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ARTERY  CONFESSION.


Her love to me is like moon light, on a starry night.
As rising sun at dhawn. Like vine planted on his heart's yard. which he ought to water to flowery And fruitage.
his love for her is as deep as the dept of an ocean, with the fishes abiding therein, as stars, moon, and the sun adhered to the sky, it never
departed away from her side.

  his love to her can simply easily be compared to GOD's towards mankind.

So he confessed and rendered  his heart to her. Like a teeming downpour upon  earthen  soften, it surface.
so her love compassed his heart comforting, like pabulum to mind.

As light rays to eye sight. His love for her is reality only can be told in tale of their love story,

gory to glory. He so
Much love her  and
really ready,

in for her, fell in the water.
Lost and found with her for ever. He wish he could wash her feet wilt the waters of his soul, cleansing her heart.

because he see her heart compatible  to his.

Remembered old days of midnight calls, they never used to give sleep to their eyes. While talk through night, dusk till dawn,

Remembered  promises and all the pain they both had gone through heaven and hell.

Never forgot the only first day he felt the fullness of her *******, how sooth her heart. Tongue on tongue, mouthy pleasure.

His hands on her curves. Briskly remembered she told him that after her
momma he be  next to her.

She call him dad he call her Mami. Before she demised his mama used to asked about his lady. His homies do too.
His young blood can't either forget her memories,
last night he was asked about her, oh sweetness
is all about thee. Can't forget
her,   _he always craves_ her. All he ever wanted and desires are all found in her, his boo. He truly loves her because he  knew she'd  make a good mother,

Hope she'd understand if he change sometimes just only because he never own everythang as his. So remember he always told her
that he will always be there  for her as time,
even in the world after here. Her love is so good to him

She has  the key to his heart.
reminisce she told him she'd


rather die for him than sleeping at someone else side.
She's his inspiration like a transportation, his motivation only she can help build his cloud nation. His aspiration
all is found in her, all in ONE no one else but she.

She source the past time joy and still the reason for today's and the hope
of tomorrow's glee.

Sacrifice his love for her because he believes in future with her, she's his  destiny his fate mate his ruth, his batsheba,
His mary, his eve and soulmate.
#c9_fm
CRACK

CRACK, swish CRACK

Fingers dig into the wood she is shackled to
Screams of agony are swallowed refusing to let them hear

Hearing the thump of the leather as it hits the ground
Eyes tightly closed as her muscles draw taut
Her mind can see the large man pulling his arm back
Throwing forth the long strand of leather towards her back

CRACK
SnapCRACK
CRACK

Knees buckle as the searing pain rips through her flesh
Feels the trickle down the flesh
Can only imagine what it looks like
Still refusing to scream
Tasting the blood in her mouth from biting her tongue and lip

The men laugh at the stubborn redhead who dare tell them what she thought of how they treated women
It wasn't hard to corner the ***** and tie her to the post

Knowing she should have kept her mouth shut but having been raised to take up for those mistreated she just could not hush and now look at her

CRACK       CRACK      CRACK

Oh please make them stop as her teeth bit back the screams on her knees now, darkness edging at the corners of her brain it won't be long now

The other girls were begging her to scream to give in as they saw the rivlets of flesh being removed from her back with each crack of the whip

Malcolm was very skilled with the whip, He could slice an apple with one if he wanted but right now all he wanted was to inflict agony on this mouthy *****

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

Finally blessed darkness overcame her as she fell limp on the post, hanging from her arms the blood was pouring out of the gashes of split skin

ENOUGH*
Finally someone with some sense intervened, Jordan the leader of this group was not happy at all seeing the condition of the girl

Cut her down at once and get her seen by a doctor

The girls ran to help remove the shackles from the strange girl's hands, she was limp like a rag doll, she felt dead

She was not dead but wished she were, perhaps that is why she pushed the man beyond his limit, she had a death wish, who knows he just may have granted it without realizing

Taken to the doctor and laid upon the table on her stomach unaware of what was happening blissful darkness

Suddenly a pain so hot it was worse than the whip that had mangled the flesh

Screaming awake tears fall over high cheeks, finally what Malcolm had wanted bursts free from her lips

The doctor continues washing out the rivers of cuts

She continues to cry not understanding how someone could do this to another person

The doctor places a salve in all the rivers of missing flesh knowing the scars here will be the worst

Jordan comes in to see the spunky girl and sees her back, shaking His head His hand reaches down and flips through her gorgeous head of hair He is still puzzled by her behavior

He watches as she drinks down the medication and collapses back to the table, she is well cared for until the doctor releases her

Called before Jordan, He asks why she became so beligerant

I came to get my friend away from you freaks
She used be just as mouthy as me until the one called Malcolm brainwashed her

Jordan just nodded His head not saying much but He did say one thing

"You really should not call us freaks because you do not understand what we are all about.  I assure you, your friend is not being held against her will nor has she been brainwashed"

My friend would not ever kneel at a man's feet and take every word he uttered as the truth.  She knows better than to be treated thus

"Never judge what you have not experienced. I wish You had come to me first before this unfortunate incident occurred.  I invite you to stay and be my guest and observe what really goes on."

She stayed and observed and spent some time with these girls that in her head were just plain loony*

In the end she found a peacefulness she could never explain to another
Something so profound and beautiful that after awhile she became one of the girls that she once called crazy

As the saying goes "Never judge a book by it's cover, read the inside first."
Written by Jennifer Humphrey all rights reserved
Robert Ronnow Jan 2022
A walk around the block in my parents’ neighborhood at dawn
wearing mom’s sweater and pop's sneakers with a clown hole cut out for  
      toe infection
I was stopped by a cop in a cruiser
this was during the Vietnam War long hair ago
he was angry at everyone I was offended by everything
he said which way are you going I said which way are you going
so he socked me in the mouth and handcuffed me
I was arraigned on disorderly conduct and resisting arrest
my good parents came down and stood beside me before the judge
I wrote to the police department internal affairs
not for retribution but to start a paper trail
in case this cop someday bopped one of my brothers
a few months later I’m back at work in NYC
two detectives come into the city to question me
one good cop one bad cop we park in the park me in the back seat
they wanna know was I mouthy to the cop who punched me in the mouth
long story short
they leave me on a bench to eat my lunch and the charges are dropped
Persia,
The land of God,
Where God stayed in person,
As he traversed desert sand dunes to Irag,
To have a look at rivers Euphrates and Tigris,
When Adam had just finished playing the first human ***,
With Eve, the non ****** companion he gave him,
He then meted out to them eternal nemesis
Out of his anger and selfish jealous,
Other-wise what was wrong,
For Adam to have a ****,
With the unclothed eve,
Any answer please,
Or no please,
Persia,

