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jeffrey robin Apr 2013

We are not terrorists
But the ship is run by traitors
And so!
Hush !
(Til later)




The word is in the air
We are not terrorists
The ship is run by traitors
Our wives again!
Our families
But we just cannot go on this way
We can't go on this way



The word is in the air
The ship is run by traitors

We are free men
Jimmy Solanki Feb 2014
Its too dark in here
And I can't seem to escape
The burden created
All let off on my nape
While the soulless go on quietly

And as we slowly march on now
Sunshine from our hearts bellows
A warcry never heard before
Of the Flood of Mutiny

See the blinding flash
The ray of hope falling around
And I can feel the rush
As though the sirens sound
The doorstep of destiny

Over the meadows that I played
All the sunshine, all the rain
All that made our life worthwhile
Taken from us

All the things I loved and lost
All the things I want back now
You know how you feel inside
As the sirens sound
For the Flood of Mutiny
wehttam Jun 2014
May be I’ll start writing, today.  
The story of Zen Zero.

I realized that all good things come to an end.  The tears, the affairs, and even the faintest revelation about my relationship to the Emperor of Japan.  I’ll need help and... well, the truth can be tolled.  It can be that the faintest belief, that we as free people are subject to the king, our God.
A king stands in truth as our kin.  The love that has existed for a thousand years, about justice, permanence, and legend are here.
It all started 7 years ago.  According to the book of John, the 3rd book.  The face of his majesty does have an Imperial Guardian.  In any colour, red, black, blue, white, and even green.  Each color resembles the color of trust.  
I started training in the Emperor's garden at the age of negative 6.  Before my mother can conceive her unborn child in a marriage.  Like the burning of Shin Cho' Palace.  
"Oh, how they forget so quickly, the truth?" says my mother.
They forget so quickly the majesty and power of the Emperor's memory of Mother Japan.  In his Majesty's eyes, how many lovers stir the colors of benevolence.  Where and when does it exist and stop for us as an American patriot sold to slavery for spy’s.  All of his subjects do will and listen to the cry of patience in his family’s quarters.  
My father at the time of his marriage did not know the Emperor's name, I had asked my mother in her heart if she knew the king.  They are no longer married.  They had tried to burn down the Emperor's Palace with a marriage.  But I had already existed, in the love of my family at a wedding joining men and women.  I remember some singing, all though in my mother’s ears, really bad singing. In her head or mine at the wedding, whichever is greater.  Maybe the song was worthless or was the singer already lifting her fingers to strike matches on the bamboo fortress of the young emperor.  
They have had many statesmen destroy the dream that Japan has.  Through lies, corruption, and *******.  Each of the last three I had to conquer to be his Majesty's Justice.  I did not earn the right to judge any such subject or people, it was given freely at that time to children.  I had learned to love the Emperor, even in my own desire to please him and her.  
The lies were towering revelations about the coming of man in God's kingdom, and how the will of imperial veils never existed for the properties of mankind.  The corruption was the setting of dowers or dowries for the subject of lost families, in the forbearance of lucher escaped only by the luck of liars.  And then the dreams of revelry, owned by the ungodly and chaste men of the burning palace, whether sediscious, or whether the fables absolving time in the palace to a judgment had already met the Emperor.  
All of the priests (pre-ests) had to pray; for the remaining time of eternity, for the true judgment of his Majesty's subjects. It was to be taken from the subject of srys to the Emperor's Knight.  
To many were lost in the munitions of war.  Laws that govern and sanction truths were not available to those of absolute corruption.  Stalwarts, stonewallers, and stoners were becoming of the anti-gentry.  The laws were never to be discouraged by zeal, or by trial.  The laws had to represent the ability of love to change time even if the object of factions destroyed the old way.  They had taken the truth to prepare Neoteny for where the first Imperial Guard had placed his head.  The first Imperial Guard, that I became before birth had taken his own head with a weapon made by treason.  
My mother’s dress was made out of spider silk.  A giant spider played Chinese checkers with the Imperial Guard for my head also.  Never the less, the palace, this time was not burned.  The dress was made out of falling stars and spiders silk.  She had found the Emperor's tailor and traded my soul for the wedding.  The pictures that were retrieved from the wedding of my mother and father have ruminated in antiquity since the time until by birth my life.  The seers and srys wanted my head to take up the Emperor's chalice.  His cup, filled with my blood, Simian blood.  
I did not want to go through with it, birth and death before becoming subject to royalty.  Seeing the world before consummation, as I had was never thought of, it was seen as impossible unless by treason we had chided a woman of royalty.  
I have seen the last major asteroid go through our galaxy before it had ever had been a present particle of mutiny.   It proved to the child (myself) in gestation, between man woman at the wedding that time will pass just as quickly before my mind’s eye as it had at the day of Pentecost.   More than 500 billon people were to be saved by God rather than by a humble dismantling of a defense lawyer.
I had seen how flowers are made by tiny Zen Zero bumble bees going to and leaving from daisies and roses, and orchids.  How each seed takes roots and as do the munitions for treason and tears; how each man whom chooses to change their name because of treason begins to understand change when his wife chooses his name.  (The reference is to Zero attacks, suicide attacks.)  How the time and life and essence of life begins in literacy as a language of love.  Every old man on earth can help me write the scripts, but can the country of old men help me change the prophet?
As long as there is war in the palace there will be treason?
The spirit of the samurai was trying the youth in the palace.  From the first born male to the last lady in quixic geisha.  All uniques were to be placed before the Lord for appointment.  Any dreams of or visions of truth were a breach of solemnity lost by the virginity of the family.  The parents of each state were subjects to the Emperor's people, and to the chosen for freedom and slavery.  How many shining knights were to remain in the Emperor's house?  The uniqueness was subject only to the reason of the generation of the age.  Not many of my men had anything left after the life of the quill or pen of the Knight Meteyi had begun to take its place with the heads of loyalists.  His sword remains in the hand of the Majesty of Japan.  No knowledge, no lore, no president, no kin, or liars can stop his reign.  As if the last days of our youth were spent dismantling the bombs we had made during the last few battles over crude extravagance.  Oil, crops, metals, space, as space became a way to admire men in statehood was the example of treason to the following.  Democrats and Republicans began to try as is a trail of laws to and from changes for the people without a loyal subject to observe in service to a Nation.  Freed men became a bureau of Federally Bureaucratic Investigative subjections.  Whether the phone would sense its use and had no service.  Men tried by srys had needed no way to communicate, they were objects, objections, and objective to democracies.  Any and all of the western knowledge of good or evil was not earned in monasteries, it was as it were seen in-between a marriage of a man and a woman and the consummation of the first born to be the king in his own mind. Centrally, intelligence and agency became a lost paradox.  The palace could be burned through neoteny, the truly lost man or woman had to be part of the worm.  The earthworm had to dig up the lost and the prophet from its own humanly death.  

