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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret ,Kenya ;aopicho@yahoo.com)

On 13th January 2014 Dr. Wafula Chesoli of Mt Kenya University, at Lodwar campus in the north western part of Kenya published a scathing attack against homosexuality in the Neighbourhood, a daily circulating paper of the River Delta state in Nigeria.Dr Chesoli justified his contumelious position against human homosexuality by basing his stand on the scriptural citations of the Bible. The Bible which  Dr. Chesoli has operationally defined as the word of God in  this article that he entitled Strong holds of Homosexuality ;Biblical Persapectives.Chesoli’s argument has a depth of Biblical groundings, however I beg to differ with him in principle, given the  scientific scintillations on humanity of homosexuality from the recent researches of health education and psychology.
Firstly, I humbly remember that about three years ago I also published an article in the East African standard which harshly condemned social and behavioral position of gay and lesbian marriages. This was when the Anglican archbishop Dr. Eliud Wabukala of Kenya had in a similar tone lambasted the archbishop of Canterbury for suggesting that there was need for the office of the gay Bishop in the Anglican Church. I strongly supported Wabukala in that I even called gay and lesbian behavior as cultic and satanic hence to be condemned with all forms of capital nemesis. Some of the contents of my article in which I condemned homosexuality are here;
Let us support Wabukala stand on gays and morality
(January 13th 2011 at 00:00 GMT; By Alexander Opicho, Eldoret)
Practice of psychology and Christianity operates on a universal principle of unconditional positive regard for all. However, there has been a twist in this convention when media in Kenya at the start of this week carried a story that depicted moral fortitude of Bishop Eliud Wabukala; who has out-rightly dismissed the idea of establishing the office of a gay bishop in the leadership of the Anglican Church. Wabukala has come out boldly on this against the strong currents in support of gay marriages from his superiors in the Church. The efforts by Wabukala befit all manner of felicitation from all of us who believe in morality as a basis of humanity. The basis of gay relationships is legalistic and political. African culture conscientiously discourages a cult of gayism. And in Kenya living as a gay is living in contradiction to the Constitution. These collectively fall in an agreement with basic teachings of Christianity. Gayism, lesbianism, celibacy and trans-species ****** behaviour are admonished by Biblical teachings. Gayism is social deviance that originates from degradation in ****** behavior; it is a state of ****** depravement. Read more at;
http://www.standardmedia.co.ke/?articleID=2000074879&story;_title=-Let-us-support-Wabukala-stand-on-gays-and-morality.­
Little did I know that as I was publishing this article two percent of my friends and my family members are victims of ****** behavioural disability, which we are calling homosexuality in the above juncture. As university teacher in the departments of social sciences where student populations is usually high, I again came to discover sometimes later that ten percent of my students always have disordered ****** or gender conditions. I found these to be substantial revelations that provoked me to carry out both desk research and investigative *** socialization researches into this bamboozling human phenomenon of homosexuality and other related disordered ****** behaviours.
The order of explanation would first require a position which posits that; religions both Christianity and Islam don’t have any intellectual nor social machinery to carry out a socially ameliorative process in relation to disordered gender and ****** behavior in any society. Their approach have been and would still be parochial in the sense that the only outcome to be achieved is prejudice, bigotry and discrimination with full harassment against Christians or Moslems with ****** or gender disability. Thus religion should pave way for other competent social players over this matter.
Dr Chesoli’s Position that the Bible is the word of God and the Quran is the word of Allah and hence those with physiological conditions in contrast to the word of God and Word of Allah are satanic, only to face wrath of God on the judgment day is simply devoid of modern logic. I want to sensitize Dr Chesoli on the fact that not every thing in the Bible is the word of God neither   every thing in the Quran is the word of God otherwise called Allah. To support my position before I just explain scientific position of homosexuality, I want Dr. Chesoli to learn that; 159 psalms in the Bible are poetries of Kind David, Kind David whose leadership was full of Machiavellian tricks just like the current leadership of Yoweri Museven of Uganda. The book of Job is theatrical and poetical literary creation of Moses. But not the word of God. This is so because the land of Uz in which Job lived is pure fiction. All papyrological surveys have never established geographical evidence of this land. The last part of the Bible is made up of 21 epistles or letters of Paul the benjaminite. Paul’s writings display eminence of intellect as a lawyer and a person schooled in the Greek classics of Homer’s Iliad and Odysseus as well as Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.The idea that the words which Paul wrote was the word of God is not founded ,perhaps the last stage of Jewish casuistry.