Persia Now is Nuked,
A nuclearized oil exporter,
She has a Koran, oil-wells and Nuclear,
She also has no-nonsense masculine Arabic culture,
****** grounds in which mushrooms the messy Islamic soup,
Blessed and Glorified by my good ****** brother; Barrack Obama,
Who was once God and sent the inverse of angel Michael to Laden Osama,
To impregnant the ****** mother of death that sired laden’s demise,
Game in which Obama dwarfs Netanyahu a global dweeb,
Left on a wrong inglenook in a dwaal at Jerusalem fire,
Biasly blessing the Israeli Nuclear and Hydrogen bombs,
As security of the world, and condemning Iran,
Calling their Kosher Nuclears a threat,
To the israelized world security,
But his Gaza **** is not,
His refuge camps
Are not

Blessed are the Nuclear stuffs of Persia,
They are blessings of Allah to those that are guided,
Maunderings of the jackanapes like Netanyahu is not news,
For he has more nuclear in Jerusalem, hydrogen bombs too he has,
Then arming Persia must a usual game of violence not anything of his sort,
For  they are Koran, the nuclear, the oil wells, and the woman,
That will frame up the Islamic state to stable counterzionism,
To stave mania of European Jews for settlerism
To eat what they deserve un¬¬-rapaciously,
To at least breed homespun respect,
For those that differ with them
In faith and skin
Like afro-persians


Persia,
Your nuclear stuffs,
Are blessed and glorified,
For they are counter-apartheid,
To the Zionist apartheid in Palestine,
They are acts that resemble the acts in the past,
By those that oppressed, colonize, imperialize for settlerism,
For a line in Shakespeare’s king Lear has some blessings for you;
The un-armed (Arabs) provokes (Israeli) enemy’s attack,
Thus reality of equal nuclear mighty and strength
Will nurse thought for de-imperialism
Sense of respect and discipline,
By those who belong to God,
To those who don’t,

Who Bombed Charlie Hebdo?
And what of the Yankee Twin Towers?
Was it Al Qaeda or the Israelis, can I blab or not?
O, there were also Nuclear stuffs in De Klerk’s White South Africa,
But when blackness came to corridors of power, the nukes followed color,
What of what I was dreaming yester night? About Netanyahu,
He ployed for the European hatred against Islamic statesmen,
He bombed Charlie Hebdo, masquerading as an Arab,
For European war on Islamic state to intensify,
Then it intensified, but God only knew,
The truth; Islamic statesman are only mouthy,
But foolish in war and offense,
They didn’t bomb
Charlie Hebdo,

Boris Nemetsov,
A Russian speaking Jew,
Was shot dead in Moscow,
(RIP) Boris, for the human soul must die,
Death and grave is the kismet for us the living,
But why were you weak as a post hatch cackling hen,
To make noise and preen around as a jade in the land of fox,
The African sisal fox that ate all the Crimean chicken,
Noise of a hen cannot fetter fox’s appetite,
Noise of a hen cannot shake culture,
Of Nuclear power in Iran and Korea N,
Why live in Russia, but you love Israeli?
I don’t need the answer dudes,
But always oppression
the oppressor always
it kills,

Alexander  Khamala Opicho
Lodwar ,  Kenya
Dee Thomas Jan 2011
She is standing at the door
of a new home the state provided
From place to place they throw her
wherever budget has decided
Too much, too little, too quiet,
too honest, she talks too loud
Too messy, too mouthy, too unfocused
And her head whithin a cloud

I am sure she looks pretty pitiful
in her hand me down clothes
Trying to look presentable
to every new home she goes
I hope they aren’t mean
and definitely not too nice
I thought my new dad was just friendly
and for that misjudgement I paid a price

Of course no one believes
the mouthy child who always lies
Just making the story sound better
too much pain to disguise
She is just a little girl lost
and her lies scream out for attention
Forget the bruises and lack of food
that she forgot to mention

No one really wants to know
what I saw or what my daddy does
No one wants to hear about mommy's drugs
what she was doing or where I was
Like little slaves to the strangers
with rules sitting high and looking low
It’s not like we can go complain
there’s nowhere else for us to go

New schools and no friends
walk the halls, eyes to the floor
In a few weeks it starts again
friends don’t matter anymore
They point and whisper with cruel intent
because someone heard your tale
Of the kid that no one wanted,
which is pitifully dressed and frail

Children can be so cruelly misinformed
at times such as this
But I am just a nameless face
that no one will even miss
I stopped unpacking my suit case
so many months ago
No matter how the time goes by
my belongings never grow

A few outfits, a few pictures
and a book to write a thought
A few mementos from home
and a unicorn that my mom bought
Anything more is just a waste of time
and not worth all the fight
Of remembering what you leave behind
when they take you in the night

No one wants to face the tears
of the child you’re throwing away
Maybe it was harder to look
at their mirrors in the light of day
70 homes in 5 long years some with love
and some without a word
Some were nice and some paid a price
for the little girl left unheard

I spent my life with the sorrowed looks
of those who knew my world
And many times I heard the phrase
such a lost and lonely little girl
My mother filled her world with drugs and men
I paid the highest cost
In the end I gained my heart and soul
then found everything she lost

I grew up, took my head from the clouds
and put my feet on the ground
Went searching for the little girl I lost
and love the woman that I found
Sometimes I write about the pain in my life and sometimes I feel like writing about all of the good that came from those hard life lessons. I can love my daughter more, appreciate life more, show more compassion, heighten my awareness to those in need, be more understanding, take more chances and I can say that I took the hand I was dealt and won on a bluff. I feel blessed to have lived with all of those different people. I took the good and the bad and learned that I can make it through anything. I may not know what to do all the time as a parent....but I **** sure will know what NOT to do.
Waverly Sep 2012
Night starts
with a drip,
and roaches move your feet.