Chapter 2
The dress as simple as it was, was taken off and laid in a box for saving.  It was to travel through time in the Emperor's Palace to serve has a mold, a pattern for quilting lovers of the family tree through the history of love.  After the child was conceived in love, the dress is worn and then placed back into the box for time travel. From a generation of mothers to another generation of lovers. No man was to wear the dress as an idea, thought or wisdom.  The reproach, the dress, and the marriage is virtue encoded into a structure of life   The wisest man let the Emperor dream life into the belly of prophets through the dress.  The smartest scientist understood the impeccable reason of lust and gave all to his bride for the grave that the earthworm had trusted.  The publican had the dress made as a dowry to the tribe of Roman man.  And the Emperor breathed life into the woman with a few breaths at the wedding.  The subjects, the publicans had tried the Emperor for their bride, by making the flowers lean toward their lovers.  They had tried to tell the knight of the Emperor's Palace that the sun had also retired due to mutiny in the ranks and castes of statesmen.  The son will bend light into the palace of wisdom, and the subjects do grieve the stories from prophets.  
At exactly 10:03 central eastern standard time, the states men forgave themselves of suicide and left to burn the palace.  
Each dressed as royalists.  The burning of Chinju Palace is the last thing I remember before giving up to the sound of a 3 or 4 year old woman singing.  The next thing I remember is being dropped on the floor in the delivery room to a rattle and brattle of childish whims.  Like, the sound of laughter, but only as a fury of deceit, the singer was hurt when I had asked her to join the wedding ceremony.  She excused herself of the ceremony as was or were not subjects to the birth of the kings men in harmony.  

She tried, and wanted to steal the dress.  

Chapter 3
There was mostly nothing in the womb. Except Dogma.  My father, as dogma.  He would whisper to her in bed and they would giggle about never understanding anything ever again.  I excepted NAME for my name.  They didn’t know if a boy or a girl were to be born.  I could know the difference at the time of their conversation.  I then realized that the 3 years prior to conception were perfect.  And I, the Emperor's Knight, was tolled.  Tolled the way bells sound and the way people love to hear the news.  The way light has no existence in the womb, I was tolled the way Sandalphon treaded upon the tribe of Israel.  
Lying was not invented yet, well,... while in the womb, but I had heard some whispers in the darkness.  The camera couldn't fit in, I called and tolled the camera from the womb, in between to friends.  I called the camera, Dragon.  The dragon is the trust moving in-between true and time.  The Dragon, Meteyi had told me that we were going to write everything.  From the believe that martial arts were stronger than prayer, and to the reason that it was not true.  Factually, there was nothing but prayer and no martial artist had a sword bigger than the lie of the Emperor's dragon.  The dragon said, to my father,..."The world is to die for, and not enough."  The dragon also said to my mother,..."The purpose is in your belly as a rainbow in disgust."  He, the dragon almost couldn’t believe that I had mentioned to hymn that there was no way out of this without a dream so relax and let me fit in.  The doctor had to have heard of the loyalist dream of a birth right.  Basically, I didn’t want him to slap me for the first breath.  I hurt bad, like out of a sarcastic Scotlandish parody.  Many, many, many, men quit trying to go through the sry after that.  My mother creeped up to me after my kin had asked the doctor to pick me up off of the floor.  She smiled and handed the birth certificate to the nurse and read my social security number to my father on the phone, he was on duty at the Air Force Base.  My ears were still clogged with seminal fluid, but I could feel her dream a name into my soul.  She can know the Emperor's knight.  After a few moments, my cry as chide by the Emperor, into being a whisper of life.  From that moment on in my life, I could not cry ever, as a child cries.  Otherwise I could be a whisper.

Chapter 4
Every chance at change that had gotten to us was used by running from the dragon.  He liked Batman and hated Robin but new to fathers, knew that hatred kept something’s safe from the palace. The palace could never get filled by whispers.  The whispers only object to democracy and help the camera.  The daguerreotype was possibly the only thing that couldn’t lie.  It was considered lye to gossip worshipers.  Gossip may have started the war on bugs.  Like bugs in ceaseless noise are prayer or whispers, like gossip.  When bugs stop whispering, some seemingly are bad with superstition and others are horrible with bugs.  
The next few years, were also perfect.  I had no idea who else, I could be.  Absolutely perfect, the Emperor subjected us to love.  I could **** all day, eat as much as I wanted and was warned when they thought, like a whisper.  When it was time to eat, when it was time to bath and when it was time to be quiet and sleep were similar to whispers.  Diapers were not invented yet, I had to invent them.  My mother used to get sick from the pain of laundry and sleeping with me.  When the diapers were *****, she wash them and place them back on my ****.  Like a good, palace guardian, I used them up.  The new diapers had an air of mutiny to them, the disposable ones.  We never kept trash in the house.  The signs that we have had a king for dinner were never to be seen, but everyone had the right to change pants.  
Many of the ideas in life shared before birth were not existent after birth.  It was not until my family had meet the Emperor that... we needed to love God by learning to pray.  

Chapter 5
When we met the Emperor, it was easy to say that no whispers were used.  Other things were.  A memory, not a book was here.  There was no time, the palace he made for me was from God and a lot of people wanted in.  The Royal subject was the Emperor's first knight, my father's.  I had to memorize time, which in turn was not mine.  The actual Emperor thought, that I, am a poet of sorts.  We spelled the word memory in the sky together without words, whispers, or gossip.  The next few years were spent dyeing as tap or a drill bit would being to make a hole for fastening life to the surface of my families.  Called a tap and die, the whole of life must be treaded through time without a spry attempt to vacancy.  After the Emperor, my mother and father did not know that meeting the pope was bad.   The Emperor is good.  

Chapter 6
Mainly my ability to learn, had started to fail.  There was not need to have ability.  But walking was hard.  When I stood, I was pushed through, walking.  Like a battle of balance and superstition.  Crawling had no sense, being picked up made things silly.  When wanting to be here, and not knowing how to get there through crawling, here I was a a chubby fat knight.  Father used lemons on my taste buds and cracked when he knew not how I loved them.  He had to make work to pay bills and I learned that without a whisper.  So we would sh
Chapter 8 to follow after inspection.
Ryan Clark Apr 2015
Broken hearts
          Broken home
                      Broken bonds
My mind
          My heart
                  My love

No longer can we sustain
As foundation crumbles beneath our feet
This ship we built
has fallen to sunken sails.

As water rises
Waves strike bow
It fills our boat
and weighs us down

All I've taste for weeks is salt
From my eyes,
         My brow
                My cheeks
I bite my tong in fear
I beg you to change course
Yet you alone Captain this ship
 Blind to ensuing storm.