Homosexuality has to be understood as lameness or disability like any other animal or human disability. I am aware that Dr. Chesoli belongs to the old school which only appreciated the fact that lameness is limited to physical, mental, eye and hearing impairment.However, this position is now scientifically obsolete. Humanity is now understood to be sometimes a victim of ****** lameness, intellectual lameness, emotional lameness, racial relational lameness and other plethorae of lameness to be uncovered, courtesy of science and research.
Like the condition of ****** disability can be heterosexual disability or homosexual disability. Heterosexual disability can be indicated by misfortunate human ****** conditions like; early *******, erectile disfucntion,oversize *****,undersize *****,frigidity,phobia of opposite ***, oral ***, **** ***,****** appetite for your own child, ****** appetite for your sisters, brothers, uncles or aunts, frigidity, small ******, abnormally big ******,insatiable libido or insatiable appetite for ***.
But on the other  hand  homosexual disability are often indicated in the perverted ****** behavioural positions like male to male *** also known as gay and female to female *** also known as lesbian, or female to male to female to male *** also known as bisexuality. We also have other ****** phenomena like celibacy, voyeurism, *** with non human creatures, *** with inanimate objects, *** with ghosts and *** with spiritual creatures like the one accounted in the Bible between Mary the mother of Jesus and an Angel Known as Gabriel. There is also *** with dead family members. Dear reader just accepts that the list in this line is long.
Now labeling above positions as satanic or ungodly can be misleading in the modern sense. The motivation for all the above behaviours is sensual satisfaction. But the physiological cause of the behaviour is few and far between. Some of these conditions are caused by genetic misprogramming or mutation; some are due to body malformation. Like having female reproductive system in a male human casing or male female reproductive system in a female human casing. But the sorriest part of this human experience is that victims of these conditions always feel that they are right human creatures in the wrong body from which they struggle to jump out but they have never succeed.
This is why the Journal of Pan African Voices known as Pambuzuka news has a platform for anti – homophobic journalism, which actually purport to promote social and intellectual awareness among the Africa societies about matters relating to ****** and gender disabilities. This journal strives to minimize homophobic positions like the one taken by Dr. Chesoli in a smokescreen of Christianity or Islam which will ultimately only end up as heinous violations of human rights.
An empirical position has facts that gender and ****** disability conditions is rampart in urban areas than rural areas and more rampart in industrialized or developed countries than peasant rural based countries. Thus logic will tell you that we have most gays and lesbians in America and United Kingdom than in Kenya or Malawi. This is why President Barrack Obama in an imperial stretch conditioned the govermenent of Uganda to make a legislation that favour gays and lesbians. This was also reflected three years ago in the United kingdom when David Cameroon warned the government of Ghana that if they don’t make a legislation that appreciate homosexuals then United Kingdom would not give economic aid to Ghana.Contextually,both Cameroon and Obama were wrong. We don’t use vents of desperate imperialism to manage a misfortunate social condition. We first of all begin by educating our people, then socializing the idea among our people then we finalize by positioning the idea among our people. Thanks for your audience.
Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher with sanctuary research agencies in Eldoret, Kenya.He is also a lecturer for Research Methods in Governance and Leadership.
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feeling good.  Head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Sometimes the good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.
He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding. 
 He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy-out. 
  Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.  
Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
With hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence - in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.  
One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times. 
 Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the co-workers they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants, a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, bright white blouse, full and buttoned low. They are in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we have escaped and are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).  How uniquely American.

