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Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
******* the ego
tis seen as a trifle banal
the odd big cranial bloke
belongs to this cabal

tirelessly they stroke
the head to a maximal size
as the inflated phallus
doth give them such a rise

******* shall always be
their pastime of infatuation
as they are so in love
with the ego's glorification
jonchius Sep 2015
entering year 2000
rewinding vhs tape
installing napster client
anticipating victorious gore
bursting dot-com bubble
blocking tomorrow's nostalgia
commemorating festival tragedy
examining supersonic concorde
watching election coverage
recounting inconvenient truths
puzzling interface design
booing nuc-u-lar president

rising black monolith
editing non-linear encyclopedia
feeling inaugurally bushed
reliving century's dawn
unchanging state flag
processing royal massacre
escaping insane asylum
sensing impending collapse
perusing city guide
collapsing contemporary structures
initiating quixotic peacekeeping
ignoring conscription threats

entering year 2002
reporting unfortunate pearl
relaxing shotgun porch
exploding roadside bombs
addressing thousand followers
hugging financial meltdown
writing resembling skylines
shocking archipelagic bursts
processing theatrical disaster
tightening homeland security

entering year 2003
proliferating elegant telegnosis
rejecting freedom fries
blazing wartime trails
toppling dictatorial statue
unfurling "mission accomplished"
handling continental blackout
ejecting coronal masses

entering year 2004
flashing multiple sobriquets
populating dorm-roomy website
high-grossing aramaic movie
generating tunnel vision
rushing national anthem
parading goth athletes
letting games begin
accepting soviet passports
continuing obscure flumadiddle
lunar-eclipsing world series
two-terming republican regime
declining personality cult
glowing orange revolution
eroding periglacial drumlins
inundating lacustrine basins
exciting geomorphological processes
enduring tumultuous tsunami

entering year 2005
blasting "galvanize" repeatedly
unforgiving cyclonic scenario
printing controversial drawing
sketching cartoon prophet
overturning hurricane alphabet
rigging medal count
preparing new horizons
rejecting flash sites

entering year 2006
setting plutonian destination
synchronizing new horizons
sighting stellar foison
maintaining feudal system
emerging microblogging service
reading ancient tweets
rotating golden statue
mounting social debt
protesting planetary demotion
forecasting catastrophic recession
executing "innocent" dictator

entering year 2007
declining share prices
building ruby railroad
lifting presidential term-limits
perpetuating oil-rich dictatorships
falling interstate bridge
slugging giant bonds
clothing blackwater mercenaries
disappearing internet personalities
unforgiving writers strike

entering year 2008
stealing variable thunders
relaxing domain names
letting games continue
exploding sunrise propane
requesting birth certificate
electing another suit
disappointing orthodox republicans
microblogging maximal meltdown

entering year 2009
inaugurating new president
encountering bear markets
cackling risible laughter
dying pop king
deleting neolithic internet

entering year 2010
collapsing presidential palace
prospering cinematic avatar
pronouncing eyjafjallajökull effortlessly
"kettling riot police
flaming cop cruiser"
blasting text-based vuvuzelas
leaking diplomatic cables
fading pre-twitter memories
self-immolating street vendor

entering year 2011
"enervating nine-point quake
propagating harbor wave
inundating nuclear plant
irradiating unclear fates"
raging mid-eastern spring
throwing body asea
locating trojan asteroid
penetrating financial throughfare
resonating oral amplifier
blazing verdant material

entering year 2012
rising chubby dictator
gentrifying weird twitter
exploding next month
intriguing "fake" passport
proliferating single-hued avatars
surging sandy cyclone
inhabiting alternate universe
manipulating another election
rigging people's ballots
perpetuating manipulated world
fulfilling megalomaniac urges
surviving previous apocalypse
surviving another baktun

entering year 2013
descending rogue meteor
encoding festival weekend
obfuscating's very own
approving snow den
searching yaya island
soaking wet veld

entering year 2014
missing plane geometry?
annexing peninsular territory
printing powdered medication
forecasting meteoric boomtime
prevailing monochromatic identity
avoiding aviation accidents
determining auspicious date
revising deactivation plans
reliving years 2000-2014
Philipp K J Apr 2019
April is retirement time
Triple hot memory stream
Of months that March close behind
Febru and Janu very kind
Not far still to remember
The days of cool December
The long talks in your chamber
The sweet eves of November
Not to mention the embers
Of love that warm up members
May be rain or hay day noon
July finds an all wet June
But days come like August guests
And busy with just inquests

Time turns September Rians
forget-me not, you asters
Full of morning glory stares
You Octogenarians
All contain within a span
Of sweet memory expanse
You too collecting pension
After superannuation.

