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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part II

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of composition. In chronological order, from the earliest to the most recent.
---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----


The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.

They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
~
Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.

~
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
~
Like this new day,
there are always
new poems

Like last night's sunset,
day's efforts reviewed,
a special light,
a yellowed marker,
highlighting a few deserving

Take them home,
kiss them goodnight,
rest them in the poetry file
that is no file,
but a large fabric box where
sewing tools once stored

How appropriate and
how happy that makes me.

~
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:

I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet

Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******!

Yo! Yo!

Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!

Yo! Yo!

Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!

I am a ****** poet.

The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,

My drug of choice.
~
Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?

~
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot...

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
~
The ice of poetry,
glassine smooth
but
charged hardness,
hits you, ****** you,
unexpected snowball in the face,

the fire of poetry,
cherished phrase, a patois,
comfort food when
whole winter skies
swallow you bleak

mutual contradictions of poetry
savaging the soothed ego,
revealing the raging id

what's in a word anyway?

~
Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...
~
Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.

~
My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation
~
Where I write, here, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem served,
Every conversation overheard and those wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying, see man, time to get more ink and paper,
Go and catch us a few poems for dinner

The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a basket to catch but a fraction
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all

It is this rhyming way I view the wold,
That is my freedom, is my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.

~
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!

For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.

This truth eternal, never to change.
~
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­line

~
Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended
~
Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

~
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day.
~
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly.

~

But reading thy cries, an exercise,
Teeth-gnashing frustration.
It brings no relief.

So sad girl,
Write till you are righted,
May be it will snow on July 4th,
And tho unnatural,
So is thy grief.

Nonetheless, write me write me all about it,
Right us,
For tho snow falls, its loveliness,
Makes the heart rise up in gladness!
~
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!

Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.

"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"

~
For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.
~
Officer...you should see me gut a

Poem,

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!

~
We can share words, we can grant tiny easements,
We can weep with you unseen tears,
We can etsy you little homemade gifts
Like this.

That you can take and keep, and break out in time of need knowing full well that these words will not spoil nor rancid turn, cannot be out grown,, or torn, or rent asunder in anyway for once they are shared
They are irrevocable.
~
When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.

~
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
~
You think you can write?
Then employ  a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
And write four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and
you twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah
*******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it. Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

~
Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.
~
This Sabbath day you fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.

I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.

Small words, big hopes.

If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.

~
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse.

I am both: Addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******.
Satan is love and love is Satan
You are one and the same,
In texture, scent and beauty,
You all blend into one
Commanding three quarters
Of heaven’s loyalty
Ninety percent of human allegiance,
The church and the mosque are your marionette
All the temples are your domain,
African Shrines are your beautiful turf
As synagogues thrive from your love.

Satan, this sonnet is for you
My lyrical dedication to your glory,
An Ode of all odes to you Satan
As for you will reign
In the natural systems
As the sole queen of my heart
Your regal time in my love-sphere
Will infinitely pullulate in times to come,

Of your nature I know not
Of your abode I know not
Whether you are in ethereal
Or in the realms of hell
I know not but to your glory,
Of your race I know not
Notwithstanding your black label,
But your glory and mighty I know
You reign the earth and the heaven
With unmatched stature, unprecedented
Your foes forlornly left minus option
But only to desperate wistfulness,

Your works are a tor among mountains
In seas, oceans, landmasses and heavenly systems,
You designed colonialism at Berlin conference
You inspired slavery in the powers that be
You inspired heart of apartheid among Israelis
Against the foolish Palestinians,
You masterminded forceful occupation
Of the oil wells and Lands of Palestine by Israelis,
You designed Apartheid in South Africa
And nascent racial hatred in America
That saw death in Ferguson and the poor lad
A ****** Treyvvon who is better dead!
And it all went all without simple fetter
My dear sweet heart, the one and only one,
Satan the dearest Lucifer Alias Ibilis,

Your accolades are unique
And true Spectacle of spectacles,
They stand garlanded out of the rest
To sure glory of my dear little dove,
The flower of my heart,
Was the gift of nuclear power
to the stoogish Einstein your protégé?
Was the gift of *** to the Irish Scientists
Your efforts and sweat of your brow?
Is Ebola your latest tool in depopulation move?
Will you spare the black souls my dear love?