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the boneyard.  Not a bad deal for a good high-nickel content block that had never had its first 0.030”overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks by "magnafluxing", measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work van from which it came, and for which it had served so dutifully.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications on the mark, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy remained worried, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.   You can compromise on paint and live with some rust,  he would say, wait for good tires, but never scrimp on the engine.  Right on.  Someone taught the boy right, regardless of whether or not he fully understood the importance of the words he parroted.  His accurate proclamation  also provided ample excuse for the rough, unfinished, underfunded look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  To make that go down easy, they asked to have two of their shop decals affixed to the rod on race-days.  The young man thought that was a fair deal, but the shop was really just looking out for the boy, with their herring of sorts.  
The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability; and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower near and at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to the freedom so well depicted in the ad.  

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    

He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!

Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The Nova I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Expensive calipers, as eye candy, seem to be all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can - and the owner of this half fiberglass racer that poses as a street car had done just that.  I'll glean two things from this observation. One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.  
Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Looking was something I had unofficial permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, my racer friend replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two Holly's were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system is cleanly installed, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would soon fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall neat work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment planned. 
  I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.  I liked my neighbor.  And I liked the fact of our scratch-built rods having found each other - and I looked forward to us both dusting off the factory jobs.  It was going to be a good day.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
L Smida Jan 2012
I am crazy enough to want to be with you.
The craving is cruelly immense.
I am crazy enough to love only you.
The feeling is truly intense.

I am crazy enough to perfectly see you.
The flaws are secluded.
I am crazy enough to not see the lie of you.
The pain you cause is excluded.

I am crazy enough that no pain hurts me deeply.
The wound is convinced to never be shown.
I am crazy enough to forgive you for whatever reason.
The issue is decided all on her own.

I am crazy enough to trust your every word.
The persuasive tone defeats all doubt.
I am crazy enough to think you don’t do it on purpose.
The subliminal actions are pointed out.

I am crazy enough to say they're not real.
The truth is something I refuse to believe.
I am crazy enough to not care about myself.
The heart continues to be worn on my sleeve.

I am crazy enough to do anything.
The one you once loved will always be here.
I am crazy enough to admit that person is me.
The instant you call, I'll immediately appear.

I am crazy enough to drop everything to get to you.
The things I’d do are unthinkable.
I am crazy enough to save you from any danger
The effort inside of me is unsinkable.

I am crazy enough to let you use me.
The hope helps me think otherwise.
I am crazy enough to give you everything I have.
The hurt, I know, will oversize.

I am crazy enough to not care what happens to me.
As long as you are happy.
I am crazy for you and the joy you bring.
I hope this doesn’t sound too sappy.

I am crazy enough to keep on trying.
The damage can be somewhat repaired.
I am crazy enough to risk failure.
At least I showed you that I cared.

I am crazy enough to walk in the pouring rain.
The coldness of the weather won't stop me.
I am crazy enough to think I'm invincible.
The pieces that are left wish to agree.

I am crazy enough to prove to you how strongly I feel.
The energy inside is a fresh supply.
I am crazy enough to face the deepest darkness.
I can save you in a blink of an eye.

I am crazy enough to put myself out there to protect you.
The shield of my body won't let anything through.
I am crazy enough to wash away all your fear.
The touch of our fingers is the cue.

I am crazy enough to want to be crazy forever.
The comfort of your company is top of the line.
I am crazy enough to be crazy for you.
The way I am, is the master's design.
judy smith Dec 2015
Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
I wear stupid glasses unlike her
Teardrops are my own makeup
Looking at you is my dose
I just wanna be with you so close

I wear oversize shirts incomparable to her
She wears tight jeans and lovely corsets
I walk through the dirtiest streets at night
She sways and enjoys her princess life at bright

I roll over my untidiest bed
She amazes everyone with her lips at red
I glaze the road with my unfixed hair
She roams the cities and turns it to a funfair

I could not do all of that
I could not even give you what you want
This feeling is only what I got
I said it through this poem 'coz I can't be blunt

I am afraid to tell you everything
You are my best friend and you are my everything
Why are you so numb of what I am feeling?
Is it because I am not what you are dreaming?

