try to make the score 12-4 to the maroons and Maloney added the extras to make the score 12-6 and they started to cuddle each other
And then the kick off going straight down the throats of the blues and ran the ball way past some of the defenders untill the maroons got the ball and lost the ball right in front of their own line and the blues are doing a great job keeping the ball with them and passes were being made and the blues were looking strong untill they lost the ball and the maroons got the ball back but after a few tackles gained a penalty and kicked it into touch and then ran it down to their defence line but the great blues defence line
Forced the ball into touch and then the blues won the scrum and ran it down passing and passing and kicked it down the maroons throats and now Queensland have the ball
And after a few tackles the maroons booted it high but nsw
Grabbed the ball and after a few more tackles the blues kicked it high and Queensland grabbed the ball and then moments later the maroons ran down to the try line and planted a try and the umpire went upstairs but it was still a try and that makes Queensland lead to 16-6 with a kick to come and things are looking great for the maroons by geez by jingle by crickey as mike Gibson is speaking to me from the grave
The kick was waved away and after a few plays the blues find themselves with the ball and they became close to the try line and the maroons got the ball of them and ran down the field and kicked it and the blues picked up the ball but the maroons bundled him into touch and forced the blues to do a kick straight down the maroons throats and after a few runs and passes the maroons scored a great try to make the maroons lead even more dangerous for the blues at 20-6
And smith converts it to make the score 22-6 and suddenly the maroons were looking dangerous as the song goes
Hold on tight
I know it is a little bit dangerous
I got what it takes to make ends meet
And yes, the maroons have definately got what it takes and after a few tackles the maroons knocked the ball on and the blues find themselves with the ball abs ran it down and took it right to the maroons but then they handed it over to Queensland and then they made some posession but a silly mistake forced NSW to take the ball but it was intercepted but it was forced into the scrum and the blues Regained the ball and then made some silly mistakes to give the ball back to Queensland and after a few passes the maroons kicked the ball into touch but things are looking bad for the blues as they gained the ball back,
Will they score here and after a few passes they knock the ball on and gave the ball back to Queensland and the maroons won the scrum and started to attack the NSW line and every member of Queensland in the crowd are jumping up and cheering after getting a penalty from a blues error but it was no good but who cares because the score was 22-6 and then they got the ball back and ran down the clock and at full time
Queensland won the game against the hapless blues by 22-6 and yes I reckon there will be a XXXX in the bar tonight but if you go for the blues beware because tonight wasn't your night
And now we draw the final curtain
And the blues lose once more
Yes, the maroons are the victors congrats congratulations yeah
Congratulations and celebrations
You see the maroons are the victory team again
What went wrong with the blues losing 22 points to ****** 6
The maroons are the champions my friend
They kept on fighting to the end
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Of the state of origin for 2017
Bye for now and well done to the maroons
The maroons scored the first try hooray hooray
It was converted oh yeah hooray
You see it went upstairs and it was decided the try is theirs
So the might of Queensland
Are the first scorers
But then after 5 minutes or so
The mighty blues scored their first and it was fun so fun
Will the blues win
Well that will only happen if
They can keep it up oh yeah
The score is 6-6
Then there was some silly moves but it was cool when the blues broke loose then the maroons broke loose
Until the blues broke loose to score an unconverted try
To make the score 10-6
Making Queensland lick their wounds
And just as the blues scored that try they took the ball and ran it down to score another try
To make it 16-6 poor buggery