But when day comes,
it comes.

Fear is
as good as sunshine,
it keeps you lose,
then tight.

The Jamaican bones,
having been ground into
sugar,
are whipped into coffee
and grey goose.

A mouthy mix,
and it seems
to cleanse the whole earth;
cannibals praise the lord
in all of his glory.

And on the way
to the first day
of forever,
the iron in my blood
clings to my gums.

I know you there
on the highway,
as we both drive with our
heads downwards,
our evil hearts
cuddling cowardly innards.

Press your fingers,
dismember what lingers.
Crack those knuckles,
smack those palms
and blow that screaming bone.
Terry Collett May 2015
Tessa stirred, lifted her head from the pink pillow, saw bright daylight coming through the gap in the yellow curtains. What day is it? Saturday. Good. No rush. Can lay here for a while. She laid her head down again. She felt beside her with her hand. No one there. Good. Sometimes she invited a man back if he seemed ok and she liked him enough. Obviously, last night she’d not met anyone worth the coming back with. Just as well. She wasn’t in the mood for waiting on them over a breakfast table; talking about the previous night, what it had been like for him or sometimes for her if she had brought back a girl. No one. Just empty space. Although Teddy was there. His one ear was smooth; his fur was thin and sparse. She brought him to her lips, kissed his small head. Hello, Teddy. His glass eye seemed to gaze back at her; the button eye was darker, unseeing. Poor Teddy. Battered and worn. We’ve been together now for…how long? Twenty years? She laid him beside her; kissed his nose. He lay there looking at the white ceiling. Silence. Not a great conversationalist was Teddy. He’d not said a word in all the years they’d been together. Although as a child, she thought he had, would talk with him, play games with him, told him all her secrets and worries. Moreover, of course, he had witnessed things, seen her play with her dolls, with men, the occasional girl, and seen her with all kinds. She brooded for a moment; let the idea of what he may have seen swim around her mind. She had become so used to him being there in her bedroom that she’d given no thought to what he may have seen over the years. Good God. He’d seen all that, never said a word, or moaned or complained or judged her. Too many did that; judged her. But never Teddy. She turned her head, kissed his furry cheek. He didn’t always lie on her bed, when she had company she put him in the armchair in the corner, or on the dressing table by the window. Once one of the men she’d brought back has tossed Teddy across the room, she had become cross, swore at the man, picked up Teddy, kissed his brow, cuddled him against her cheek, told the man to go, leave her because if he could do that to her Teddy he might do it to her. The man shook his head, left thinking her slightly touched, ******* up one of his eyes as if he thought she had lost the plot. Maybe she had, she didn’t care. Teddy had seen her as a little girl, seen her cousin creep into her room, seen him climbed into her bed and do things to her, seen her squirm, seen his hand over her mouth, heard his threats. She hadn’t thought about that; hadn’t given it any thought until now. Remember that, Teddy? He threatened me with all kinds of things if I told anyone what he did. What a *******; what a creep. He’s married now, Teddy; got kids of his own. Poor things. Makes you think. She sat up in bed, stared at the daylight through the gap in the curtains. She got out of bed, sat on the end looking at the wall. Never said a word. Never told anyone, except Teddy; she’d told him. Everything. How it felt; how she felt; how ***** it had made her feel. Teddy listened; never judged. Always there with that look about him, that wise gaze. She sighed. If she saw her cousin now, she said nothing, just stared at him and he stared at her, a knowing look on his fat face. She looked back at Teddy in bed, saw his gaze on her, saw his uncritical gaze. She loved that about him. Loved that look. Breakfast, Teddy? Like I used to make you? She mused on her efforts to get him to eat his breakfast as a child, but he never did. You were awful at eating your breakfast. Mother told me not to give you any, but I always did; always gave you some of mine. It made Father cross, made his face become all stern and cross looking, and he threatened once to throw you out when we moved from that old house to the new one. But I hid you so he couldn’t. You saw him when he spanked me; heard my cries. Mother never came or said anything, but you were always there; I am sure I heard you say you loved me, would always be there for me. She nodded her head. Sighed. The strong silent type was Teddy. Always there. With his one glass eye, his balding fur, his one ear. Haven’t seen them for years now, the parents. They’re in Oxford; I’m here in New York. An ocean between us. Miles and miles. We’re here, Teddy, you and me. Just the two of us. Just us, this apartment, the paintings on the walls, the jazz on the CD player, our secrets, all our own secrets. Just us. Just you and me. Eh, Teddy? Eh? Silence. Teddy, the strong silent type and me the mouthy *****. What a couple. What a pair. Me here, you there. She laughed, looked at Teddy’s moon shaped smile, the smile was always there, a welcome smile, a smile to warm her, to tell her she was good, she was loved. Yes, loved; wanted for whom she was inside, not for what she said or did or didn’t do. Just you and me, Teddy. Just you and me.
A PROSE POEM WRITTEN IN 2008. A GIRL AND HER TEDDY BEAR.
Listen here ******
Your hole is too tight
There are no fake ***** out here none made in China
I despise virgins, cause ***** don't fit

I don't appreciate blow jobs that's temporary
I prefer full time jobs
So won't you take ******* ***** as a full time job mouthy?
Won't you wind my tambourine till it weeps and sobs?