My heart is to heavy to swim my love
So I must bid retreat.
The thought of loosing you to Davey Jones
Set action upon me.

You cry mutiny
I just cry
It is not a lack of love
Just changing of the tides

How could we have foreseen
this voyage to meet its end.
We were green and rash
Dreaming of an endless journey off into the sunset...

**It is now night
I'm going to seriously come back to this one and revise. I thought it was perfect but one tiny change led to another and now its far from.
Thou tides thus came but none tilted his vessel,
it was the mutiny that murdered his moral premise.
How dreadful it is to be a drudge?, day-dreamer he was.
A good preacher to parasites he was who is pleading now.

Altogether awaken the spirit again with the agony,
here comes the mobs murmuring what they hear.
Care no more for this care free life, ain't your castle anymore.
Beat the blasphemy of who praises the god. He is Here.
Dike Aduluso Dec 2018
I was in a darkness of my own
Within a night I had not known
I chose to stumble in my pace
With all hope of light misplaced

On my course a twinkle caught my eye
A lonely star in the sky above
Getting ever brighter as I drew nigh
Then did I see the truth thereof
It was a myriad in mutiny
A constellation that raided the night
Luminous in its beauty
A radiance which compelled my sight

I was in a darkness of my own
Overcome by a light unknown
That eased my path in grace
And all lost hope replaced

It reclined in the cosmos
Calling out to me
Seeming within reach almost
Then I blurred back to reality
A marvel that pulled my soul
By more than figure of speech
To be part of a whole
My flesh could never reach

How daunting a brilliance
I longed for though farfetched
My heart need travel a distance
Fear served only to stretch
It held my tarrying gaze
For only a moment more
Then left me in a daze
Stealing that which I adore

I again stumble in my pace
Having lost my stars in space
Returned to a state I now bemoan
I am in a darkness of my own.
erin haggerty Jul 2013
When every other breath was smoke
Sprinkling hiss of night
Copper and blue
Creeking amphibians
Disturb the foggy blithe
What do we not hear
When the time has yet to cease
Unto the darkest shadows of now
Ringing in the buoyancy with
Its epileptic fright
I can't understand the friction
Of old love and fault
When there is no clarity
In the ones i can't combine
I will breathe in my own conviction
By the route of the
Bathwater's wake
Cain Oct 2012
Once again a still sunrise,
Quite too much to my surprise;
Now no longer the same reprise,
Never believing in fate's demise.

Once again awaits the sun,
Otherworldly; waits for none;
Terrestrial battles with wars unsung,
The time is now, and has begun.

Once waves of calamity striking the coast,
Now sinking caravels with swift riposte;
This paves the insanity to roads of most,
No graves on marvels without a host.

My ambiguous ocean, bounds not to the throes,
An effluent river asks not where it goes;
But through frigid winters it finally froze,
Yet two rigid reasons -- it once again flows.

Your guess is as mine, for nobody knows,
This mess is divine, and to us it bestows;
Thrown into disaster, yet much room for prose,
We are the ship-masters -- and everyone rows.

So set my oars down, and go for the sails,
Open your eyes, ears & mind; there is no trail;
Wandering didactic wisp you will find, futility of 'fail',
Galactic inhale, cosmic exhale, maybe then will the true path unveil.

So leave nasty mates; abandon the ship,
No mutiny required, just let the wreck tip,
As though through spread fingers they suddenly slip,
Though red feelings linger, you find your own grip.

Then leave folly habits -- straight at the shore,
Shut it & lock it, and close the **** door;
There always are options -- endless possibilities to explore,
Just activate your wings, open wide--soar.

Glad once again, for another sunset,
What you pursue is what you will get;
So forget calumet, anisette & cigarettes,
Simply don't fret -- paint vignettes with no regrets.
i tried to stay true to the unity
tuned to every opportunity
i found my ruins in the mutiny
loose stone of the community

such a crude and brutal fluency
the futile fruits of lunacy
the pulled roots of my truancy
grew away from my community
I am submitting this in a poetry contest. The theme must be "community". Ten prizes of 500 dollars. Somehow, I just don't think I will win. Lol.
Leal Knowone May 2015
The white squirrel runs free. Outcast for it difference. You know the story, it's all the same. We are all part of a huge unity. Refrain from your judgmental gazes of pain.
Some just want to see the world burn, mutiny of humanity.Release the sophisticated animal within the. for every beast will get its turn.
The white deer in its symbol for purity is hobbling. Sadly our symbols die. lie on barren plans. questioning sanity,insane, Refrain from your judgmental gaze, try to heal the pain.The dog has it's bite, and the bee its sting. the song birds still sing.
I see ******* kindness in a forest of forgotten memories
the vast vivid wilderness of pain, is the same as the one filled with such beautiful things. run free in your unified difference. notice the worlds significance. and all the energy it aims at your brain.
(for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
Ryan Bowdish Feb 2011
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.

Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.

I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.

There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.

"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.

I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.

Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.

Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
The only other man I ever loved.
Mysidian Bard Jan 2017
Some call me a saint,
others call me a hellion,
but at some point revolution
must progress to rebellion.
Lee Nov 2012
Searching for perfection is a mad man's game
be prepared to lose it all

trying to ****** a muse into my brain
when inspiration stalls

my thoughts are running free
they often overwhelm me
all I can hear's my own self critique
and it's starting a mutiny
and now...

It's Anarchy between my ears
Fighting for control by I am overcome with fear
Joyous sadness, well-composed madness, I hold my sorrows dear
'cause it's Anarchy between my ears

Now you're at the stake and the mob is going wild
you realize that you're alone

You did this to yourself- its in your head you crazy child
only you can cut the rope

my thoughts are running free
they often overwhelm me
all I can hear's my own self critique
and its starting a mutiny
and now....

It's anarchy between my ears
Looking for some answers but I know I won't find them here
sleepless nights, pointless fights, I don't think I  can steer
because its Anarchy between my ears

It's anarchy between my ears
hanging by a thread and yes I know the end is near
I won't let go, I refuse to take 'no' it's been this way for years...