Its nice to see you colleagues
Always glad without fatigue
Chatting and pat the other
Cracking jokes on your attire
The young baby look you wear
And the nursery kid's fire.

Its all fare and just affair
One more phase to maneuver
In the course of your orbit
On face of earth to be fit
To gain and do maximal
Service  to its proximal

April too is time to thank
For the net balance in bank
And set your mind on the crank
And care for fitness and fun
To re-register and run
The vehicle with new paint
Not to shuttle and to taint
Nor to settle in confine
But to scuttle along nature
To look and learn and nurture
And listen to the pristine
Wisdom from the Lord divine.
Thanks to you all who retire
And wish you keep up the fire!
marvin m brato Jan 2018
Work Ethic

Work requires professionalism,
at all times in all set of conditions.
let an earned knowledge and skills,
an asset to be utilized as maximal.
no regrets even if reward is scare,
go ahead do it for the love of work.

People around need not to be told,
everyone knows who perform well.
real professional does not brag,
seldom claims for recognition.
open-minded to a paradigm shift,
never pessimistic but often optimistic
at anything of value and substance.
let others rationalize to find reasons,
act on the issues with sound mind
no jesting around just do things right.
I wish people could work well with each other!
OC May 2019
Tangent, like so
Back side, torso
Two systems touching
Move ever so slow
Breathe in the body heat
Top off both of the lungs
Feel those expand the diaphragm
Stretching body to its limit
Then halt
Then hold
Let the ribcage further swell
To the point of nearly bursting
First stroke
Feel cold air tingling the nose
Make contact
Release the diaphragm
Slowly, almost without motion
Pour heat outside into the chill
Until the airways close down shut
Press on, then press some more
And take your breath away
Second stroke
The cycle starting over
Rhythmic, measured, patient
With maximal efficiency
Each night,
You prove through me the limit
of possibility
Another installment in the series of poems inspired by physics (see first of the series for more details). Thoughts and comments are appreciated.
For further reading: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnot_heat_engine
Oscar Mann Mar 2016
Have a look at the parade of clowns
Copycats
Copying emptiness
Copying lazy sentiments
Copying spiteful opinions
Tantrum after tantrum
Rant after rant
Idiot after idiot
This is what the world has become
Mainstream muckiness
Dreams of something special
Broken by modern day mentality
Minimal input, maximal output
All aboard the hype train
All behind the laptop
Digital drama democratized
As avant-garde lags behind

The army of halfwits
Celebrating
Celebrating uniqueness
Celebrating false individualism
Celebrating blissful ignorance
Lie after lie
Mask after mask
Actor after actor
This is it
The world’s a stage
The play is badly cast
The words are meaningless
Uttered in vanity
All brain, no heart
All play, no work
All for nothing

But with the clowns to the left of me
And the halfwits to the right
I’m taking a stance against it
Against the copying
The celebration of nothingness
The false individuality
I  won’t utter my words
I won’t play my part
I will embrace the heart
I will take of my mask
And let everyone know
I won’t settle for this
I will come, see and conquer
And then lose it all
But I’ll pick sincere decline
Over false stagnation any day
Homunculus Dec 2015
Here's one for all the suicidally depressed people.
First of all, if you're thinking about ending it,
Please know that I love you, and I really hope you don't
I've been there too, and sometimes all it takes is
One more day to think before you decide that it
Really isn't worth it... BUT: if you've thought long and hard
About it, and you decide to follow through: be creative.

Don't just say "goodbye cruel world" and swallow a
Bottle of sleeping pills, or slit your wrists in
The bathtub, so that your landlord finds you
A week later after wondering about the smell.
Instead, rent an exhibition space in a trendy art district,
Hire a PR team, and pour your investments into,
A highly publicized event, that will be billed as
"The Performance Art Piece of the Century".