I don't like ******* that weren't ****** before
They got penises acting like tampons
I don't like being the first ****** this **** stays  on girls hearts like tattoos
If we ******* are my client, we build a rapport

Growing up l had a phobia for hairy vaginas
I always told my ****** to shave because I never imagined myself dating a bushman
Nothing is an idiot like my **** I saw it growing feet and standing cause this girl in a taxi was eating banana
Growing up I had a phobia of a pointy ***** in public.
Don't hate, my pen_is writing.
Juniper Dec 2018
You look at a person
A stranger, a loved one, a partner
And you think;
How can one person be so beautiful?
Inside and out you see an aura of unimaginable beauty
A friendly face
An intoxicating laugh
A smile that makes you smile without even realizing it

And then you look at yourself
You hate the way you smile, all crooked and mouthy
The way your cheeks are too pudgy
Your glasses too big for your face
Your voice too soft to break through the chatter of others

But you
You are a lion whose voice is booming thunder
With claws that can tear through the veil
The one you’ve kept yourself shrouded in for too long
You should be proud
Proud of your wild and unruly mane
Proud of your scars earned from battles with many others
Not to mention the battles you wage on yourself
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried

But you don’t
You look at yourself
Your cheeks too pudgy
Glasses too big
Voice kept under lock and key
Vocal chords dusty with disuse
Your heart is so big and so beautiful
You see so much in everyone else
But can’t bear to see anything in yourself

You are a wild flower sprouting through the cracks in the sidewalk
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried
please be gentle on me i haven't written anything in so long
Onoma May 2017
Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.
Andrew Rueter Jul 2018
I'm employed
But not enjoyed
They're annoyed
Until I'm destroyed
Then they fill that void
With another humanoid

I'm a hollow coil
From lots of toil
Like hot oil
I'm not royal
I just boil
Underneath the soil

I say howdy
Loudly
To the rowdy
That doubt me
And out me
As mouthy

This mistake
Fish tank
I drank
Stank
So rank
My mind went blank

I cannot fight it
My mind on autopilot
The roof I tile it
To style it
Violet
While lit

I am a changeling
That is aging
From waging
A war raging
Against those caging
The rat who's racing

The pain is inner
As a fidget spinner
A ****** sinner
Ate for dinner
For he's the winner
Of the money printer
And my mind of cinder

They broke me
No joking
Just poking
The nope king
While hoping
Society starts sloping
Towards communal coping
Terry Collett Nov 2013
Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia

two limp slices
and said
get that inside you

can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think

you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea

but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread

but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother

into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed

her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse

a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked

up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter

had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around

in her head
to see how they fitted in best  
can I?

her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible

but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no

her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where

she was
in her request
your gran always said

that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility

said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly

no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked

because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?

her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me

Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said

she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs

in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile

and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?

she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said

adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if

it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone

like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread

in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said

don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed

the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles

Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's

thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?

Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy

like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand

across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed

the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it

lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen

she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm

or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want

no pain
she'd not ask
again.
A YOUNG GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S AND HER MOTHER.
Olivia M Jackson Aug 2010
Messy Bessy
Pouty fussy
Screaming crying always *****

Ugly Bessy
Huffy Puffy
Yelling punching kicking kitty

Silly Bessy
Loudy mouthy
Mommy madly gives a slappy
© July 3rd, 2010 Olivia M. Jackson
Terry Collett Apr 2014
Reynard and I
held back
after biology
while the other kids

had gone
and we walked up
the corridor
I could have scored that goal

lunchtime
if Goldfinch
hadn't got
in my way

he's always
where you don't
want him to be
Reynard said

I saw Jeanette
walking ahead of us
with her blonde friend Angela
Jeanette had class

I thought
her friend
was a short
mouthy girl

but Jeanette
was quite reserved
and looked at you
as if you had stepped

in her sunshine
but I liked her
and that quick kiss
I snatched the other day

still felt stuck
on my lips
Angela had short tight
blonde curls

Jeanette had long
dark hair reaching
her shoulders
I gazed

at her thin figure
her arms by her side
the satchel
over her shoulder

Reynard was still talking
about the football lunchtime
I was looking
at Jeanette’s sway

of hips almost unseen
yet visible
to the trained eye
the way her legs

came down
to her well heeled shoes
the white ankle socks
think we ought

to try get Frazer
on our side
he'd be great in goal
better than Dunton

the prat
he couldn't save a goal
if the ball
was as big as he was

Reynard said
yes we must get Frazer
I said
wondering how I’d get

that kiss
that Jeanette promised
the lips tempting
and her cheek

just visible
the place my lips
touched
the other day

and the kiss
just stayed there
and wouldn't
go away.
BOY AND GIRL IN 1962 AFTER BIOLOGY CLASS.
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
                       Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for  better,
                        He thought he was doing right.

Antara found himself in a pickle
                        Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
                        From a melody, to a hiss.

Antara voiced his mind,
                       A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
                       Joy in agony and hurt.

Antara wrote for a nickel,
                       Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
                        With a rhythm and a rhyme.

Antara wrote a little and knew
                        His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
                         And on the rest went hot.

Antara wept and laid down tall,
                      Now out of breath
His dying words call
                      For life and for death.

Antara lived in rumpus
                      No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
                      A library and a street.

Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
                      Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
                       And an ill-fortune expedience.
b e mccomb Sep 2016
(i don't want to die)

i'm stubborn
and mouthy
you could even
call me a *****

(i _ d _ o _ n _ t _ w _ a _ n _ t _ t _ o _ d _ i _ e)

i'm stubborn
and mouthy
you could even
call me a *****

and you know
what that means?

this **** ain't
ending easy.


because what gets
me in trouble is
what makes me
strong enough to

stay alive

(i __ d _ o _ n _ t __ w _ a _ n _ t __ t _ o __ d _ i _ e)

I DON'T WANT TO
END IT ALL
I WANT TO LIVE
LIFE SO LOUD AND
UNAPOLOGETIC THAT
I HAVE NO REGRETS

*AND I DON'T WANT
TO ******* DIE
Copyright 8/16/16 by B. E. McComb
Meltedplastic Aug 2012
Stare carefully. Drop it. Say yes to the coffee. Handle grip. Roll. Ticket scanned. Waved hand and then - stand. Stand more still. Mouthy slime. Thank you but sharp objects? Sneeze. Bless you. Floor. Floor. But more parking. Those seats. Pasta, beef. Gargle and inflate. Wear all red for all the hate. One kit. Quiet down the pumps. Noisiest shoes. And we’re gone. Thirty seven thousand feet kind of gone. Thunder side note: I want more friends. A little flash…and shake. How serious. Get up. Gingeralebreakanail. What happens if we crash. Home, not hometown.
Terry Collett Aug 2013
You walked home
from school
with Sutcliffe
(O’Brien was off