My heart misses you dear little love,
Where and when can we meet?
For us to have our light moment
To have a heart to heart chat
In the fullness of flowery flora
And monkey Fauna of Africa,
Can we meet on the **** shores
Of warm and elegant Lake Turkana?
The beacon of natural beauty
On which human sorrow melts
Into the mellifluous warmth
Of your love and delicacy of you romance,
I look forward dear for this day,
On which I will be swallowed
Into your softly touch and caresses
As your warm kisses land on my lips
I will softly moan to the warmth in you love.

Can I come along with my friends, dear sweetie?
For they are unhappy and proscribed to a legal corner
In this dark abyss of African political culture
They are Lesbians and gays, drug dealers,
Polygamists and polyandrous ones,
The laws of the day have pigeonholed them,
Let them come to your table for a treat
On buckers and Nyama Choma of he goats,
For truly they are your current brainchildren
Forlornly isolated by black primitivity.


I will sing to you all lyrics my dear
As your works are marvelous and wonderful
They crystallize into a power of powers
I will sing to you; ‘the poem to Satan’ of dear Marx,
And ‘evil’s idol’ in the glory of your love,
Will sing for you ‘the night in the forest’
And ‘Ode to my mother’ of Adolf ******
As I shower your reign with classical lyrics,
In praise of your power on human heart,
None else calls the tune of human piety
As you powerfully do my dear lollipop.

I am now tired
And the lamp of my house now faintly goes
As my heart yearns for sleep
Into which I will dream
The blissful dreams
Propelled by the sweet scent
The sole outfit of your lovely reign.
Edna Sweetlove Feb 2015
It was a lovely New York morning and the sun in the sky was shining
When, from up above in the clouds we all heard a horrid noisy whining,
And we looked up in the air to see a large silver plane flying by,
And the sun was glinting off its fuselage as it flew like a great metallic bird
                                                            ­               swiftly through the sky.

But then the plane made a change of course and headed right in our direction,
Pointing straight at the World Trade Centre (a double concrete *******),
And then the aircraft went into of one of the towers causing much dismay
And a terrible shock to all who saw this truly devastating incident on that
                                                            ­                            cataclysmic day.

The explosion was very loud, and shocked everyone who saw the accident,
(At that stage it was thought to be a mistake and not really meant)
But after 45 minutes we saw another plane on New York airspace encroaching,
And realised that the first was no accident as there was another jetliner
                                                        ­          on the way, fast approaching.

The other plane flew into the second of the towers standing proudly there;
One minute flying in the sky and the next 'twas no longer there,
For the aircraft disappeared totally into the core of the giant concrete building
And it was about half way up the tower, I suppose you would say just about
                                                           ­                             in the middling.

The world's TV stations covered these events 'live' with horror and with awe;
No one knew who had done this, which shook the US of A to its core;
The New York firemen sped to the scene and it is agreed they were very brave
As they did their best to rescue people in the towers, and many a person's life
                                                                      undoubtedly they did save.

But there was worse to come and all know this now (but did not at the time)
Because the towers had been weakened by the crash in this great crime;
Then first one tower fell to the ground with a great noise raising lots of dust
And the other one crumbled with a mighty roar which might well have
                                                                damaged the earth's very crust.

This was without a doubt one of the blackest days in the history of the U.S.A.,
Still talked about with shock and awe and people still cry about it to this day;
And news commentators asked who had done it and soon opinion hardened
With the agreement that it had been masterminded by a Saudi Arab whose
                                                           ­   name was Mr Osama bin Laden.

On the same day as these events which did such damage to old New York City,
Two other planes got hijacked too and the results of that were not very pretty;
One of the other planes landed with a thump on the walls of the Pentagon,
But the fourth one failed in its mission and crash landed en route to the
                              president's residence: the White House, Washington.