Don't worry about how you'll afford it, either.
You can easily take out several loans from
Various banks and payday lenders,
Max out your credit card, bounce cheques etc. etc.
It's not like you'll ever have to repay them.
Once you follow through, you'll default by default!
Then, well, that's their problem, huh?
Meh, serves those greedy ****** right for
Crashing the whole **** global economy
every few years, like they seem to like to do.

Instead of a suicide note, write a manifesto,
Complete with a detailed statement of purpose,
Instructions for preserving your work, and
An incisive aesthetic critique which decries  
"The subversion of artistic autonomy by
The market society", and the uninspired
Throwaway commodity form
That art has become as a result.
Blame Andy Warhol, people will get it.

Then, when the big day comes, and
You're surrounded by those pretentious
Clove smoking, soy latte sipping, Prius driving,
Tofu eating, turtleneck wearing, Soho art district types,
Get a gun and put a canvas behind your head, so
That when you pull the trigger, it splatters an
Aleatoric masterpiece that even ******* would fawn over.
Now, for maximal effect, you're gonna wanna use
Hollow tips, dum-dums, or buckshot in a sawed-off.
If you really wanted to play on the chance operations thing,
You could line the cylinder of a revolver with both
Full metal slugs and hollow tips, so that there's an
Equal chance of the shot creating
a controlled burst or wide array splatter, but
These are just suggestions, It's your art, you decide

This spectacle would make headlines, for sure.
Then, instead of being just another statistic,
To be neatly lumped into a sheet of numbers,  
Stuffed into a folder, and quickly forgotten,
You'll be remembered for generations to come
As that tragic visionary, whose passion was so
Uncompromising, and whose artistic integrity,
Was so utterly unyielding, that you were
Even willing to give your life for it.

Now, one last point of contention, to
Add a bit of weight to the argument:
You remember Thich Quan Duc?
He was the monk who set himself
Ablaze, during the Vietnam War,
In an act of protest. Of course you do.

Nobody knew him the day before,
Except maybe his fellow monks, but
Now his image is immortalized, and
Immediately recognizable decades later, as
The picture that defined a generation.

...but,

Do you remember the man, who was
Fed up with his dead end job, and one
Day finally decided to end it all?
Which one? Who's that? Exactly.
Now, perhaps I've made my point.

Just a thought...
I was listening to George Carlin's bit on suicide from "Life is Worth Losing" and decided to have a go at the topic myself.
GaryFairy Dec 2014
Maximal tactics, i'm moving diagonal
fast attack, mad like a rabid animal
I can scramble em and eat em up like a cannibal
silence of the lambs, you can call me hannibal

factual master of blasting the practical
grammatical fractions that act like a manual
brashly cast and I smash like a radical
glad to put a badass on a lasting sabbatical

I hit with a fist and it's fit for the mystical
put **** in the britches of the illiterate pitiful
I get physical on the brittle when condition is critical
on a mission to finish putting rips in the typical
dani Jul 2017
my favorite part of the day could never be the morning
when we're new people and hesitant strangers
but it's when your smile is the brightest and your kisses are the softest

my favorite part of the day could never be the afternoon
when there's minimal talking and maximal noise
but it's when silence gets blissful and comfortable

my favorite part of the day is the night
when you're vulnerable and tired, yet smiling
when your arms touch my skin like satin
when i can see stars in your eyes

but alas, the brightest stars are the ones yet to fade the soonest
Tom McCone Nov 2015
the closed span of this month
spent furrowing through sleepless,
shuffling pages form walls, cycles of
break n' fix. waste of words. all
chance, all change. spent out.

there is, again, grand weight,
and, yeah, i've felt heavier. no
amount of lifting changes this,
though. drowning conversation.
leaving qualm. endowing closure,
coarsening topologies, maximal
saturation. finally, my rusted
thought process found ideal space.
or the delusion, at least.

meanwhile, the rain falls on, and
serves as reminder that this world is
built to dissolve & reassemble,
always permuting componency. &
all i want
is to be a reason
or some warmth, at least.
done
Paul d'Aubin Jan 2016
Prolégomènes à un poème sur la disparition de notre Chienne cocker Laïka