with dysentery
which Eddie thought
was a load of ****)
along the New Kent Road

by the shop from which
you bought
a stamp album
and the silver looking

6 shooter gun
and holster
with the belt
with pretend bullets

all around
in little holders
and Eddie said
his big sister

was beginning to spend
too much time
in the washroom
getting herself

all geared up
for her boyfriend
and that his dad
banged on the door

wanting to get in
for his shave
( she’d used all
the hot water

her mother had boiled
in the copper
for the family bath
that night

and his sister
had bellowed back
I’ve got to look my best
I can’t go out

smelling
like a dead rat
and Eddie laughed
(his buck teeth showing)

and Dad told her
she’d feel his hand
across her backside
if she got  

too mouthy with him
so she shut her noise
and came out
all dolled up you

her hair all piled high
her lipstick bright red
her tight skirt
and Dad said

if you think you’re going out
dressed like that
you can think again
but she did

and that was it
and Mum said to him
she's only young once
but he just shaved

and moaned
and I could hear him
muttering to himself
and so Eddie went on

(O’Brien would have
baited him about his sister
would have riled him bad
but he was away

and Eddie was glad)
and so you got
to the corner
of Deacon Way

where Sutcliffe lived
and so you walked
across the road
to Meadow Row

and he waved
and you watched
his blonde cropped hair
and black uniform

disappear from sight
and walked towards home
hands in pockets
satchel on your back

scuffed shoes
kicking stones
onto the bombsite
home to tea

of bread and jam
then out with Ingrid
on the balcony
looking down

over the ledge
at the people passing
or kids playing
making a din

until her father
called her
with his rough voice
and she went back in.
From that moment the mouthy man in the middle,
top hat in hand, barks and waves our three floodlit rings
into motion with a flourish of brassy blasts,
the big top gets turvy and my stomach's all nerves
making the bushel of peanuts I just munched feel
like broken glass chewed by my friend the tattooed geek.

Martha says, Elephants are supposed to be more
dignified... don't mope! It is hard to grasp for her
tail day after daisy-chained day when I'm holding
this bouquet of forget-me-nots rubber-banded
by a grudge. I tell her, The real indignity's
being dressed in a rhinestone-studded satin cape.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
I wish we had a president
That cared about the populace
Instead of one who's wants the law
To bankrupt almost all of us.
The one we have cares about
Only the super rich and the white.
He’s a ditzy mouthy narcissist
And  for sure that is not right!

It really wasn’t long ago
We went through this kind of fear
And now we are feeling sick
That terror is once again here.
This time we’re not afraid
Of people from another land.
Our country may be dying
But, again it’s by it’s own hand.

Part of it is stupidity and sloth
And part is just evil mindedness,
That either makes us look away
Or make others hate kindness.
Some of our parents trained us
To be big bullies and whiney brats.
And others ******* progress
By dissolving into brainless spats.

I wish we had a president
Like we have had in times gone by
Instead of one who is so happy
To pat his own back, cheat and lie.
It would give us all a chance
To avoid waging another war.
I wish we had a president
That knew what that job was for.
Sean Hunt Sep 2017
Donald thinks he is a king no doubt
"Off with his head" I hear him shout
and other nations best beware
of this man with too much hair

The Princess travels at his side
to other courts far and wide
And on his throne she seems to set
both her beautiful eyes

Her husband also likes to play
this big-boy power game
Watch in his supporting role
as he carries her through the threshold
I wrote you a poem, about why I'd write a poem for you. You caught me one time trying to tame my mind with lines of rhyme, when I told you it was about a woman we both knew you said, next time... why don't you write about me? I said because you don't inspire me. The easiest excuse for writers block... I need to be inspired. I need to be hotwired into a matrix of men and women who are driven by every feeling they are giving. I need rhythm and words. The pen is a decipherer and the page a treasure map where we will write our way to gold. We sold ourselves on the belief that we could... write smiles onto people...

So we write. Muster our might and write light into the dark times. Stitch beauty into the scars of the harmed,  arm ourselves to the teeth against those who act beneath what is considered humane. With ink in our veins we write like we fight. Unafraid of a broken bones because the next blow we throw will be through our throats. We are mouthy poets, and the most powerful weapon in arsenal is our battle cry. And should one of us die on the field we'll uproar, we'll outcry, we'll encore and we'll breathe life into what remains of our fallen and give them the best ******* send off ever.

And when we finally reach home after our time together ... We'll keep writing. We'll write worlds out of words. Write instructions to the sky and orders to the ground will write love notes to sound and have this all down before the next sun swings around, with metaphors abounding and similes astounding we don't clown around with the words we've found.

We write in skin grafts. We talk the hollow into wholesome entice oppressed into the inspired and paint the lonely as lovely. We fill in the gaps. We are the ifs the ands and the buts following the 1 word answers to the big questions. Do you love me? What are you angry about? How do you feel?
And we'd say, yes! If I was terminally ill and have the doctor prescribe me you, because you make me feel more alive than I've ever felt!
We'd say, everything. Sometimes I just feel trapped in my own skin like the society that we live in has made jail cells out of my skin cells!
We'd say... Okay. I feel like his smile told me, he'd catch me if I should fall. We write so we can say it all.
We write in passion and love, we write an apology, we write in admiration, and affection. We write in absolution as much as uncertainty. We write in purpose as much as apathy.
We don't write because we should. We write because we can and It's everything we are and everything I am.