Maroons what is happening
At present the blues are too good
And that was the lead at half time oh yeah and the maroons had a very close chance
But the blues are in front
Dude it is great
Can they keep it up oh yeah
Buckaluck
After a few of misses and mistakes the mighty Maroons
Are hoping to have started a small heart attack by racing in
With a converted a try to make the score 16-12 the crowd roar and cheer so loud
And let's hope this game doesn't disappoint the crowd
The blues make this slip up which could be bad for their chances of the second match
The score is still the blues up by 4
But more misses like that
Could be their destiny
It is touch and go for the blues cause the maroons are looking like overtaking the lead but the blues stopped them
As well as an injury to the maroons and this will
Make them conquer all
The hopeless blues knocks the ball on and the maroons get the ball back yeah
What is happening to those hopeless blues
The maroons scored a try to tie it up
And Thurston is the player to
Bring the maroons leading again
Yeah mate yeah he got the goal
18-16 to the maroons
What will the last 2 minutes hold yeah buddy boy the maroons are too strong and bold
As we draw the final curtain
The maroons came back to beat the blues 18-16
They were down by about 10
Mate but the pressure from the maroons was too strong
Cheer cheer the Queensland team the blues played like ****
But as that final
Curtain drew
Yeah we sink down our vb
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
"YOU ****," he flung at her.
It was more than a hundred times
He had thrown it into her face
And by this time it meant nothing to her.
She said to herself upstairs sweeping,
"Clocks are to tell time with, pitchers
Hold milk, spoons dip out gravy, and a
Coffee *** keeps the respect of those
Who drink coffee-I am a woman whose
Husband gives her a kiss once for ten
Times he throws it in my face, 'You ****.'
If I go to a small town and him along
Or if I go to a big city and him along.
What of it? Am I better off?" She swept
The upstairs and came downstairs to fix
Dinner for the family.
PrttyBrd Nov 2014
It turned cold quickly
Almost skipping Autumn
Reluctant to wear a jacket
Or a hat, or gloves
Too distant for my arms
To keep him warm against my chest
He said he never wore a scarf
But if he did, he would go Dr. Who style
I had to laugh as i looked up the reference
Fifteen feet of mismatched stripes
Maybe not the stripes, he said
I happened upon a huge skein of yarn
It felt like a warm blanket in the oddest,
Most interesting colors
Manly, neutral, and perfect for Fall
So i crocheted a scarf and pictured him warm
The pattern in those colors was a mess
I chuckled at why they would make such an ugly pattern
I crocheted every stitch with love
Through arthritic hands that felt no pain
I crocheted a scarf, stopping only when it dragged the floor when i put it on
Two feet short, but ridiculously long
I bordered it in shades of green to match
Not realizing it was variegated into Brown's and maroons along the way
But it matched the odd mix of colors
And finally made it almost pretty to me
I covered myself in perfume
And put it around my neck
As I turned I caught a glimpse in the mirror
It wasn't a horrible amalgamation of hideous colors
It was camouflage, with a matching border
I laughed so hard, and felt so bad
My hillbilly in camouflage
Wearing a scarf way too long
Maybe he would hate it
Maybe he won't wear it
I knew better
So, I packed up his bag of gifts
And sent it to the frozen mountains
He never wore a scarf
He opened it and put it on
It smells like You, he said in blssful remembrances
It's definitely camouflage, he laughed
It's perfect baby, I'll wear it whenever it's cold
And in the picture he sent
I saw its beauty
It wasn't in the patterns of crisscrossing colors
It wasn't in the accidental way
The border perfectly complimented the body
It wasn't in the fact that he would be able
To wrap himself up in me to stay warm
It was in that picture
It was the joy that filled his smile
It was in his eyes that danced in love
It was in the fact that he believes
Because i made it, it's perfect
Yes, i accidentally crocheted a thirteen foot camouflage scarf
And he loves that I can keep him warm.
11414
Vidya Oct 2012
what I got was
a january smile
from a milkblooded boy.
if only the pearl of your teeth were
white as my eyes