Les Chiens et nous-mêmes
Je vous ferais parvenir le poème presque prémonitoire écrit, cet été à Letia en Corse , intitule «notre chien a onze ans»  (en fait elle en avait dix ans et demi).
Ayant déjà eu, un chien cocker de couleur noire; lors mon enfance passée en Kabylie, répondant au nom de «Bambi» (le Faon de la bande dessinée de Walt Disney) j'ai appris à adorer nos meilleurs compagnons avec les chevaux et compte désormais les temps de la vie humaine en durées moyennes de vie passée en compagnie avec ce merveilleux et surtout si fidèle compagnon et ami de l'homme.
C'est à dire que pour une durée de vie moyenne de soixante-quinze ans, au mieux, je considère qu'elle correspond à cinq temps possibles de compagnonnages et d'histoire d'amitié avec un chien (d'un âge maximal au mieux de 15 ans)
Par conséquent, cinq longs temps de bonheurs nous sont donnés par la Nature pour que nous puissions bénéficier des bienfaits et de la compagnie de cet «animal», souvent bien plus «humain» et «gentil» ;  hélas il faut bien l'avouer, que nombre de prétendus humains d'une cruauté inconnu dans la faune dite sauvage.
Nous allons demain et dans les jours qui viennent rechercher, un nouveau compagnon pour rester dans ce cycle de vie magique que je viens de vous révéler.

                                                          *
Notre chienne Cocker a déjà onze ans

Elle a parcouru onze ans de sa vie de Reine,
sans les soucis de l'étiquette et du labeur.
Notre chienne Laïka savoure sa quiétude,
mais se tient toujours près des valises et des sacs,
dès qu'elle observe un zéphyr de départ,
sa courte queue frétille devant sa laisse,
qu’elle prend dans sa gueule comme pour nous montrer le chemin,
car la « meute » doit se rendre ensemble sans jamais l'abandonner.
Ses deux pattes avec lesquelles elle se hisse sur les rebords de la table pour humer les plats.
Et son museau qu’elle love dans le coup de ta maîtresse pour lui signifier son amour.
Chère Laïka quand tes yeux attendrissants de cocker nous fixent je demande au Destin que tu puisses nous accompagner longtemps pour notre bonheur du présent et le demain de nos vies.
Seuls, ton museau blanchi et ta démarche moins vive, nous rappellent tes onze ans.

Paul Arrighi.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Tramontane concoction
Alien's of different worlds
Consummate's of relations
A sinner boy and angel girl

First class textings
Between the two of them
Pastlife Amour's
Meeting again in love and best friends!!

Maximal feelings
She calleth a dangerous thing
Yet for eachother
Ourn hearts due flutter
Were two bees without the stings

Cryptic strings
Angelic harped
We seek the moon
And rest at parks

We are two
Yet one in spirit
Forgotten the world
Made poems our pearls
As her voice I draw to hear it!

Her *** appeal
So overriding all the rest
Yet the rest has none anyways
For its mine amare
Tis the best!!

She's not the rest
For that I know
I gaveth up the world
Gaveth her mine soul

For I hope she knows
How much for her I adore
She's that spice in ones head
When life's gone dead
She brings happiness to mine door!!!

Ive never felt this before!!!

And tis
I won't!!!
I shalt not leave her
Yes I do believe her
She's mine Spanish rose!
Mine Spanish queen
And Spaniard dream
Where ice creams stacked
And dripping cream
Sensuality means!!
She's high to me
A throne in glee
A song and tease
I seek her tree
To lie under it
To tasteth her spit
And **** her wine lips
To grasp her tones
To feel her hips
To pull her hair
One stroke at a time
To take a dive
Inside her mind
She maketh Me see
When I was blind
She turned back the clock
I forgot all time
For her I shine
For her I love
For her I'd die
Please
Dont cry
Mine amour
Of mine
Thou art so fine
In a life I never knew
Make me thine husband
Please break me through!!!
Divinity from me soul
Aaron LaLux Feb 2017
Back In America

I swear,
I’d give away every dollar I’ve ever made to charity,
if it would bring relief to the billions in need at the least,
and at the most I’d hope it could maybe contribute to world peace,