It's Anarchy Between My Ears
This is a song I wrote called "Anarchy" I have a youtube channel where I hopefully will be putting up the full song soon. I will provide the link when available!
Cain Jan 2013
Manning this vessel aimlessly
On open sea that beckons me.
Yet which direction do I set my sails?
According to the wind, if all else fails.
Alas, scar-clad from my ruthless ambition,
Longing to free my shackles of inhibition.
Wishful aspirations of self-deposition, yet
Auspicious sights arising on the horizon.
VV Thistle Sep 2017
mother mutiny shines
unbecoming, undressed
chanting blasphemous rhymes
at the top of her chest

all the pushers and crooks
those who steer us all wrong
better call off their deals
better set off their gongs

better soon realize
they are bound to depart
better read clever tomes
better master the art

of not acting alarmed
when she enters the room
with her tigergut strings
and her propane perfume
Is to happen
The way it is to be
In the name of "Destiny"
Why should my soul in unrest
Race to a Self destructing "Mutiny"
Only to acheive a mere "Ignominy"?
Alan Edwards Mar 2014
Canto I: Exposition

A dampened quill and wrist unstill
Dare gallop ‘cross the page
Scribbled lines in black do shine
With much and fervent rage

And without fail, they tell their tale:
A passage tried and true
Lasting years, through hopes and fears
On page of yellow hue

Epic tales and loss at sea
Are listed in its text
The hand that writ this hallowed script
Can be no less than hexed

It begged, it sailed, it led a crowd,
It took a lady’s life
It stole, it smote, and always wrote
In volumes more than rife

He took this hand to unknown land
To carve a profound path
He set the sail for times to come
Yet tore himself in half

He lay awake in warm Toulon
In misty-morning May
The yellow birds in shrillest words
Alert him to the day

For too long days and longer nights
He’s waited for the word
The morrow here will mark the first
Of correspondence heard

Bonaparte has rallied here
To Toulon’s bustling bay
Three-fourths a score of battleships
To Egypt make their way

Before the high and mighty men
Joined with the water’s ebb
A note was slipped beneath the door
Assigned to M. Lefèbvre

Finally, a true decree
Has blest his merry course
Soon, eagerly, he’ll set to sea
Lost time his one remorse

Canto II: Aleron

Out to sea are thirty-three
That with me sail the tides
With these men, I trust my life
They follow where I guide

And so we’re gone from warm Toulon
Just days from the decree
Noble men off far ahead
And me with bourgeoisie

Bonaparte has aimed his fleet
To Egypt’s sandy shores
Through pirate gangs and ill intent
His roaring cannons tore

We follow in this taintless route
As far as we can trail
But soon we’ll turn half-way to stern;
To Gibraltar we shall sail

Days upon the Aleron
Are short but riveting
My men maintain their cheery air
And working still, they sing

No more of cloudy restlessness
No more of shady days
The blazing sun and windy waves
Have chased off my malaise

We pull our sheets and head from east
To curve around southwest
Past Ibiza, whose northern shore
Our Aleron caressed

The choppy sea grows thinner
And our nerves become unstill
The pirates of the Barbary Coast
Could leap in for the ****

And now, a sign above the line
Where water meets the sky
A tow’ring plume of certain doom
Is growing ever high

The heavens choke with blackest smoke
As fires burn a boat
The raw, impending fear of Death
Is clawing at my throat

Canto III: Skull and Bones

‘Tis hours later and we’re chased
Beneath the star-dogged moon
We tried to break away to north
But broke away too soon

Unknown, we tailed the pirate ship
Then saw the far black dot
The crow’s nest signaled skull and bones;
We held onto our knot

We much too late had turned around
My Aleron spun slow
Sheets so white in plain of sight
Had sold us to our foe

Our heaviest of itemry
Into the sea we cast
Rusty tools and iron spools:
Submerged, and sinking fast

Yet still we could not make a pace
To lose the rotten crew;
On our backs, they sailed our tracks
And split our wake in two

And so the misty moon is here
And watches like a ghoul
As we divorce our southern course
For Pillars of Hercule

The flick’ring light behind us
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares and preys upon us
In cover of black dye

It grows and throws upon our ship
A light of fear and blood
It digs into our drowsy eyes
With sharpness of a spud

We hold on to our frantic pace
Till night invites the day
When to our right, in bright sunlight,
An ally heads our way

With Godly sound the cannons pound
The scoundrels far in back
Our brothers there in ship so fair
Repelled the foul attack

Canto IV: Gibraltar

In safer seas, our Aleron
Met with Le Taureau Bleu
We buy and sell and trade our stock
And praise and thank the crew

For safety’s sake, along we take
Two cannons of our own
We’ll stand a better chance against
The skull and crosséd bones

On we sail, on more and more
On through the placid day
No longer faced with poor intent
We make our merry way

Finally, from the vociferous chum
Upon the tall crow’s nest
“Land **! Land **!” Enthused, we know
Gibraltar’s over the crests

I decide to park (good-will flag on ark)
At the British colonial base
With cannons in stow, civilians are we
Attacking is surely bad taste

Just then, as I stood face-front on the deck,
A shrill squawking was cast
To the back I turned, and quickly discerned
A yellow bird up on a mast

How dare it perch there! I’d **** it, I swear
But I’d fire not a gun
Britons who spy me would surely deny me
Fair entrance, if that’s what I’d done

Instead I’ll sit tight; my crew is all right
They don’t mind the bird at all
I’ll listen and bear it, and try to forget
That the bird is the cause of my fall

Closer we draw to Gibraltar’s port
The Britons are within clear view
With a wave of a flag, they accept us in
But my anger cannot be subdued

I ready my gun; to the bird I have spun
And fire my shots to the air
The Britons, upset, rush onboard and get
Me constrained; and ensued despair

Canto V: The Crimson Owl

Silver chains kept me detained
As questioning carried on
Was I a spy for whom I ally?
Or was I simply a con?

I kept face as the questioner paced
And the brute slapped me around
Lastly, I smiled, as after a while
They had no evidence found

With regret, they set me free
Determining I was no harm
But seconds before I went through the door
A fellow rushed in with alarm

Cannons, found inside my ship
As rifles point at me
Again, they had me cuffed and chained
And threatened hostilely

“Smuggling arms to enemy ships”
Was written in their book
Chained and gagged and stowed was I
No better than a crook

Between the pillars I was passed
But not as I had hoped
Both my arm and legs were bound
My fragile neck was choked

In the bowels of The Crimson Owl
I slept in dark distress
No other day, with truth I say,
Had I known such duress

The days had passed and I’d amassed
A hunger, fierce and true
All my thought was set aside
To find something to chew

When suddenly, the shrillest sound
Came flying from afar
A cannon shot had hit its mark
The mainmast it would mar

Sounds of death came all around
And finally toward me
My blind removed, I held in view
The pirates of this sea

Canto VI: Captain Riceau

I stepped aboard by point of sword
And left the burning Owl
“Bienvenue à Le Chat Fou”
Said a fellow through his scowl

But when I talked, they stopped and gawked
Surprised at me they were
A fellow French, I was embraced;
The Crazy Cat could purr

They brought me on, my captors gone,
And took me as their own
And for the time, I went along
And made this Cat my home

I was kept live, and was used for
My knowledge of the sea
For vengeance ‘gainst the Britons
I complied happily

For months - perhaps three seasons passed
I rode upon this ship
Captain Riceau valued me
He named me second skip

For cause unknown, we crossed the sea
Old Captain held his tongue
He would not tell us why we trekked
And chased the setting sun