deertail flash in the dark
and nowhere else to hide but
five a.m. sheets and the smell of
sunrise mumbles

toofast weightloss:
a late spring heart
is drenched with its
ripeness but
rots if you leave it to
the bees

then the summer desiccation becomes
winter starvation—
in between, autumn comes to
stay. purples, mostly
maroons moth
-eaten by the greengrass deadweight of
so many depetalled flowers. Midnight never strikes
soon enough.

there have been no doves for
weeks &
maybe longer than
that i haven’t
kept count
on you to teach me where they go when
the seasons change

but given time and
tide rips the
stains from your whites
so i with
patience await the
first frosts;
you are never far behind the
snow.

meanwhile your
jewel-studded eyes & corsair heart
glint in the moonlit touchmenot of your
faraway skin
keep your hair
shirt on.
few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.

How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?

i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.

Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.

is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?

but vessels to be
filled.

i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.

just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.
When the sky is dark and the moon is hidden,
When the deepness of the night threatens to consume me,
The feeling of solitude maroons me in a stormy ocean,
The weight of confusion and pain drags me down below the crashing tide.
  
The world seems to shrink as the water floods the mind,
The stinging salt burns the various wounds that cover my body.
My sanctum closes its doors and refuses me sanctuary,
I am forced to lay outside with the bitter **** left unwanted.
  
Hurt and morbid I find myself,
A miserable ghost of the proud, tall man I used to be.
My castle was burned and my throne was broken,
On the same night my queen disappeared in a flash of smoke and shadow.
  
Now, humbled and alone,
I return to the roots of my life to regain strength anew.
The mountains of my childhood rising above the valley,
The scent of belonging subtly clinging to the air,
A waking dream of the reminiscing bliss of my memory,
I have returned to the home my spirit was built in to mend my broken soul.
Samuel Sep 2012
every which way and the colors
zing faster
            still could you sticky note
      me like candy down glass in a
rainstorm not wild
                       enough I'll just
                                                                take a quick breather and
                        we're back with
                all reds and maroons, learning to
                  tell the difference between (frustrated maverick
                       painters in wetsuits) and bridges and icicles
warm to the touch, is it too
much
     to linger on
               here with the water?
                                  but keep your head down or you'll
                     drown in the bundles of
                              soft pressure backwards
                          with live culture hands
Mitchell Duran Apr 2012
In carnage memories mourn their loved ones
Rage boils over the top of the cooking ***
And genocide fits only the ideologies mad men

People
Are not
Good
To each other

We
Create policies
Supporting a mind
So twisted
So dark
So far gone

The only
Light to
Reach it is

A spark from
A gun of
A Revolution

How did humanity grow so weak
To turn so quickly to hate through violence?

How does humanity not see in the
Flickering eyes of the dead our communion?

How does humanity not feel the screams
That echo silently below our trembling feet?

The past
Is now present

The fight
Has a new face

Bullets are
Pixilated
Transformed
Ordered &
Backordered

On sale at
Half - Price
When bought
In Bulk

There is no message
That has not yet
Been said

There have been marches,
Rallies, songs, poems,
Dances, deaths, burnings, battles,
Readings, money making, publishing,
Shooting, knifing, bleeding, gouging,
And destroying all in the name
Of the message

And as the naked children
Of Eden weep -

Their home once flourishing,
Flagrant, lined with grass speckled
With crystalline dew -

Smells now of smoldering
Grey plumes of poisonous maroons

We,
We humanity,

Show no shame
In our pressed suits
Or clear magazines or golf carts
Or gold plated teeth

We have forgotten
Humanity

For the pleasure
Of our own

Selfishness stinks
Like diamonds
And fresh bread and
Nail Polish

Time
Does not
Care for
Us

Yet we
Care so deeply
For It

Time cares for us
Like we care
For the ant

Or the fly who buzzes
And we swat away
Without hint of an emotion

The wind blows
As the first rain of
Spring starts to sprinkle
On the cobble stones
Of a city spared
For their branded cowardice

The eyes blink
The clouds dissolve
The moon cracks for

One last time

As the
Fading music

In a
Near-by cafe

Comes to a dry
Empty

Silence
adele horn Jan 2010
the african sky,
red and amber,
and sickly sweet,
send off the day,
in a inferno of sun and cloud.

the oranges and maroons,
caress my eyes,
and lull my mind
into a serene meditation.

and then i think of you,
and i remember how many times,
the fading light of day,
was something we shared.

and now,
the colours drain away,
and the cold crawls up my calves,
and the memories a bitter pill.

you stole this from me,
a love i had of a beatifull dusk.
a gift from the sky,
to envelop my senses.

you plundered something so sacred,
and engraved your name upon it.
so that i can only see you,
when the day draws closed.

you give and take,
you are a frantic tide.
a dark vacuum,
devouring my light.

and i let you.
mg Sep 2014
4107 by beth lindly

                                             4

i have been born into a southern city twice,

once to parents that counted and once to those that didn’t.

twenty-one years and i haven’t ever sat all the way

through a game of football, or soccer, or anything

except gymnastics. southern life is the same as

gymnastics – you don’t have to know the rules to

know when someone messes up, when someone falls,

when someone scrapes the length of their fingers trying

to pull themselves up. there is a spillway by the house where i

grew up that wasn’t full this morning. when my father

drove us to school in the fall, through those blurry mornings,

i could see a small rhombus of sun shining on lake tuscaloosa but

it was only in the fall and only in those mornings. i am proud

to have noticed that rhombus. we lived in a different house

until i was five years old.  i had a sesame street comforter

and we didn’t have cable. all they ever taught me was the

cockroach on the wall does not exist if you can’t see it.