If only I could be that girl
But I can not.
Because I just wanted to be me
The girl who slowly kills herself
The girl who keeps on pretending
That she loves seeing you happy with that luckiest girl
You are my best friend and you are my everything.
I wish you could read this.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
A Apr 2014
slipping little feet into mothers shoes
lipstick deforms little pink lips
plastic curlers tangle knots
hands wiggle free from oversize cloths
that child is me
i am that child today
bewildered by our society
a child i stay.
nivek Feb 2016
if you are chewing air before you swallow it
you have found the perfect diet
Appa’s demise has put a load of care on me,
The family is dependent on me,
There’s a boat leaving tomorrow night,
They say it’s the last one for this quarter,
We need to leave.

The conditions here are getting worse by the day,
The playgrounds are unrecognizable,
The schools are no longer functioning,
My friends are nowhere in sight.

They say the boat is the only option out of our land,
Tiko’s family left with the boat two months ago,
This is the time when one prefers somewhere else to home,
We really cannot miss the boat.

The sunrise makes its way through my cracked window curtain made from mother’s clothes,
But it’s only a reminder of yet another day,
I must say it looks beautiful but sad,
Every new day seems never to be different,
I hope to take steps that will not lead to my death, a loved one or a neighbour.

I heard the camp is not so great but it’s safer than here
The boat is small and there are many of us.
I am lucky because unlike Rasheed’s family;
We are just three and they are ready to fit us in the boat,
No one wants to leave their loved ones behind.

The driver starts the engine,
The journey has begun,
The journey to nowhere,
Everyone has the look of fear and uncertainty,
What lies ahead, no one can surely tell.

The boat is moving,
The sea breeze feels amazing,
Am not sure how long it will last,
Appa is dead, leaving mother and Hassan with me,
The driver says it will take all night.

We have life vests and floaters,
Mine is largely oversize,
I have not been eating properly,
I hear there is food at the destination.

The sea is calm,
The driver is whistling,
The woman sitting beside mother have been crying,
She had to leave her children behind
Again, I am very lucky.

We are getting closer and it is getting cold,
The engine does not sound right,
The driver looks panicked,
He assures everyone it’s nothing to worry about,
The tide is rising and it’s still dark,
We can see the lights at our destination

Water is getting into the boat,
Everyone is panicking,
The man beside me throws his bag into the sea and gets ready to dive,
The next person does the same,
Maybe I should do the same?
Mother and I can swim but how about Hassan who cannot?

There is a bigger boat coming,
It seems like we won’t be drowning,
I have seen my death so many times,
I am no longer scared when in danger,
The boat rescued us; we are ashore in this land where our fate will be decided
Now what?
Maryanne M Jan 2013
Old corn farmers on a smoke break
Wearing old hats and ***** shirts
Talking about rainbows and politics

Alligators evolve so as the raven
Their claws soon become useless
Just like the human brain

An owl cautiously moved into the limelight
Wearing oversize diamond and opal
Hoping he doesn't look like an animal

Lips like cherries and a tongue like strawberries
She has all the makings of a total fruit cake
Who will think she stings like a snake?