So looking back, one might say that they were the start of a war of terror
(And only time will tell if subsequent US attacks on the Arabs were in error)
But whatever transpires these happenings will always be remembered;
However by calling these dire events "9/11" most of the world believe they
                                              happened on the ninth day of November.
William Topaz McGonagall (1825-1902) is famous as being perhaps the world's worst poet - in fact he believed himself to be a great artist and took himself very seriously. My present opus is how he might have written about the so-called "9/11" event had he not died 100 years earlier, which of course caused him to miss out on it totally, bigtime.
Samantha Vaughn Aug 2013
Slow sips of cyanide, to complete my sweet suicide.
Adamant about absolution,
My mind has masterminded a revolution.
Addicted to anarchy and aggression,
Nobodies kept voted for nomination.
Tasty tar-treats, flavored of TNT,
Humor my hallucinations of this God-forsaken nation.
Abandoned, alone and arrested,
I* give up on this Vindication
Wrote this during one of my 2011 lows...
(c) Samantha Vaughn
red Sep 2017
subtle distortion
cloudy perception
hazy apprehension
figment of the imagination
fragmented realities
redrawn by consciousness
staged fantasies
drowned by emotions
reality slipping
deteriorating
bit by bit, darkening
details unraveling
slowly spiraling
a world in the making
eyes affixed
a world rendered
by a troubled mind
delusions unfold
illusions, manifold
ecstatic visions
tangible realities
world full of mysteries
crafted by miseries

and then there is me
left to wander
in a new world
that i crafted
that i masterminded
i know it is
not real
i keep telling myself
nothing's real
i keep persuading myself
it's not real
snap out of it
get out of there
before it's too late
wake up from the trance
but for once
it felt so real
so so real
just to let it all go
brian odongo Sep 2016
When I was two years old
The sun was just ball of fire that in the sky rolled
The full moon was a round stone in the dark sky
I knew mum and dad would never say bye
The kindergarten teacher taught kids were bought
Many of our favorite heroes were mostly cops
Every guy behind bars was a dangerous criminal
And what the minister stood for was biblical
All who went to church had no stain
Friends would never cause us pain
We enjoyed playing with dirt
Many times fell from tree and were hurt
We knew our leaders would bring peace
And our childhood fancies would never cease

Today with radiance I turned twenty and two
Our nearest star was full of radiance too
The spring night was lit with moon rays
Mom and dad could not agree so they parted ways
My friend had a baby girl with his bride
And our cops executed law according to tribe
The civil right activist was wrongfully convicted
The ministers no longer care for those afflicted
My pagan neighbor and parishioners are all the same
And for my latest pains my friends are mostly to blame
The doctor said dirt was the cause of my diseases
And I had to avoid it to reduce my medical fees
Our politicians masterminded our newest wars
And adulthood came early with too many chores
Wrote this on my twenty second birthday. How I view the world had greatly changed how I used to see it when I was just two years old
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
"Escribe con los pies, poeta de la calle"
"Write with your feet, poet of the street"


days of no inspiration,
nights of emptiness irritation,
labor strife strives to divide,
the desire, the greedy needy,
to unburden, touch lips to tablet,
unsatisfied, muse departed
for foreign lads in foreign lands,
where dark eyed ladies sing
put the load right right on me

where once I saw poetry,
now I see lessons of less,
trees blowing whipped me frenzied,
saw cappuccino foaming,
revisited, now, see but tired dancers,
de-auditioned, sent home to wonder,
poets with paper cuts but no bleeding,
so eager so desirous of conceiving, thinking,
will I ever......................................again

once, every step a poem,
every sidewalk crack,
a smack down of nuance,
eye recorded,
mind disordered,
run home, to dance
each vision into words,
gloria, glorious just to walk
my city streets

once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly,
Oct 13th, 2012
1:36 pm
Tinkered with July 2nd, 2013
EKPE PETER Jul 2013
I can now see it coming
The sound of the end is drumming
From the fury of the dragon's head
Channel through a ceremonial head
It is the conspiracy of evil ideas
Molded in our psychic to adhere
And I feel it in my premonition
The awaited plot for a secular dimension
To be carried out through a device
In those who play antagonist to biblical advice
For my common sense is not blinded
To know where it was masterminded
Since sin is the only yardstick
To hinder our soul from heavenly pick
Let's stick with the scriptures to conquer
Their's is the world for now to conquer.
Smriti Ranabhat Nov 2017
Momma!
I am your poem.