I’m back in America,
writing checks and feeling empty,
skin’s numb mind’s gone,
Death comes for everyone eventually…

Here,
have the American Dream with this beautiful house it’s turnkey…

Whoa,
it’s getting intense isn’t it,
but I guess,
it’s always been at least a little bit,

signing checks and paying taxes,
trying to balance,
on a world that’s off it’s axis,
pedal to the metal diesel by the gallons,

I.
Am.
A.
Machine.

and I swear the greatest compliment to any artist,
is that their work is something no one’s ever seen,

a defying gesture of difference,
a creation of something truly original,
a work of art that covers both sides,
both obviously brilliant and intelligently subliminal,

minimal,
maximal,
adjust,
your attitude,

this is Life,
you’re living it,
better be nice,
better be respectful,

hey you,
hello from the other side,
as far as I can tell you’re not Adele,
oh well we’re still gonna ride,

petal to the metal a Freak and a Fellow,
I’ve got it all I swear I’d give it all away,
become a lost prophet that’s lost all but the topic,
on point still so let’s get back to the point I must make,

money doesn’t buy morals,
and God of course is real,
so if you want to really be wealthy,
give more to charity so the hurt can heal,

I swear,
I’d give away every dollar I’ve ever made to charity,
if it would bring relief to the billions in need at the least,
and at the most I’d hope it could maybe contribute to world peace,

I’m back in America,
writing checks and feeling empty,
skin’s numb mind’s gone,
Death comes for everyone eventually…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
An Update...
Megan Sherman Dec 2016
As if there's no tomorrow
I race in to the day
Yielding maximal joy
As the moments ebb away

As if the world is ending
And Armageddon begun
I frolic like a faerie
And pledge myself to Fun

As if this moment were the last
I yield to eternal delight
And behold the passion in loved ones
Blazing, burnished bright
I aged a small number of hours,
     none the worse
since posting about Daylight Savings Time,
     a radiant playful verse

teasingly succeeded against being terse,
a cogent tangential thread,
     where passage of "time"
     ranks front and center

     this central theme constitutes cultish obsession
     with vibrant youthfulness
     as if senescence a crime imposed
(at birth) on every purse

son, thus a healthy and prominant grow wing
(nee bursting out all over)
     market and cottage industries didst swing
into high gear (make that overdrive)

     addressing telomeres shortcomings
     justifies tamper ring
with chromosomal genes
     to sustain bug eyed sales figures,

     asper amazing grace full spy king
scales into the stratosphere,
     with cosmetic surgeons *** ping
where, (particularly among
     baby boomer generation)

     appear younger looking than offspring
(albeit, whereat either gender undergoing
     bust ting bosoms and tightening tushies)
     to foster said tune, where billions of dollars

     come into play, I haint joe king
this feeding frenzy removing without a trace
     (of surgeon's needle) unsightly wrinkles,
     stretch marks, blemishes, et cetera
     (over a life time) fulfilling vanity

in the name of eternal quest to dupe biology
     paying mega bucks postponing twilight/ evening
years not yielding to depredations when dotage
a stark reminder what natural aging doth bring

superficial (skin deep) transformations,
     which cannot reboot major organs
     allowing elderly to rock with van
halen again, since primary maximal apex

     i.e. post adolescence/
     early adulthood marked urban
boisterous antics, the tacitly accepted behavior,
     that would appear down right foolish