I am afraid our eyes are bigger than our brain
That we have more curiosity than understanding
For we grasp all but catch nothing but wind
Alif Imran Jan 2016
Light breeds shadow
In the form of fear
Consuming my immortality bit by bit
Creating a fiend
That guzzle up my happiness
Till the deepest core of my conscience
Remorselessly

Piecemeal
I am dying from my own trepidation
That agitates me

Whether to choose malevolence
That is sweet and warming
Or to choose benevolence
That is pain and suffering

Only the saint's heart will find its way
With the least tainted loopholes
Gifted by the brute to the paradise god has created

Destitute and feeling obselete
Failed to be absolute
I seclude myself
To a silence so deafening
And the temperature is dropping
While the loneliness is creeping

In fetal position
On this oversize king bed
With blue bed shed
But no blanket

Vainer, i thought.
kiera Aug 2015
words on every corner
reach out with LED lights and capital letters
OVERSIZE LOAD and RECYCLED FASHION
demand an appetite for peripheral attention
bashful graffiti is tentative to show his smirk
unsure if he is welcome in this delicate urban zoo
where ponytailed dogs and homeless hands
share the same sallow sidewalk bricks

look up!
see the royal sorbet sky
he raises his wispy brows
as a crane lowers its dragon neck
into the safety of its concrete den
how dare such a beast encroach  
on the heavenly domain of clouds

all day a man sits in contradiction
crisp collar and stolen office chair
handing out desperate news for dollar bills
as tattered as his tiny hands

I wonder if the cigarette ****
feels worthless, now alone
dreaming to once again be puffed
being flattened by rubber soles

years ago this was home land
rich, taut and quietly loved
the earth soaked in moon's pearl balm
where his eyelashes touched the ground

Everybody knows the city always listens
through the scattered trees left here to stand
when our footsteps seem like only feathers
lost in the echoes of civilization

street now veiled by velvet
a cradle for eyes to close
the lamplight is my guiding star
i see illuminated faces
in hazy windows
and the flash and beam
of passing car
work in progress!
Addie Kay Sep 2018
Chances.
How many do you get?
How many do you want?
You can take them.
Or you can steal them.
But who do you steal them from?

Only so many are given.
It's advised not to push the limits.
Although there are all too many gimics.
Of chances I mean.
How do you know when you get one?
How do you know when you loose one?
Often you're told,
often they're sold.

They're traded from person to person.
Given, taken, stolen, awakened.
Sometimes people don't want to give them.
Because maybe you took too many.
Maybe you just took them without asking.
People don't like that,
When you take things without asking.
It makes them feel used.
A feeling all too common I see.

If you take a chance.
You can choose the size.
It's best advised,
you measure it.
Because from time to time,
People don't.
They let someone else choose for them.
You don’t want the wrong size
Not everyone knows your size
That’s why you’re supposed to choose for yourself
You can't wear clothes that are too big.
You'll look foolish.
That's why you return them.
But you can't return chances.
There are no receipts.
No repeats.
Only advances,
To places that lead to more chances,
If you’re lucky.

Chances are not redos.
So don't dare think they are.
Or you'll look foolish in your oversize suit.
During your life long commute.
People always remember the ones you take.
And especially the ones you steal.
So don't trip on your pride.
Because soon it'll be the only thing you’ve got.
The truth
Rose Ruminations Sep 2014
Où est mon coeur?
Where is my heart?
It's pitter-pat is strangely gone
And there is a strange
Emptiness that I
Can't
Quite
Appreciate

I have sought it
Since the sun peeked through my curtains
And the spurt of a swiftly ended dream
Woke me suddenly... too suddenly!
But I could not hear drumming in my ears
Or a pounding in my chest

There was nothing.
There was silence.

Où est mon couer?

Is it holding my place betwixt two chapters of a book?
Non.
But if often rolls around in words. Funny that it would not be there!
Is it hiding in a flower ***?
Non.
But it often hides in the ground hoping to grow. Strange that it would not be there!
Is it under the bed?
Non.
Stranger still. It often keeps the dust bunnies company.

Où est mon couer?
The panic
Is starting
To drive me
A little bit
Mad.

How could I have lost it?
Où est ma tête?*
I am usually so good
At keeping it caged up
Penned in
Out-of-bounds
Locked away

Strange that it would vanish in the middle of the night
Without a sound
Without a trace!