(or, at least, i haven’t seen that cockroach since then. who’s

to say.)

                                             1

the death of fairies is something that has once made me sad.

i thought there were some behind my elementary school’s quarry

but they were just honeysuckle, and it was november when i went

back, anyway. there were never any fairies around my house.

i checked in the herb garden my mother grew in our front

yard, with all the mint and oregano that went into the soups she made.

my ex told me to stop calling it “my house” because the room

that saw me stay up past 2 a.m. to talk to him now sees my

sister write on the walls. but someone else wakes me up now and

my home can become whatever i need it to be.

                                             0

i had a dream last week about my dog dying and i remembered

it over lunch with my parents with such a horrid suddenness that

i thought it had happened right then. “no, beth,” my father chuckled.

“millie hasn’t died.” “she’s doing just fine,” my mother agreed.

but she has, i thought, i saw it clear as anything.

my dog’s brain has been recently deteriorating, the pieces

taking with them her ability to hear. our family has taken to stomping

on the ground so she can feel the vibrations of come get your food,

come outside, just come here. i am proud that she can feel the vibrations

that call her home.

                                             7

the fog that exists separating me from my dirt and blood has yet

to be predicted by james spann – a 70 percent chance that when i’m seventy

i won’t be able to remember how my backyard looked without the deck.

i am twenty-one and soon i won’t be and it will continue like that until

my memories have cateracted into a milky blur of greens and purples

when i was a child and maroons and blues when i thought i was an adult.

my hope is that i will start an herb garden and plunge my hands

in the warm earth and feel the vibrations that might call me home,

if they want to.
bex Jun 2017
For awhile things were a greyscale.
I saw things on a scale from white to black. I thought the lighter the grey, the better I was feeling.

Then I met you and you made me see color. There were lavenders and turquoises and maroons and golds.

The greys were just a fog and you were the sun to clear it.
This isn't that good. I wrote it literally in the past 5 min. i can't write anymore
Brendan Holland Oct 2015
I see her in the east en'tring my world
Shining streams of optimism and hue
So bright a light, peaking like a turtle
Yellow and orange, with slight shades of blue
I see her right above me, en'tring noon
Bringing life from night to all those around
So we hit our peaks, albeit too soon
But the world turns, the sun starts to cast down
We get a beautiful sunset sight
Purples and maroons cover my dy'ng fate
Because even the day must turn to night
And before you love it all, it's too late
Just as ev'ry morn the sun comes to rise
So it sets, halting eternal demise
Jay Jun 2013
Lately it seems like everything is black and white
Like the hues of the greens and blues don't go quite right
As if the purples and reds in my head are out of sight
There are no oranges, pinks or teals in this life
The turquoise and maroons won't come out these nights
There isn't even grey, no matter how hard you fight
Because the world steals your color from time to time
Leaving you with nothing but some black and some white.
zb Jun 2018
my skin is blue with depression
my breaths are yellow with anxiety
i bleed red from anger
and my heart is grey with apathy

i love in chocolate browns
i hurt in deep maroons
i sleep with the deepest of blacks
i speak with the quietest of greens

my shame is pale orange
a sickly, strange color
it coats my fingertips
and it hurts to look at

my fear is a midnight blue
soothing in its constancy
it sings to me in the ruddy moments
it calms me during the greyest of days

my loneliness is a royal purple
in the paintings of my youth
it stands out
it overpowers all other colors

i live in shades of colors
together they paint a picture
of a person
or, a palette
PJ Poesy Nov 2017
Needing no explanation, whispers disquiet
And the wind whispers quite ravingly
It tells torture of falling leaves to ground
Of simple browns that go unnoticed
Amongst golds, maroons, and half greens
That scintillate the eyes otherwise
And this Autumn looks forward to Winter
And death