He brought us ‘round the chilly tip
Of Chile’s southern shore
No reason from his crazy lips
Though long did we implore

Then at last, the day had passed
When Riceau caught a cold
His eyes were red, his limbs were dead
His breathing: hoarse and old

I became the skipper then
And buried him at sea
We cut up north to flee the cold
But at a loss were we

Confused and crazy we’d become
Just like the Cat, rode we
I thought to keep Old Captain’s path
And that meant mutiny

Canto VII: Mutiny

Two days it’d take for them to make
The foul and bitter plan
That I’d be through with Le Chat Fou
And they’d return to Cannes

I lay asleep, in sleep so deep
Dreaming of Calais
The maiden fair with yellow hair
Who one day would betray

In this dream, I heard her scream
And went to touch her cheek
But standing as a statue does
Her gaze was still and bleak

They dragged me back into this world
Then dragged me off the port
My lungs too filled with shockéd air
To object to this tort

They threw my pants and diary,
And sandals, as they laughed
For shoes could serve no purpose
On the ocean’s liquid draft

The flick’ring light before me
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares but grows more distant
And retreats into black dye

An injury had placed me in
A lesser swimming league
Then again, it’d only serve
To cause me great fatigue

Three days, I had rode the tide
Of the western ocean’s waves
No shark, no squid, no slimy thing
For my flesh did crave

The crests came up like daggers
And fell like hulking trees
I prayed to God almighty
I survive the vicious seas

Finally, I set my stare
Upon the northwest sky
Far away, but clear as day:
An object in my eye

Canto VIII: Abyss

Although I swam me ‘cross the sea
As fast as my arm can
Dry throat and sun win victory
O’er me: a fainted man

Trapped in darkness once again
I spy my fair Calais
Screaming, shrill in bleakness then
With not a word to say

Over me her head hangs low
Her arm is slightly raised
Blood drips off her elbow
Her expression leaves me dazed

She’s gone; the air is hard to breathe
The wind is biting cold
A canopy of restless leaves
Is stirring uncontrolled

Lost inside this world of wood
I struggle to emerge
Feels like years have I withstood
While searching for the verge

No chirpings from my yellow bird
No noises all around
Not a sound is to be heard
But footsteps at the ground

No rodents gnawing at the bark
No insects in the trees
Alone I sleep in brush so dark
With nobody but me

In the drying mud I’m laid
Despondent of my fate
Looking through the verdant shade
The sun does penetrate

Streaming down, the light is rich
Bespeckled on the floor
Dancing ‘round without a hitch
Its presence I implore

I call upon the pouring light
To lift me from this hell
To nullify the chilly blight
Incite the warmth to swell

Canto IX: Land Forgets Itself

The burning light lends me its faith
Yet suddenly absconds
The dulling light projects a wraith:
My soul from the Beyond

The day retreats and turns to night
The moon in place of sun
Mute, and without touch or sight
I desperately run

Fleeing from my fading soul
Myself, I do berate
For no such being should extol
Escaping from my fate

Luscious leaves all turn to brown
They wither and fall fast
Suddenly, upon the ground
A dune of sand’s amassed

Crawling on the desert floor
And shaking from the cold
I hate and bitterly abhor
The night’s begrudging hold

In the distance, at the line
The land forgets itself
The beaming rays of light do shine
And warmth indeed does swell

Basking in the drenching sun
My coldness is expelled
Frigidity that night had won
Has fully been repelled

In the sands, I’ve laid to rest
To steal the heat of day
Yet no sooner had the sun caressed
Than sourly betray

Melted on the scorching sands
My body burned and scarred
I cannot lift my torrid hand
My feet have both been charred

The burning heat has ripped my lust
For life and will to live
My last resolve is brutely ******
Through Death’s unyielding sieve

Canto X: L’Oiseau Jaune

I coughed and spat the water that
I swallowed with my snores
Upon the sand my hand did land;
I’d made my way to shore

The beach was bright with fiery light
My skin was hot and red
I tried to get out of my head
Those visions that I dread

A novelist I once had been
Writing was my joy
With pen in hand, I could withstand
Each plot set to destroy

Yet Calais came and stole my heart
But also my free time
We wed and had a baby boy
Our life was too sublime

I raised my pen to write again
To feed the family right
I spent my days filling the page
And toiled all the night

When finally, she’d lost her mind
She needed to be loved
I tried to calm her shrill attacks
With no help from Above

My raging wife had grabbed a knife
And stabbed my writing hand
Yet somehow I had speared her eye
I couldn’t understand

At the elbow, I was chopped
And no more could I write
The widespread fact I’d killed my mate
Had augmented my plight

I beached onto an island;
This was no Chilean land
I walked around the grainy ground
And found nothing but sand

But soon a rescue ship had come
I was not too long gone
I read the name upon the port;
It was l’Oiseau Jaune
This was my senior thesis in high school, primarily inspired by "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Coleridge.

Sweet Pirate of the heart,
Not Pirate of the Sea,
What wrecketh thee?
Some spice’s Mutiny—
Some Attar’s perfidy?
Confide in me.
Timothy Nov 2012
Four straight brick walls, severely plain,
A quiet city square surround;
A level space of nameless graves;—
The Quakers' burial-ground.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab,
They trod the common ways of life,
With passions held in sternest leash,
And hearts that knew not strife.

To you grim meeting-house they fared,
With thoughts as sober as their speech,
To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,
To hear the elders preach.

Through quiet lengths of days they came,
With scarce a change to this repose;
Of all life's loveliness they took
The thorn without the rose.

But in the porch and o'er the graves,
Glad rings the southward robin's glee,
And sparrows fill the autumn air
With merry mutiny;

While on the graves of drab and gray
The red and gold autumn lie,
And wilful Nature decks the sod
In gentlest mockery.

     **~By: Silas Weir Mitchell~
Lucas Dec 2014
Who are you listening to,
The angel,
Or the demon.

Burning the skin of my shoulder,
I'm tuned into sin.
It's dismal, I'm petrified.
I'm standing on the island where hurricanes and cyclones meet.

Frozen in,
feet cemented under whipping waters,
I focus on the palm trees.
Writing the guide to stormy seas,
One wave after the other.
We may be two centuries and an ocean apart
because of my American mutiny,
but I’d buy you a supersize something
just to have tea with you,
and I’d like to think we might be friends
believing deep down that you don’t really
hate me for the simple reason I have
nothing culturally in common with you
because I really wanna be your
face in the crowd and the
only smile in your simile
I wanna escape to your sepia colored streets
where insecurities slip on the rain,
then by chance discover our silky souls
are probably perfectly the same

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2015
Vittorio Grieco Aug 2015
it's the soul that gives your wings flight
@ the end, time will tell endless tales
of wild fairies and wicked ships
lost within Caribbean Seas
oh, sweet angel wings give me flight
for my feet have given up
not one more step
time oh precious time
have you come to give me rest
Away, ye muses, all away!