This!.. Is why we write.
Slam poem. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOuMJYuGfQ8
Diverseman2020 Jan 2010
Working these lonely nights
While everyone asleep
Chained to heavy irons
As I pace slowly upon the deck
Paying an old debt
Whom the crew has butchered
Leaving no witnesses
To persecute
The captain is decease
I, a stable boy
Knew the real truth
For my tongue will never speak
Nor mouthy words make noise
Being a mute
Who eyes can only see
The silence of horror
Coming towards me
My Moonlight archipelago,
my escape
I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep

I pull you in...
your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature
under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through
your follicles

I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you

we are Cathars,
heuristic heretics,
learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization)

still

Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins
beam raw:
render quiet:
Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence,
you vacillate
and I’m vacant
my voice removed
spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares 


Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
Creepstar Feb 2016
I'll take a rain check on saving for a rainy day
Spend all I got on getting wrecked and watch my vision sway
Problems for health it does outweigh
When I'm out I look like a ******* on display

On the bus I'll spew in ya handbag
With one hand down my trousers the other holding a glad rag
Spit some abuse at some mouthy dumb ****
When I'm drunk I'm harder to move than a wet sandbag
It’s not an absence
this 2am darkness—
half-dark and half-lit
by its unnatural glows—
grabs hold of,
firmly pulling it—
this thing not
an absence— growling
from the dead
black inside a stray
dog’s too-mouthy head;

not just it, but the voices—
untroubled and present
if not too
many, tucked into
a more deeply darkened night.
It takes them, not to
gobble them
up, but to throw them
off cobble, cement and stone
to open places, voices
won’t normally come.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
standing on the hellbender periphery...
something happens in
the anglo-lingual world...
something correlating injustice...
"whiteness" - the babylon circus...
you name it... and somehow...
this doesn't explode to other areas
of the world, but merely implodes...

perhaps it's the same in france and germany...
how scandinavia (notably sweden)
succumbed to this: i will not or rather:
i don't want to know...

i actually miss not having made
myself available to my grandparents
for this past month...
i'm pretty sure i would have read
and read and stayed sober...

4 years outside of the confines of both
england and december teasing january...
a hip-replacement surgery of
a very demanding mother...
turns out... her worries were unjustified...
if the surgeon was happy...
the nurses were happy...
it required almost a month of passing...
her vampirism draining me...
until some physiotherapist explained
it to her...

but that's not enough...
to vacuum each day to better keep her
impulsive-compulsive ticks in check...
as much as i like the joke of owning
two bonsai tigers...
and i haven't minded the cooking,
the ironing, the whole Cindarella shabang...
but when there's all that...
and there's the father loitering
around waiting for a new contract...

all the great things i ended up doing
with a degree in chemistry...
this is my last outlet...
get busy scribbling,
drinking and... over-rating my ambitions...
but all these anglo-lingual problems
just invite themselves in...
i listen to them and...

on the doorsteps of Russia...
can you imagine what sort tangos this
multi-cultural experiment would dance
in Russia?
that's practically an Asian entity...
or in the Balkans with its still preserved
Turkic presence of Islam...
anywhere where...

- i really can't see the problems...
other than this: this is a very terrible piece
of writing... look at it...
flabby, disjointed...
different problems in Russia...
or... ha... written in the vicinity of London...
with a mind-set still bound up
to having Belarus and Ukraine as neighbours...
and Russia too...

on the hellbender periphery of "whiteness"...
this whole: we were colonial powers once
argument... is sort of dead on my ears...
even i can attest: the darker skinned Kenyans
and the lighter skinned Nigerians...

i'm actually tired of the whites
who are pushing their transcendental *******...
never more free if they didn't push their
ideas and instead learned a new language...
apparently england fares the worst
when it comes to bilingualism...
circa 30% of its 15 - 35 year olds speak
a second language...
compared with Denmark: circa 90+%...
germany circa 80%... Poland thereabouts...

for some reason i was never taught
to "love" my fellow-countrymen... being an émigré...
how much of it was an automated: self-exile
and how much of it: we did this for you
to have a better life...
better life - as i now ask...
it's a life... i don't have comparative literature
to call it any better or any worse...
it is what it is...

i'm tired and i'm drinking:
which usually implies that i will be more honest
than usual...

the better parts of me i've left with other people,
what i have accumulated is,
the worst part of them... mostly their: sanctimonious
appeal... or the bigmouth strikes: yet again...

even Russia is a multicultral societ...
but there's no prancing beyond the better part
of the trough of Moscow's snippet piglets...
moss-co... opt in or opt-out...

the lost ability to consecrate one's life
in postcard snippers of photographs:
that once upon a time other people would take...
but now you take yourself...

imagine a man that masturbates once...
every "blue moon"... on / off...
what door is opened most frequently
in the house? the fridge is opened more times
than even the front door...
and then there's the selfie barrage...
because... looking into a mirror is no longer
enough...
if photography can be an art-work...
what the hell is the photograph
when one can focus in on something in a mirror?
are people who take these photographs
are afraid of looking in the mirror?

to have to stand completely stark naked...
mollusk-esque...
and the world's not quiet an oyster...
and all that: one punch sucker and it's
not so much a one punch k.o.,
and a one punch k.o. and a postmortem...
i've seen one of these examples:
"i.r.l.": i even hovered over the body
with a bunch of bystanders and said
out-loud...
'well... this sweet ******* is
not seeing next spring' - i.e. getting up
and having life-support machines
attached to him...

evolutionary: to begin with...
it's norman normie normansky...

oh yeah, i've seen a one punch post-mortem,
i've been to a brothel,
and i've been to a strip-club...
but still in Russia...
and esp. in Poland...
on the periphery of "whiteness"...
and there was no "cipher" to follow-suit....
what's expected is...
not expected...

because the button of cleavage...
which... let's face it...
one can't distinguish it from the peach
of an ***...
i wonder: would i, ever be bound...
to the grand canyon; "exemplification"?
please, stress any "further"...
two croissants doing the rub-rub
in an imitation game for two mollusks *******...
as ever: looking for
a tomahawk and a... scalp...

but in Russia: you would never see
this pseudo!
pseudo is a cuss-word reserved for petting
hunting dogs...
when you want them to aport! in reverse....
not in Russia, not in Poland...
good cuck-luck taming Ukraine...
perhaps all these ******* ever knew...
was how to seem: mouthy...
appropriate... and what better place to start...
than some obscrucity equivalent
to Rotherham!

oh i see it... when the THETA becomes the V...
rover nor rho-f-f rho-f-f...
******* r and am!
or simply quartz... and spam canned ham!

i was never expected to be the thief among
prostitutes...
kissing and the dosage of the reprimand
buther... cut always below the bulk
of a knee... survived the thinning
of the shins...
in psychiatric terms my "codition" is alluded
to as: the crude soup...
never was a more sane man demanded
to feel inadequacy...