From that mountain hole
Too many pains left
And from the island of the vexation
A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made  a missiles
I was fabricated just below your heart
And I am the part of it

Just by planting a tree farm
Trouble dirts your hands
I was penned from composition of roughness
And I am the stanzza of it

Thunder thrown out of your eyes
They are more expensive than pearls
Drinking  nano water
I was  masterminded
And I am the Masterpiece of it

The debt too scared by itself
Searching for fertilizer tissue
Selling the blood of your own
I was painted from the words of penalty
And I am the same book of it

Momma ! I'm not a poetess
I am your poetry ....
I am the product of plenty of sufferings ,and vexation that momma suffers
I am her words falling and rolling in the real life   ,pattern of her language
And I am her whole book
Annie Oakley May 2016
I have miraculously moseyed my mind into a mysteriously mellow mood!
My masterminded misfit momentarily mesmerized me.
I magically muted my meticulous mind,
Merry-go-round memories minced.
Meanwhile I am absolutely blitzed!
Andrew Rueter Dec 2020
Down at the business factory profits were low
or at least lower than the shareholders wanted
so Hyper-Capitalist Genius Man masterminded a brilliant plan:
“We have three people performing a task
two people could accomplish while losing their minds
attrition rates shouldn’t be a concern
because we’ll just streamline the jobs
so there’ll always be desperate workers
who can easily replace the disillusioned ones.”.

The other businessers were impressed
the emperor of business had heard enough:
“****** you’re ‘Work People to Death‘ theory might just work.
I’m naming you chief execution officer of the company.”.
Profits went up and were disseminated amongst the higher-ups
so that everyone that mattered was happy
all thanks to Hyper-Capitalist Genius Man.
KV Srikanth May 2021
Dr No the first entry
Showcased the talent of Sean Connery
Brilliant score by John Barry
Ursula Andress the first Bond Girl
Set the standards for those who coveted the role
Joseph Wiseman the title character
A legend from the New York theater
Unforgettable introduction scene at the casino
The title score would become the theme music
Never dated even today pure magic
Dr No recieved a yes from the audience

From Russia with love
People went to the cinemas like droves
Great villain in Robert Shaw
Remains one of the best performances in the series so far
Daniela Bianchi runner up in the Miss Universe contest
Followed Ursula in here hp footsteps and stood the test
Train journey from Istanbul to Belgrade
Remains in your memory forever
Title song by Matt Munroe
Melodious and fills your heart to the Core

Goldfinger the franchise became better
Gert Forbe a German actor
Portrayed the title character
Buying Gold and Destroying the world
Twin objectives planned by having Fort Knox bombed
Sean Connery drives the Aston Martin DB 5
Revolving number plates
And ejector seat designed
Honor Blackman as ** Galore
Glamour delivered more
Pilot in Goldfinger's fleet
Unaware of his sinister deeds
Joins forces with Connery
Everything ends happily
Title song by Shirley Bassy singing to the tunes of John Barry

Thunderball beat them all
In box office ticket sale
The gun barrel sequence
For the first time
Performed by Sean Connery himself
Loss of two nuclear warheads
Masterminded by Blofeld
Claudine Auger as Domino
More than just a cameo
Scenes shot underwater Technology testing new waters
Filmed in Nassau
Amongst other stunning locales
Sean Connery is Vintage
Adolfo Celi
Tested to replace Connery
Cast as Emile Largo
Gave the role a go


You only live twice
Heard it in Nancy Sinatras voice
Set in the far east
Found villains in the Japanese
Sean Connery thought this would suffice
Wanted to give up tole after five
Top actress of Japanese cinemas golden age
Akiko Wakabayashi
Got the chance to play
The role of the Bond Girl
A rare choice in Roald Dahl
As writer for this adventure
Cold war theme with Donald Pleasance playing Blofeld
Superpowers missiles gone missing
With both sides blaming
And Sean Connery saving