Away with songs of finch and fay.

Away the jaundiced sight

That magnifies the firefly’s light

To bonfire bright;

That sets ablaze at once

My musing’s dimly burning lamps;

That ornaments with rhymes

The penury-stricken looks betimes;

That over-clothes the logic – lord

With fancy –swollen words.

Away, the partial love

That ‘boldens Nature to sit above

Her Maker!

This day I fasten eyelid doors,

With absence wax my ears,

With languorous peace congeal

My tongue, my touch, my tears *

That I within may pore

Upon the things behind, ahead,

In the darkness round me spread.

I lock Dame Nature out

With all her fickle rout.

Somewhere here,

In the darkness drear,

I myself with cheer

My course will steer

In the path

E’er sought by all:

Its magnet call

I hear.

Not hear, not here,

Apollo would his burning chariot steer;

Nor Diana dare to peep

Into the sacred silence deep.

Not here, not here,

Not far or near

Can mounts or rebel waves

E’er make me full of fear;

Nor evermore

Their dreadful grandeur to adore.

Not here, not here

The soft capricious wiles of flowers;

Nor swarming storm clouds’ sweeping terror,

Dishevelling the trees

And light-haired skies;

Nor doomsday’s thunderous roar,

Dismantling earth and stars-

The cosmic beauties all to mar –

Not Nature’s murderous mutiny,

Nor man’s exploding destiny

Can touch me here.

Not here, not here:

Through mind’s strong iron bars,

Not gods or goblins, men or nature,

Without my pass dare enter.

I look behind, ahead –

On naught but darkness tread.

In wrath I strike, and set the dark ablaze

With the immortal spark of thought,

By friction-process brought

Of concentration

And distraction.

The darkness burns

With a million tongues;

And now I spy

All past, all distant things, as nigh.

I smile serene

As I expose to gaze.

In wisdom’s brilliant blaze,

All charms of the Hidden Home Unseen:

The Home of Nature’s birth,

The planets’ moulding hearth,

The factory whence all forms or fairies start,

The bards, colossal minds, and hearts,

The gods and all,

And all, and all!

Away, away

With all the lightsome lays!

Oh, now will I portray

In humble way,

And try to lisp, if only in half truths,

Of wordless charms of Thee Unseen,

To whom Dame Nature owes her nature

   and her sheen.
Marisia Delafuga Mar 2015
As the caterpillar is turning into a Butterfly
As the Darkest Hour is before the Dawn
As the winter gives Rise to A spring
As In all chaos there is cosmos
And  in all disorder theres a secret Order
That pivotal Moment..
A challenge for us to Thrive in and through Darkness
Such A  pivotal Moment !
A challenge for our burning Desire to Rise
Against all Odds!
Pirates and Sailors
Lovers and pretenders
Conformity mantras
Society's joke
For you to laugh in the face
And to Run Your Own Race
Follow your heart
Or follow the crowd
This is the Quest
That's All About
New Ocean New Life
To those who Dare
To Those who Care
You Are not Alone my Wild Mutineer!
An Army Of Angels By your side MY Wild Mutineer!
Go GO And Start the fight My Precious Mutineer!
Who Are they to let them stop your Dreams?
Who Are they to command all these lies?
Who made up these Rules?
Your Brave Heart is Enough for the fight
Your precious heart is enough for the flight
Youre A soldier Of love standing your ground
You're a Blessing in this Earth to be around
Integrity and Dignity no one can take it away from you
The gift from your ancestors to keep it ALIVE
Resist in the sirens song!
Trust in your Deep faith and silent Lion Roawr!
The journey is long the journey is violent
So violent and exciting!
Enter again and play the game
And you will never be the same again
Cut the cords of the past shame
Enter again the brilliant darkness
Your doubts are vanished in the Sun of your Soul
Your faith is leading the way for you to carry on..
Breath Deep and Shoot Out Loud
Victory Victory Victory !
eccentricities Oct 2013
I stand there, avoiding the instance of your coming
letting the noise drown my thoughts
allowing the wind to remind me to move on
restricting any word to escape my mouth

But my senses always got the best of me

I feel you
My skin could not contain it's longing to be held again
I hear you
My ears immediately focus on your husky voice
I smell you
My nose has never been so familiarized to a scent
I see you
My eyes lose control but manage to cancel everyone else in the room
I almost talk to you
My mouth chokes and reminds itself that I am its master
I let this mutiny pass with the exception of my words
Restraint is our motto
But I guess I couldn't avoid the unplanned rendezvous of our eyes

You're coming closer
Your eyes filled with determination
filled with comfort
filled with happiness
While mine remain the total opposite
You comfortably say, "How are you?"

How dare you

You managed to make my mind lose it's control once again
You have manipulated it to reminisce a tormenting past
Something I thought I have trained it not to do
Ruining my scripted response of "I'm fine"
Messing up the story line in a matter of three words
My eyes are telling a story
I hope it's language is foreign to you

My eyes
I recall you saying it was my best asset  
And often I would close it, an action I'm restraining at the moment
You know I closed it when you touched me
Setting my skin ablaze with the feeling of security
I closed it when you carelessly said "I love you"
Making my gullible heart get too attached
I closed it when you cuddled me
Wanting to get lost in the moment
I closed it when you kissed me
Hoping the feeling will last forever
I closed it when you stopped all these
Wondering what I was doing wrong
I closed it when you were texting someone else
Dying to know who, but afraid to ask
I closed it when you lied to me
Wishing you would take it back
I closed it when you left me
A moment tattooed in my vision
Open or closed, I see it
And others see it too

Your question remains unanswered by words
I will not close my eyes
Not this time
I'm just staring
Directly at your beautiful pair
Half-hoping you see it too
My eyes that scream "Save me"
Louder than what my lungs can reach
For this is the most effective way to respond

Everything made sense
And my senses were playing along
But you walked away naively
And what hurt me the most was the fact that
(I guess Superheroes only save the pretty ones huh?)
This is my first poem here. Please give me some constructive criticism if you can, I would really appreciate it! - a.b.
Julian Apr 2019
The inaugural bang swiveled with the vacant expressions of a muted feral crowd indignant about ethnic identity and swift in the recourse of tyrannical thugs pandering withered abuse

I solemnly abided in a chirpy itinerant glower against the exclusive system for stranding the disintegration of lyrical integrity for the Potemkin cheers of the culmination of too many jeers

Withered words for the abeyance of silence I incurred with wistful pleas for resurgent clarity beyond   sheepish fears

So I loitered in the evanescence of words..