but i salvaged for better complaints...
this is not even, remotely assertive of...
when i want and i will not
disparage from sound savegery
and... "that thing in the back of my mind"...
the sane people call it:
the hallucination of morality...
they're all hush hush about it...
they don't want to be prescribed:
shock-treatment of... being dropped into
an ice bath... to hell with their bowties!

jesus mary and joseph...
i could never become a jack the ol' ripper
though... i became a tapeworm of kissing
when it came to the canvas of
prostitutes...
parasitical lips... bite-down tooth envy
of my great-grandfather...
what i could never kiss...
i always wanted to bite to tease with...

now my libido is satisfied...
i can claim not being the hyperbolic outlier....
i don't need a wife,
a mother in law... a child...
a shadow life of a Chikatilo...
to lend myself to Cain...
i can absolve myself with the rites of Abel...
how... oh how this most pristine how...
i only supposed i'd be dead...
and not playing both "victim"...
prosecutor... and inspector columbus to boot!

conventional language scares me...
there's so much hiding behind
immovable objects...
that in turn the moon or the table become
quasi-deities in a world
littered with demigod *****!
of the polytheistic gods...
which one... didn't chance a common semblance
to a *******?
perhaps i've earned this rigid tongue...
rattle and sawdust itching from it...
first bound...

last resort: this is not about to become
a conventionality of language...
this is not going to become...
an aud lang syne...
this is not going to become: tea-party
forget me: forget me or taste the forget-me-not!

revised lent topic: on the hellbender periphery...
how these post-colonial former subjects...
well unless you're in Poland,
Belarus, Ukraine, Russia...
mein gott! i really should start knocking
on Russian's door, more often...
this sort of ******* that's allowed
in England would be... most likely...
quickly suppressed...
for the good of the people:
it's always: for the good of the people...
oops... " "...
yeah yeah... "for the good of the people"...

the colonial ambitions...
and the guilt of being white in eastern europe...
which is why i can never master
the english conundrum...
while kenyans are darker than the nigerians...
but in their dark-choc...
seem to be basked in coconut oil
that oozes from the Indian ocean...
Kenyans who import timber from Ghana?
and the Nigerians...

oh sure sure sweetheart!
we can revive the Balkan enterprise...
you just say when!
we'll have the christian serbs run amok...
over the islam minorities...
sure sure...
it's almost akin to: teasing Russia
to climb out of its Caucasian bed-root...
when it ****** with the Turkic peoples...

and of course... coming across the
Afro-Europeans of the colonial present, past,
and future... there was only one history
of / for the Europeans...
origins in Africa...
sorry... what about the Indo- prefix?

here we have the sanskrit...
here we have the hierogylphs...
but... what of the writing of ancient
Kenyans?
i'm no better... came st. cyrill and his greek
contra the glagolitic...
which is... probably southern slavic...
and... there were the runes
and the ancient romans fighting
the tribes of Danube... but never as far north
as the Baltic did they come...

but in mind: i'm always going to be bound
to the periphery knocking on the doors
of Kiev and Novgorod...
with the Mongol also citing:
he too knocked...
something happened... had his hand cut off
at the wrist with the remnant budding
leftover of the Crimean Tartars...

so... this passover former colonial...
"grief" is now running former colonial society's
mischief?
am i white, or am i asian?
i will never know...
Islam and what? the crusades of the baltic states
by the teutonic knights?
and Europe and Europe and Europe
without the english, the myth of troy revived
in Italy... and the proud yet backward
greeks...
i too thought: if it's not feral enough...
it's feral enougn where english is not spoken!

after all... england is a far far away place...
even if i'm currently "living" in it...
it wasn't invaded and all it had to propose was...
its own ******* to the external world...
pristine england...
pristine p.s. england...

this anglo-phile... ahem... "problem"?
in ukraine or in russia?
it's a problem and a problem of this sort
is treated with a sort of amnesia...
equivalent to:
today's Monday, yes?
oh... today's not a Monday?
will i still you if you mind calling it a Tuesday?!

the body intact bound to a vicinity of London...
the mind... detached... elsewhere...
perhaps it was the over-rationalisation
of the darwinistic approach...
again: even copernicus didn't or wouldn't
have entertained such an over-reach
of his heliocentrism become dogmatic...
copernicus who?
exactly! only someone like wittgenstein
would celebrate copernicus...
the west only celebrates galileo:
because of the trial...

i can attest though... mendeleev is secure!
is it perhaps odd...
that some ****- would not find
differences between a croat
and a moldavian?
a kashubian and a silesian?
a scot an a welshman?

imagine my ah! gasp!
the tribes within a tribe...
the "home" team consisting of liverpudlians!
and the "away" team consisting of scousers!
liverpool f.c. supporters of the former...
everton supporters for the latter...
but we're all white!
i'm "white white" because i've acquired
this tongue and i can...
somehow... forget mein: wurzeln...

mind you... elsewhere?
that word... root? in deutschezunge?

wurzeln: decipher: nurse! scalpel!
wur-zeln...
no no... this will not do...
wü-ř-eln
alternatively...
wü-ž-eln...

and that's not "woo"... it's a V-not-U...
voor-zeln!
alternatively there's the ż (rz)...
which is equivalent to either ř or ž...
ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z...
"when" and "where" you know that's
an orthographic distinction to begin with...
i.e. ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z
when rz = ż...

i really have "real" problems to mind
of my own, on the periphery of:
the "western lands"... st. cyril is biting at my toes...
as ancient roman bites back...
the alphabet intact...
you either learn some greek...
or you don't gloat about being lazy about
not having acquired some passable "knowledge"
of cyrilic...

so? here's to taking another selfie from the perspective
of fearing to look into a mirror...
and here's to some new obscure modern hieroglyphic
take on the "thumbs-up"... and: shmiley :)!

better i stick to the diacritical markers...
niche point of interest...
niche to the point of claustrophobia...
but of all these anglo- problems?
these "racial" problems?
yes, yes, racial problems in "eastern" europe...
of real concern...
the russian empire and the kazakh people...
mongol remains...
ottoman remains...
western europe now being nothing but
shame for the rest of us...