Deciduous brown trunks and limbs
Stark against snowfall soon
Which dusts all evergreens
Telling them
Hold on until Spring
Yet, for the deciduous
Not all shall see through
This bitter cold that comes
S Dec 2016
the maroons and reds of your youth echoed in my heart creating a fire the aorta couldn't fathom
i watched you from greenhouses where flowers unveiled their beauty when you touched-
i can still see your eyes, dark, so dark where’d they go? why can’t i see the moon anymore?
me drinking cotton candy bullets as if you engraved my name in the single metal alloy
where is my name on your journals, i thought you said you loved me?
JP Apthorp Jan 2015
every day the sunset waits for me
it never wavers
in its commitment
it knows the joy it gives me
it knows how it makes me contemplate
be at peace
reflect
breathe
and so it always waits for me
it is patient
sometimes hidden
overcome by rain
storms
clouds
but it is always there for me
always
and on those days
rare as they may be
that I find myself sitting there
it’s full canvas in front of me
admiring it
loving it
immersed in its beauty
all that it gives to me
its oranges and yellows
pinks and purples
blues and maroons
changing and glowing
performing
holding me there
enraptured
and I watch
I watch until the final
hint of color
escapes the sky
the thin line of light
gives in to the dark
and finally
i sigh
and I stand
the sun has sank
the dark has come
and I mutter to myself
i’ve got to do this more often
but I never do
Moomin Jun 4
I sit alone in an English garden
And gaze in awe at sunset sky
Where colours paint a masterpiece
So exquisite to the eye
From deep maroons to orange fire
It fades into a yellow fan
And sprinkles specks of fading clouds
That sink to rendezvous with dawn
And as I marvel at this display
In silence and at evening's rest
I think of those so far away
Undergoing violent fiery test
Across the sea and over time
A million voices rage and cry
At evil acts by law's decree
That can no longer be denied
Where justice is not black and white
And hate's hunger is so overfed
For authority is on white pages
In ink that reads a ****** red    
An army of intolerance
A brotherhood of hate
Bedecked by badge of bludgeoning
And tazer in each state
Crushing spirit and stealing peace
While demanding our respect
While shocking limbs and rocking lives
And kneeling on the neck
Instilled with warped ideology
That debases human mind
Tainted white superiority
And so divided of humankind
But where is hate's validity?
How is it justified?
Where is their authority
To harrass and to divide?
For none can claim to be the first
To be the proudest purest race
For America was full of colour
Before Europe found that place  
Did these men not swear an oath
To “disharge faithfully and well”
And defend all citizens equally
And truth to uphold and to tell?
And did they not seal their oath
With promise solemn and divine
Proclaiming liberty and devotion
“So help me God” the final line!  
And what do we know of our creator
Is he so hard and partial too?
Is God's likeness just caucasian
Or is his love both fair and true
His words are there for all to see
In the Bible's pages plain and clear
That God does not show favouritism
But loves all those who hold Him dear
For when the greatest artist made
The races that dwell on earth today
He used a pallet and brush of life
And a million colours to stroke and splay
For this world is not black and white
Nor grey or dull and monochrome
But is crowned with dazzling glorious colours
No shade is missing, no not one
So if it pleases God to paint
This earth in colours of his love
Then surely skin of many colours
Must be a gift of God above
So please Mr Police Officer
Before you terrorize more souls
Because their skin is not like yours
Be sure you know your cause and goal
For it is not for liberty
Nor for honour that you whack
And do not think that God approves
Of your vile and prejudiced attacks    
For you dishonour that badge you wear
And the land that you protect
And with every blow you turn to black
You **** the law and lose respect
And in case you think me biased
And writing to support my kind
Please know I am male and white
And just like God, I'm colour-blind
For all of my black brothers and sisters worldwide
Dina Feb 7
People are like a white light from afar.
They all look the same at first glance.
But put them through a prism and see the rainbow that emerges.
The beauty tenfold.
Gorgeous contrasts and similar shades.
Angry reds and placid blues.
Marvelous purples, lilacs, and maroons.
Regal blacks and sunny yellows.
Delicate pinks and stormy greys.
A massive, unique array.
A symphony of feelings and thoughts.
Not always a pleasant one at that.
A plethora of choices and names.
Weeds and flowers.
Some are trees.
Solid and strong.
Unshakeable.
Sickly yellow.
Orange colored.
Bright and lively.
Green with envy.
Evergreen with wealth and youth.
Some are so bright.
Almost white, but alas those are only a few.
xmelancholix May 2017
If my brain bled visible colors in an outwardly tangible spectrum, they’d be dampened maroons and lifeless oranges. They’d drip like pools of broken glass built for thoughtless reflections and a trivial life question based on why my lungs want the oxygen so bad...
this is meant to be written in very large scribbled lettering
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...                  
        