Watching with alacrity as the strident ignorance of grafted wretchedness writhed its last mustered exsibilation at the sound of windbags bloviating beyond prodigal extravagance without a visible tweeted word

I measured my pause… I considered the heft of poignant exposures to a dismal serenade of miscegenated politics and garbled breaths of wheezy mendicants seeking participation in the trophy of smothered compliance

But I marveled simultaneously at the extinction of the shriveled crowds as they sized up the minutiae of wastrels glamorously inviting a frozen recapitulation of sorrows borrowed and wasted on minced platitudes that swindle still the votive confidence of regimented sympathy pretending empathy for soured hearts professedly defiant at their bereaved will

My pulse I clocked at 120 as I wondered where on earth the 140s and 150s have frittered their patience on with such brazen alacrity for the garish snarl of a sojourn into the ineffable effrontery of aureate mutiny against the tyrant of deaf spoon-fed indignation without the luxury of shared ignominy of memorable cadence for frippery in sparse blurbs registered in braille rather than brawn

Then I remembered my vociferous persnickety temperament and the curdled hatred of procrustean swan songs to an etiolating standard of ethical entanglement in aloof issues delivered with a decisive swoon too swift in earnestness to outfox with a quipped rebuff or a calculus of classical spoof

Then I wondered with a problematic but inherent prolixity…..
I too could adorn the adoring moon with a lyrical lampoon geared for a clockwork punchline or a winsome rebarbative tune….OR…. enchant with an incisive acerbic rant about how pasquinades outstay their welcome because of the clambered insistence of happenstance years ago in a blinkered mirror but never rehashed too soon

But where would affection heap its laurels if I dared to swindle the spotlight away from frisky poetasters who proved a renegade inspiration for fluttered triumph in a seaside tragedy only the crestfallen waves of pestilent Idiocracy could steal from my outstretched tenacity in verse and verve

Boom went a fulmination of hatred at my labored words! And then I swerved to avoid potholes of tenuous gainsay…. and other miscreants littering the world with misappropriated labels for laments belabored with publicity for displaced enmity distilled from a cauldron of mismatched ignorance….tethered to the vagrancy of gripe plucked at the ripe time for a twenty-dollar prize give or take a dime

But that dime separating 1990 from 2010 meant more than anything to a life littered with hallowed word crimes…. against the sanctimony of syncopation with cheap bleats too arrogant to be sheepish at the lavish indulgence of the marginalized wines…. brewed in a castle flickering on fiat worth rather than the simplicities of minutes of warbled time

So I currently warp minds with the proctor of a gamble too garish to finesse the quicksand of attrition but jaunty enough to bypass the limitations of a linear self-referential memorial about the circular nature of irony espoused by divorced rhymes

Now I stand ascendant….waiting for the retinues of retinas to absorb the wavy rigmarole of the serpentine pathways carved beneath the buzzwords of race and division and towards soldered unity with a human race beyond racism…. and a class divorced from socioeconomic crass division

Just then I arrived at serenity…. as I realized that the BAR exams that encage so many aspirant hearts are counterfeit in the court of the highest judiciary art that believes that insidious artifice is an embezzled venture of frolicsome guttersnipes wallowing in division can never revive a lifeless heart…. even if quick-witted credentialism rattles the slaves to vapid artforms that any humanism would never deem smart

Ditch the agitprop as a human frailty indentured to endure the curated disease without a cure to make the snollygosters in Washington ever so cocksure with their cockalorum disregard of the palatable consensus to make news real again….Finally for the fraternity of an enlightened human race in a benighted world of trendy fatuousness that infests the planet with the debauchery of glorified urchins jerking the levers with severed brevity to promote infectious foofaraw with cultural indemnity

I leave you with this

What is ornate complexity without the luxury of concerted beatific bliss that the parsecs that flummox your minds throb vehemently with cohesiveness in my internal design are not remiss

And remember the benighted standards of kitsch for the kitchens of penury bewitched don’t stand a chance against the overriding itch to vanquish mountains one after another to cross them off the list
derailed-trains Feb 2016
days are swinging past
and I wish I could finally
say to you the words
hiding under my pillows,
behind doors, and
scattered on the floors
I am walking on
I wish I could say to you
that my knees aren't
the only parts of
my body that
are hurting
that sometimes when
I sit in class I sometimes
stop and stare
and my throat starts to
constrict while my
tear ducts plan
their mutiny
I wish I could tell you
that I still remember
the sound of breaking
glass and I still
imagine the moment
of the glass kissing
the ground and, yes,
I still remember
how the shards
sparkled as I sweeped
the floors
I wish I could find a
better way of saying
these words to you
just like how perfectly
arranged the bones in
my body are
I wish I could say to
you that I fantasize
about telling you these
words that are
years overdue
and, no, I am not
okay, and, no,
you're wrong when
you said that I don't
care because I do
I just don't know
how to show it
and I also know
that maybe I'm
not making sense
because the real words
have morphed
themselves into
metaphors for having
been suppressed
for so long
and maybe I'm not
making any sense at all
of this mess
is that I want
to say that I'm
sorry I wasn't
stronger for
you and me
sunprincess Mar 2018
Zoom, zoom, zoooom.......
I'm traveling back in time
to the famous year of 1492
where with metamorphosis
I'll become a raging wind,
A wild hurricane of the sea
I'll throw ships off course
and provoke mutiny
tread Apr 2013
These are the words I pick
through thick Irish. Love
affair of some sort between
the bar tending woman and
a friend of the guest. Mitigation,
mutiny upon an S.S. Lovebird
Somewhere Sometime (world
affairs), can't blame the *******
for gazing left at the television
as he's only the messenger boy.
What is this, a medieval fantasy

I guess the name of wherever I
am and ponder how far away my
life is.
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
This is your reality, the brave new world;
i just hang out here:
birthed in the Cradle of Elam,
a mourning son of Baal,
smeared and anointed
with the oil from the
***** fingerprints of
countless scores of
sweaty neophytes;
carried, dropped, dented;
brought forth from eons passed,
updated for the 21st century,
gilded Krylon-gold.

This nebulous gift,
made tangible and
whole by blood,
a form fitting sacrifice,
transmogrified kudzu,
rootless, digging
talons' clutch into
our minds' construct,
seeks strength of
conviction, action.

Our ship is now
veering off course.
i must respond in kind.
i will not be led astray.
i will not have my good
intentions commandeered.
i will hijack your purpose,
screaming mutiny,
holding Occam's Razor-knife
to the throat of your jihads.

i issue a fatwa of peace,
as you once did,

i renounce a kingdom of hate,
as you once did,

i seek charity in effort,
as we once did,

Let us rebuild.
Let us move forward.
***** a new Babel,
forsaking the sword.