"the rest of us"... "us"...
"we" could have said... before they had a chance
to gloat... to buffer gloating...
to pride themselves beside pride per se...
to mistake pride for gloating...
before "we" came and learned their language...
and found the leashes of their starved
dobermann hounds...
the mediocre liberal elites of the dutch...
the belgians and their... swiss ambitions...
hell: did they really have to invite
the swedes into this "problem"?!

perhaps this is written in english...
sure as **** it's not written by a native...
i'm no more an englishman than
a parsley root is a ******* carrot!
although i dare say...
that essex hue of being: toasted...
coming from a lazy afternoon at a snippet
of a Brighton beach?
the well-tanned look?
no... even i don't want to fake being
Thai in December...

i thought i'd ease the "tension"...
who can say: i'm piglet pink with a dash of
cranberry... cosmopolitan cocktail whenever i
pretend to "feel like it"...
otherwise porky leather...
and then... the layers and hues of...
copper and chocolate *******...
then there's that amnesia rust...
and there's always that porcelain japanese...
the albino iranian and we can have
a ******* **** contrastic hues...
copper over there, some cinnamon over here...
some chocolate in between
and some porky leather 'ere...
personally i think i'm more sepia than white...
there's still that visible blood in my veins
that allowed me to conjure up:
the blue-bloods...
better in german: der blaugeblüt...

perhaps: when in rome...
well... the vandals and the rest of the evil brood
had to, at some point...
tell the romans... you're not being yourselves...
there's no longer a social cordiality in place...
there's no more: when in rome...
because i'm not native of these lands
and of this tongue...
but i will not be... smothered by some
*******-worth-a-roasting debility mongers
and mongrels of: subversion!

you should visit Russia from time to time...
if you get a chance to **** a siberian
******...
hell: don a ******, she'll tell you she's
on contraceptive pills...
then "all of a sudden" you'll find yourself
wondering: matt! i think i'm pregnant...
months after the relationship ended...
and she's on her next pair of gloves;
but she's calling you... for you to pick up
the pieces...

diese englischprobleme ar nicht mein "sache"!
and if there's a heaven...
i pray to god i speak some obscure dialect
of german... bohemian german...
silesian german...
i'll even settle for gothic german!
not for some love of the people...
i just want to imagine myself as having
died a: lebkuchenbäcker...

a gingerbreadbaker...
since *** didn't cut it...
and ******* became a yawn...
there's only this...
the remains of exploring language
without having those stiff, polite...
practical, teasing an escape from solipsism,
formal... samples of language use...
this is the best i can offer...
to use language for the sort of reasons...
that with the language thus used...
i will not have familiar ground to stand /
walk on... since this language does not
exist in the dignified everyday:
lick-the-envelope... seal it... send.
Jordan Frances Jul 2014
I have always been accustomed to cleaning up everyone else's messes.
At work I literally do it.
With my friends, I'm the peacemaker.
With my family, I always offer to assist financially
Or I'm not given a choice.
So why can't I seem to get my own life in check?
Why is my own slew of pain
Anxiety, worthlessness and loneliness
Just settling like oil on top of water?
Now, in the places I used to fix things
I'm breaking them.
Where I used to clean up messes
I'm making them.
At work I'm combative or panic stricken
Sometimes even both.
At home, sometimes I get mouthy
But when I offer to help with my parents' money problems
It just makes it worse.
And it's not like I have any friends anymore
I shut them all out
Or vice versa.
Now, I know this is a ramble
But all I want to know is
When will someone come to save me?
When will one of the people
Who I used to protect
Step in to help me
Clean up my messes
The way I fixed theirs?
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
yeah, imagine that,
walking into a room with 20+
strangers eager to numb-your-prostate...
li'ill ol' me, mind you,
walked into a brothel with 10+
prostitutes and lazily said:
can one of your girls pick...
then tha taboo quote came out
from the most mouthy one
of them: you can't do that!
that's against our dogma!
fine! you'll do, since you're so
******* mouthy...
oh the freudian madonna-complex
is real... very real...
you go to a brothel:
you know what you're getting...
and you know what the end is...
how can man ever retrieve his
objectivity when there's
the existence of an object
(money) that morphs subjectivity?
one man finds wealth in being poor,
another man finds poverty
in being wealthy...
huh?
            but the madonna-*****
complex ought to be the currently
discussed zeitgeist...
the oedipus complex is so
20th century, so wilhelm ii...
   freud has to evolve beyond
the oedipus complex, and into his
lesser known "space-time"
   madonna-whiore complex -
otherwise? i'll discredit him
                through & through!
oh you think it's funny?
that i can get an *******:
no problem with a ******* -
but at the same time have
trouble getting an *******
with a "sanitation" worker of
the ethos of ***?
              common women
don't turn me on...
               they're boring
as **** to me... but with prostitutes?
let's just say that it
has never been a 1986 challenger
or a 1968 apollo 6 attempt
at "getting *****"....
  oh freud is alive and kickin'
but not in the current frame of
being worth interpreting -
oedipus died with wilhelm ii...
given the current post-feminist
deconstructionism of the male psyche
using the... JESUS!...
of the nag hammadi library...
well... we're right on time with
the 20 clowns packed into a mini-cooper
and the grand: circus elephants
blowing-up balloons show!
                               ta(h) da(h)!
Elizabeth Jan 2016
The joint in your hand quaked
Under the pressure of your diagnosis,
Its flame slipping into the air,
While your last puff trickled into left lung.
At first you smoked for depression.
Now it was a cry to God,
A beg for mercy from lifeless feet,
A trip down a flight or two of stairs,
A fall in the shower.

I didn't know how you would walk again without your toes
Knees
Hips.
But I learned your condition is a silent killer -
it started with the smallest flakes of skin,
As Satan lit an accurate match to singe your nerves.

You told me you had MS
And I didn't know why your breaths became frantic,
Or your tears screaming.
"Mean spirited",
"Mouthy sister",
Was what I told my friends.
God was playing jump rope with his spinal cord.
Multiple sclerosis didn't roll off my tongue so quickly,
first attempts were stutters at best -
I had to grow up first.
And while I was lying about your health
You were in agony over your grandmother,
Dead for five years on a stained hospital sheet.

In the end she begged for death,
And we have years to go.

— The End —