           vorher narzissus,
   schattensuchende
    klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
     ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
          sheutod...
      carboxylic açid

and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
   signatures in bones from
within the grave;

   hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...

       as ever,
   the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
   which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
   odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.

- playing the xylophone
   at the nativity play -

       schatten, schatten
  werfen on ein(e) mauer...


occupational hazard,
  like the saxon N
    in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...

lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
   I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...

   came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
       a metre, centi-, milli-...

and 0 = the perfect divisor
     "number":

  far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...

          last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
   0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...

    pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
    oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...

colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....

    ******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,  
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll,  my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...

   a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
    is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...

          sollte ihre spiegelung
   verlassen du,
     als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...

as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,

that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
      remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
     remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
   prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
       the anaesthetician: quo vadis?

- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
              just before bedtime...

    a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
   without a Defoe in sight...

and word that became flesh
that became an image...
           such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...

orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
     so more to the point:
words, just words they say...

   hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
   namely they'd speak that
  right is "right"
    or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
       flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
      of aluminum wrapped
  on their heads:
           humanity reboots.
ChronicSage May 18
The rooftop maroons
to a magnanimous rain
a nostalgia rises
with the petrichor
I’m back in the floret
of our amaranthine love
so beautifully arranged
against each other
no spaces in-between
adorning each other
with magnetized hands
flourishing
to the sound of the rain
your skin
a perfumed soul
your soul
upon my skin, worn
your body
a pilgrimage
from which I’ve never returned
Yenson Sep 2018
Frenzied snarls, broken stained teeth bared and slimy spittle ****
The psychos are raging as legend crawls under their leperos skins
parchment bleached to hold gaits ungainly and minds stunted
by hollowing superficialities and entitlements usurped
Pretending  vapid ghosts playing at human beings
cheating insidious hedonists famed cancerous hosts

They are angry and hungry and blood in short supply for wretches
Life force fading as they live on miseries and doom to oxygenate
Hate to consume and hear Babylonians crying for precious elixir
They want burnt and roasted Oxen or they wither and die
Bitter anger for  the snares are empty no prey to devour
News abound that innocents souls exalted and shines

Life suckers left to **** only diseased juices from flattened *****
Rampant crazies left to dilly with flaccid lumps and low throes
Upsurge and octane only visits in kills and deaths imagines
Forms made for darkness hungers to infest **** on real  fruits
Desperation brings the pained howls and anguished wails
Death carnivores incensed at the happy meal on display

They are restless and pacing and growling full of spite and bile
miseries departing brings nothing but emptiness and heartbreak
They need a fix for without self hate and doubts visits in force
What's worse than maroons tide ebbing exposing white bones
Now tormenting secrets of selves returns cravens to roost
And in strangled acidic fervour confronts saying I am you
I have got your world of inner weeping sores and miseries for you
Oscar stuta Apr 27
We are in the end of the line.
Talking a while.
Dont let me go.
When you are the only one.

Baby i can be your only prize.
Even if a fall back.
You always believed i tried.
She keeps me from holding her hands.
You can light it up.
You could be a symphony, so that i can learn to play it.
You could be able to utter the words i love you.

Life its not like that.
Obstacles are everywhere.
She took my only heart i cant return it back.
I just lie always.

& with the moon’s bedazzled touch
A special magic is intricately spun

Captures soft pastels of pink, orange & blue
Or vivid hues of dramatic imagery
To bring to life the portrait presented to you

Wretchedly bleeds in coal-black bouts of despair
Spilling ink from the pit of their soul
Each heart wrenching limn is their sorrow stripped bare

Hotly simmers in desire-infused maroons
That swelter frenzied steam
Arousing incandescent passion-monsoons.

— The End —