Let our forks be on roads,
and not on our tongues;
a forging of union,
as we'd once begun:

My sisters, my brothers,
my family,
as one.
originally, i repeated "my family" in German, Russian, Chinese, Arabic, Afrikaans, Hindi, and Spanish (in that order, for no special reason) between the last two lines....[sorry, i found a super cool translator program online]....turns out i couldn't include it all here because of the character display restrictions....i could probably figure it out, but that seemed like pretentious overkill, and i am too lazy for all that....
Deb Jones Oct 2018
I was at my first meeting
with a facility Director.
I would be starting an audit
right after the meeting with her.
There was a little brown and white dog with lots of hair.
And very distinctive black eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
He rolled into the office
with a ball under his tummy.
Very cute.
The Director told me
he was the facility’s mascot.
His name was George.  
Even though my associate
was with me,
George seemed to prefer me.
He nosed the ball towards me.
I took it and rolled it across the room.
George ran to get it
and brought it back to me.
By straddling it and walking it to me.
The Director said he could do that all day.
I rolled it once more.
I ignored George
when he came back with the ball.
I explained to the Director what our role would be in the facility.
Mostly educational...
I felt George sniffing and licking my bare leg.
I looked down and George looked back at me suggestively.
And seemed to grin.
I turned my attention back to the meeting...
George started ******* my leg.
Looking up at me with adoration.
I reached down while still talking
and maintaining my composure,
tried to pull George off my leg.
He tried to take my fingers off with a snarl.
The Director picked up George and saying “Bad Dog” she placed him
on a chair behind her.
He looked at me and licked his lips.
We continued our conversation.
About 30 secs later my leg
was being molested again
with even more vigor.
And wanton disregard for anyone listening, he started to moan.
The Director seemed to get upset.
She yelled his name.
In complete mutiny he just ****** faster.
She picked him up.
I asked if he could be taken out of the room and the door closed.
She said no,
because the dog needed to learn the rules.
My associate’s shoulders were held
very rigid, holding back her laughter.
George was placed right back on the chair.
As soon as the Director sat back down George flipped over
and gave me a look at his “package”
And wiggled his brows again.
This time including a definite canine grin. The gleam in his eyes was pure lust.
I knew he wasn’t done yet.
At this point I, who was supposed
to be running the meeting,
was totally preoccupied
with the little *****.
I gave him my most menacing look.
He seemed to find it arousing.
His eyes made a promise
that I refused to give in to.
George the molester put his head
down on his paws and with limpid eyes watched me without blinking.  
I finally began to participate in the conversation.
My legs and feet tucked under the chair
I was sitting in.
George got off the chair and crept
toward me, almost on his belly.
He got to my side and  disappeared under the desk I was sitting in front of.  
That was ok.
I felt my legs were safe.
Without warning I felt his tongue
gently licking my ankles.  
He had obviously decided
that foreplay was needed.
I tried to ignore it
but he was rolling his tongue
around my ankles seductively
with a couple of swipes up my leg.
I kicked him and saw the Director wince.
I gave up and gave a leg to George.
The little *******.
I never went to that facility again.
I assigned it to an associate
and she never had problems with George.
People at my office sent me photos of dogs posed suggestively.
A lot of dogs.
I dont know any cool pickup lines,
I stole them from TV
Hey baby do you have the time?
You just walked away from me

Im not cool or smooth
And I'm not slick
And I need to think of something quick

He didnt write for you, that punk rock love song,
He stole it from the Byrds
He just changed the chords
And never bothered to learn the words

But he's got you hooked
Your pulse
Is racing

You know that hes a traitor
He's a one-track trouble maker
And he's rotten company

But he's got you in his sights
You're going home with him tonight
Another loveless casualty

He keeps you coming back for more but now
Hes into someone new
He changed the locks on both my doors
So I guess that means we're through

But baby dont go,
He isn't home
And I'm waiting

I know that he's a traitor
I true master debater
Such sincere insincerity
Without hesitation
Standing in ovation to
Your perfect symmetry

We'd take it slow
But we both know
He's waiting

You know that hes a traitor
Silver tounged negotiator
And he's plotting mutiny
You dont know him quite like I do
Once he's had his way, he'll leave you
To a taxi company
And he's immune to my handy remedy,

Just come inside, he asks persuadingly
But you, you're thinking of me

Just spend the night
We'll work it out

You know that hes a traitor
He's a one-track trouble maker
And he's rotten company
But he's got you in his sights
You're going home with him tonight
Another loveless casualty
That little ******* part of me
Another thematically, or at least rhythmically influenced. Check out Ludo "Mutiny Below" for where I was going with this one.
Peter Watkins Oct 2016
Don't just stand
don't just stare.
Expressionless and bland
is no way to raise hairs.
Mimic my hands, meet my gaze
and feel the sound building...
It's all energy, the pounding haze,
and you're practically blazing.

Jump! And don't stop,
don't you dare let up.
You want an uprising
you wanna feel something?
Well so do the others,
shouting, jumping, roaring.
We all want this, we all need this!
Show me too, lift your fists!

And jump! Mosh with the rest,
percussion pounds within your breast.
Guitar scrapes metallic and hard
and you're so pumped in the heat and dark.
You feel that crowd, they scream
and everything bites like a dream.
The sound is in you, in everyone,
and all at once you're just gone.

You jump! Part of this body,
all moving like a wave of mutiny.
Everyone calls for a change,
for reform and freedom we feel the rage.
It pushes us to move, pushes,
and we can't breathe under this rush.
The power is building, in the air and in my *****;
chord progressions, louder faster drums and a voice of guidance.

My voice, rising above the noise,
just as you rise from beneath the stage.
I see the fire in your eyes,
hear the heat in your impassioned cries.
It's hot, blazing with sudden danger,
as we all rile against the tide; we tire with ire.
I'm sick, your sick, we're furious
and we're not going to take it no more...

Jump to my voice, jump with the energy,
your countrymen empower you to mutiny!
It has been a long, long time since I wrote anything. I hope this small morsel is a worthy addition to my collection. Please give feedback below.
AprilDawn Oct 2014
Gnomes out back who fuss and moan,
The weeds are too high they continue to groan,
I feel for them I really do,
But they know I am busy with so much too.
Ungrateful resin folk who cop an attitude about a few colorful sprigs,
Despite the fact they live in such lavish digs.
So some spiky ends of greenery may tickle their noses,
While they continue to hold their impish poses.
In fact I am planning a surprise for their flower bed,
Rainbow rock pebbles and new mulch will soon be spread,
Plus multiple squirts of ****-be-gone,
Next week you'll see a whole new lawn.
As I shell out more loot to keep this bit of paradise lovely-
I keep my eyes wide open for signs of impending mutiny.
My last day  in  college creative writing  class spring 2005, this was my exam  .I had  an hour to write this piece   and it had to rhyme .Flying by the seat of my pants , I wrote  about  my then backyard. This sealed my final grade  at the college for that course.An "A"!

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