Diamonds are Forever
Brought back Sean Connery after a near disaster
Unheard of salary paid
To the Scottish National party donated
Jill St John joined hands
The thriller filmed in Vegas
Blofeld killed by Bond
Resurfaces after the misleading con
Diamonds smuggled
Not resurfaced
Found by Bond a plot
Involving Blofeld and weapon in space
Shirley Bassey renders the song With an original score by John Barry
Sean Connery final official outing as James Bond
A great swan song
LaserHalo Dec 2016
I saw a dream last night,
I was looking through a fence,
That leads to the realm of answers,
I had waited for a fools embrace,
Regardless of any blind disgrace,

I saw darkness on the other side,
I saw visions of decaying thoughts,
And masterminded misery,
I saw the person in-charge,
Ruling the realm with relentless bravery,
The answers flew all around,
Yearning for their escape,

And here i stand, outside,
Gazing at the eyes of the lord,
The lord of the realm,
The realm of answers,
Only to find,
He seems all too familiar,
It is, as s if I've known him all my life,
And then it hit me,
Deep inside my minds eye,
There he was,
All the while,
It was only me,
I was only looking, at myself,

And slowly everything calms,
My mind lets go of all the alarms,
Slowly,
I found peace,
I found solitude,
Finally,
I found, myself.
7/11/2009
N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces
A rosy future belongs to normal people, the more normal the better,
folks who appreciate normal things: normal pets like an Irish setter
and paying a street ***** with cash because she's a chronic debtor,
and yet her ****'s an amiable fellow: truly a self-starting go-getter
who crochets booties for newborns & obeys some laws to the letter
How many movies in Maine feature a crapped-out Joan Fontaine?
How much glucosamine does a diseased cow's leg bone contain?
There were no gregarious bean bakers in Hooterville's Green Acres
nor big queen Quakers, fatuous lean takers, spliced spleen shakers,
seldom-seen fakers, farmers as keen rakers, men called teen takers
Low sugar metabolism makes a chick act like Portland Hoffa Allen
in that she'll scarf like a starved pig, piggishly hogging water melon
or muskmelon or any melon that Montreal-melon sellers are sellin'
to your average Trenton mobster, fugitive or romantic paroled felon
who'd **** with depleted uranium Arab babies by incessant shellin'
& get away with it because America's corporate media ain't a-tellin'
just like they didn't tell when 1-dollar milk sold for 1 buck a gallon
and Americans wondered if Michael Jackson & Billy Jean'd marry
civilly in Dominica even though he was a pæderastic-gay-bait fairy
preferring to make it with some 11-year-old paper boy named Gary
in the ***** fields of Michael Landon's Little House on the Prairie
where S.A.G. cows grazed to produce cream for N.B.C'.s T.V. dairy
that made Victor French's fancy ice cream: French vanilla & cherry
that even Melissa Gilbert couldn't resist, who was so often contrary
on the set 'cause her adolescent mood swings did menstrually vary
in the '70's when broads were sexier as they were much more hairy
than “Johnny B. Goode” singer & women's room spy Chuck Berry,
who married a cousin who was flittier than Heinz queer John Kerry
& 6 points stupider than the porcupine stooge: old anti-Christ Larry
who chose his sister-in-law's sister as the bride most likely to marry
whose dipsomania meant that she'd imbibe fortified wine & sherry
as one could be subbed for the other when all choices ain't arbitrary
within fashion statements decrying the sci-fi of Gene Roddenberry  
while taking pseudo-fictive writings as celestially lunar and literary
masterminded by T.V. cockroach from Hogan's Heroes: Bob Clary
Give to me the possession of my hormones back for full absorption
as I'm keen on resuming the bony splinter means of bone resorption
while admixed by neo-commixed protocols of bio-ecleptic sorption
Let's stomp sun-burnt faces 'cause J. Edgar Hoover was the riddled
manufacturer of Malcolm X from a ***** mulatto known by Little
who scrounged while Jersey burned its cheap, girly skirts for a tittle
No one plays guitar more melodically than does cuchi cuchi Charo
whose passion for nature out-natures that of the lovely Al Malinaro
& the crapped-out juvenile actor who was known as Frankie Darro
whom all Californians knew was as straight as the straightest arrow
unafraid to stay the course & to keep righteously straight & narrow
under the same moral code that's served so well María Mia Farrow
who has sworn off the making of stew using vole, llama or sparrow
yet not excluding the animal delicacies of pancreas & bone marrow  
enjoyed by robbers Bonnie Parker, Buck, Clyde & Blanche Barrow
who, as bandidos Mexicanos, were obliged to steal Mexican dinero
☹ A wild man's on the loose who's hurting tourism as a tourist ******
☹ He's tall & menacing like the guy on T.V.'s F Troop, Forrest Tucker
☹ A ****** is on the prowl and he's ******* tourists as a tourist ******
☹ He looks like that F Troop sergeant O'Rourke, actor Forrest Tucker
☹ A wild ******'s escaped from ******* prison & he's a tourist ******
☹ He is a bad ******* **** like the ****** on F Troop, Forrest Tucker
Andy Botterill Mar 2019
In another lifetime I did something.
In another lifetime I was someone.
In another lifetime I built the Eiffel Tower
and wasn’t scared of heights.
In another life I did everything
that could be done.

