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It's the, highly lyrical, pinnacle breaking, mystical, miracle making, atypical poet slash prophet.

The tricky, sick trickster, mister, tongue-twister, off the scale, Richter, freedom dream fighter.

A bit unusual and, slightly delusional, it's indisputable, beautiful written poetry.*

Words flow just like a novelette,
Make music like a castanet
A master of the alphabet,
Just tag that as my epithet.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
An N+7 from a passage by Marx,
copyright (c) 2015
#n7
Shawna Kawakami Oct 2017
You
Shame me, blame me humiliate me and lie.
Compare me, threaten me, defame me and ignore my cries.
My life played like a toy, controlled and molded as it's twisted
and pried.
You
Charm them, ****** them and shape them with veiled ascendancy.
The manipulated, the puppets, the pawns; the recruited proxy.
Their life played like a toy, to dance and to sing to the captivating sounds of a deluded melody.
They
Become your enablers, the abusers, the bullies; your silhouettes.
Your servants, your minions, your marionettes.
Forever blindly clutched on a page of your novelette.
I
Am no longer a victim, desiring love from my family.
I am now enlightened and empowered, free from your chains.
I gained awareness, my strength and my sanity.
Now you play in silence with your bitter scapegoat games.
My No Contact despair. Grieving the living.
Satsih Verma Aug 2018
You cannot carry it
to the end.
I will not put up any claim.

Walk through my heart
in snow.
I will paint a yellow moon.

Come October, I
will weave the wreaths of
smoke, to invite the piper.

Where would you
lead me under the autumn
fall? My name holds nothing.

I will not be last
word in the novelette of a legend.
Stories come and fade.
Obi May 2019
Before you were written, you were read. 
Your cover page screamed beauty,
And your blank pages showed diligence. 
Your eyes gave the genre,
And your smile gave the theme. 
Your wordless diction leaves me wanting more,
And then more of the more that I want. 
You’re a single copy novelette;
May I keep you at my bedside?

— The End —