     as if elders played kick the can
     if chronologically old geezers let Mother Nature
     rightfully round up steering committee
     gently rowing rickety ship of lovely bones
     dutifully paying (chump change) to the bargeman.
Im envious of Bermuda.
Her triangle is so deeply recognized.
I am caught in the "this is me now" in the face of who I should've been, and who I thought I'd be.
Cathedrals stacked to the stars
Like for Margaret.
And that you don't know this reference is the perfect epithet.
But how can I place my weight against the scale?
Imperial? Metric? Metaphysical?
What is the search for a sense of self
If not a desperate notion to understand our gravity?
I'm grave, for the far too many I've buried and the far more whom found a mausoleum in me, secure in my secrets.
In theory buried with me, but buried within me, and that is far too great a weight to put on dirt and rock and mantle.
I won't be buried.
Not because I could not keep them but because of kindness in grief, and in the ground isn't safe for these stories to rest, lest, and list - oh list... they die with me never to be uninterred by graverobbers or corporate land barons seeking to build a new golf course.
If the earth had to bear the gravity of conscious existence, she would implode like a fledgling star.
I doubt humans are alone in the universe, but I'd honestly get it - such a mistake...
For evolutionary crafted monkees to dare say this is Me and bend the world and rules around us, mostly by seeking an understanding of those rules...
And then turning them to profit. How human.
Fools, all of us.
Slaves, indentured to the tide of society.
I thought the progression of civilization was to move forward.
The things we'd learned from the dark ages - foolish and desperate attempts to cling to what we thought of as power.
But what happens when power evolves?
It certainly has exceeded us by the boundless laws of physics.
We relent and release in deference to the "please lead me" through questionable times
No one questioning that we brought this unto ourselves
A marooned ship a mile from paradise but destined it it's ignorance to sink.
Nothing, spirit or body, would intelligently design this.
At the very least if the concept of God was not just metaphorical but an ecumenical argument that we should be better...
Why the need to argue at all?
We are perfect imperfections of random chance and about 4 pounds
Of mostly wet pretty much bacon
Electrified like an sophomoric Frankenstein
And most of us haven't even read Mary Shelley
We are a species so magnetic to ourselves.
Watch what we can do.
Even if we shouldn't do it.
Maybe I'll just do it to see what my neighbor does.
And so the echelons grow.
To a maximum order of magnitude 13.
If everyone tells two friends
And those two can only tell two others
With no repeats
Only 13 times can a story be shared before it exceeds the maximal population of our planet.
Only 13 times can a paper be folded in half until you breach space.
Life...
It's a poorly dreamed up pyramid scheme.
I've evidently started writing again.
Aseel Mohamed Apr 2020
Fate is a cunning act
It can bring you beautiful things
Yet sometimes leave you feeling attacked!
In a world of no balance between minimal and maximal effort,
I find myself fighting the truth of the matter and the beautified lie!
Wherever I turn, a knife is stuck on someone's back
Leaving them paralyzed and sadly attacked
Fate brings friends together
Teaches them that patience is a virtue
Later strikes and speed!
Fatally, grasping away happiness which was a pursuit
So why believe in fate, when it can bring beautiful things
But it's a cunning act?
Travis Green Jul 2021
In your realm
Of emotion-charged ardor
I found ecstatic magic vivider
Than the moonlight above
More stem-winding
Than the galaxies above

I envisioned laying
Next to you
My face buried
In your pure, luring chest
So delightsome and innocent
As I embrace your upbeat breath
Conceptualizing the way
You give me maximal highs
Christopher Jan 2020
From this hydrant, I begin to drink
The wealth of knowledge, the geyser that
Overwhelms with ambition linked
To an endless reservoir of defeat.
I already feel the bloat setting in,
My internal resistance signaling
Near capacitance, the visceral
Response to give up, to give in, to halt.
Fight or flight has never felt so raw,
The two diverging at the carina
Aspirating the decision into me
As they inundate my atria.
I can feel the icy hot burn searing
My chest and neck from the inside out,
The irony of alveolar collapse
Rejecting my futile attempt
To breathe
Just like the titans swimming far ahead
Effortlessly whilst I struggle to tread,
Clawing at suffocating airways
That have yet to surpass elastance
And evolve the surfactant that promises
Life
Beyond the sleepless nights
Beyond the next exams
Beyond the repeating cycles
Of maximal effort and minimal results.
I crave the day when the desperation
For air to fill my lungs, to inspire
And expire the atmosphere, is replaced
With an aqueous tidal volume
That dissolves the surmounting pain
And converts water into air.

From this hydrant, I begin to breathe.
At the start of medical school, you are told the challenge is not in the difficulty of the material, but in the shear volume. Like drinking from a fire hydrant.

Surfactant = lung secretion that keeps alveoli from collapsing
Mean what you say,
What is said should be meant at the least
At most be truthful
So you dont feel minimal when saying it
But maximal
Without being mean
Yet meaningful
Even if thy saying be bitter ,
Thy taste of feeling shall be sweet

— The End —