I was a doctor, a famous politician,
an actor, a poet, a musician.
In another lifetime I travelled the world.
In another life I was a scientist
at the forefront of their field.
I went to the moon and back.
I stood on its surface
and planted a flag.

In another life I stood by the side of Nelson
and rubbed shoulders with the Duke of Wellington.
In another life I masterminded the Dunkirk evacuation
and stood victorious on the dunes of El Alamein.
In another life I broke the Enigma Code,
coming to the aid of Alan Turing,
when he was dejected and broken.

In another life I accepted
the Nobel Prize for Peace,
to add to the Pulitzers and Oscars
that already adorned my mantelpiece.
In another lifetime I discovered penicillin
and found the cure to cancer.
In another life I wasn’t afraid of failure.

In another lifetime things worked out.
I didn’t falter in love.
I wasn’t hindered by illness.
I didn’t suffer fear and anxiety.
I wasn’t scared to let go and take a chance.
I wasn’t afraid to move on
and follow my dream.
In another lifetime I was everything I’m not.
In this lifetime I did nothing.

ANDY BOTTERILL
Onoma Nov 2023
the viscera of streetlights stretch

the imagination of the same illumination.

overhung to recast a planetary surface

spun to its recognizable--yet altered locale.

bizarre morphs...too sudden for even change

in a single glance, recon at the recesses of mind.

left just enough to decipher the odd ends that

wear a warped resemblance--for the queasiness

of a dimensional shift.

as if masterminded cue cards whose images

become symbolic interludes.

with fuller and fuller decks held up to be

whispered.

if a sliver of such is caught in a frame--

the purgatory of incomprehension rushes

in.
Aimée Oct 28
I'm not the cursing kind
But if I was, this'd be the moment
To find out that you thought
You could be the author of this poet

You sat there and believed
That if you used my words and voice
And spoke as though you were me
You could dictate my choice

But now I am aware
I'm awake and angry
And a little betrayed
Even if I shouldn't be

Because of course
You'd tear me down inside
That's the job you gave yourself
After you ruined your own life

I let you tell me who I am
I didn't even put up a fight
But now you've really mess it up
Because now I see the light

It's time you stood to the side
I hope it hurts to watch me grow
More than you ever said I could
More than even I now know

Because the evil I've seen in me
So much of it was actually you
As you masterminded my meanest thoughts
Had me speak them as if they're true

So as I close my eyes and mouth to you
I'll make sure my ears join in
For I won't play your games anymore
And by walking away I win

I win a better world for me
One where I live bolder
And believe the best of me
Having cast the devil off my shoulder

I make all these realizations
And after all this time
I stand to look at the mirror
And the face I see is mine

— The End —