Unless
Someone found it
Stumbling across it
In the foggy half-world of my dream
And picked it up
And put it in an oversize pocket
Stealing it
In a dream-act
That bleeds into my reality
Who would have thought the storm would come
So soon, from a pale blue sky,
When the weather man said, ‘Fine til noon,
And the afternoon, quite dry.’
But moisture fell in a feathery squall
On the morning of that day,
Blown from the top of an anvil cloud
Some twenty miles away.

By two o’clock, the cumulonimbus
Cloud had drifted in,
Its anvil top like a dreadful shroud
As black as the darkest sin,
And lightning crackled within that cloud
Before it was given birth,
And loosed in chains with the driving rains
As it found its way to earth.

We pulled the blanket off the beach
And we closed the hamper top,
As the wind picked the umbrella up
And bowled it, til it dropped,
While Helen stood with her hands on hips,
Stared balefully at the sky,
‘Thanks, you ruined our picnic,
With never a warning, why?’

As if in answer to Helen’s taunt
The lightning struck her tongue,
Her face lit up in a brilliant glow
As bright as the morning sun,
She stood for a moment, paralysed
Then she toppled onto her face,
I’d never seen anyone crash to earth
Face down, with such little grace.

I rolled her over the sand, face up
And I gave her mouth to mouth,
Her head was facing magnetic north
And her feet were pointing south,
Her lips were black as the weirdest Goth
And her cheeks were pale and white,
I managed to get her breathing then
But something wasn’t right.

She stared at me with her purple eyes
That before, I’m sure were blue,
And lightning sparked in her retina
As she said, ‘Thank God for you!’
She wouldn’t go to the hospital,
She staggered back to the car,
And said, ‘I’m needing a drink, for sure,
Let’s find the nearest bar.’

I took her home in an hour or two
And I put her straight to bed,
She said her stomach was rumbling,
There was lightning in her head,
She slept right though to the early hours
And got up before the dawn,
She stood and stared out the window, then,
‘I think I’ve just been born!’

I heard her go to the kitchen then,
Where she said that coffee called,
Then heard the clatter of cutlery
Went down, and was appalled,
For spoons were sliding along the bench
Each time that she waved her hand,
When the coffee *** spun off its top
She said, ‘Now ain’t this grand!’

‘That lightning’s made you magnetic,
I don’t know what we’re going to do,
For all things loose and metallic now
Are turning to follow you.’
I called a friend who was trained in this,
I thought he was more than wise,
‘We’ll have to construct a Growler, but
It has to be oversize.’

A Growler’s simply an A/C coil
That you drop the magnet in,
It only takes a moment or so
To reverse that power within,
It took him over a day to make,
We stood her inside the coil,
I turned my back when he switched it on
And listened to Midnight Oil.

She blew every circuit in that thing
The coil was glowing red,
And lightning was flashing in her eyes
While thunder burst from her head,
She was twice as strong as she’d been before
And everything metal stuck,
We peeled the spanners off at the door
While Helen just ran amuck.

She went to live on a mountain top
Away from the bustle and pace
She said she couldn’t come back to me,
Nor even the human race,
There’s nothing metallic up there, she says
So lives up close to the sky,
And hopes to be struck by lightning, once,
She says that it’s worth a try!

David Lewis Paget
Patricia Drake Mar 2013
There once was this place called the Corner
Attracting each poet and mourner
It would seem like the place
Where lyrics of grace
And beauty would make them feel warmer


But sadly the Corner would swarm
With predators seeking to warm
Their oversize egos
And feed their libidos
With chatting up girls as their form


As their poetic skills would deflate
They would rather on *** concentrate
So their primitive verse
Became far more perverse
When their  critics would start to debate
I used to write poetry on the Android app Poet's Corner. Surprisingly many people used it as a dating site.
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2022
Handheld hand me downs
stained with wrinkles of time
of another's experiences
A saint's keep of innocent exposure
but being around towns

Oversize shoes, told to grow in them
socks of socket pockets, storing stories
tightly fitting jeans, when they were
first called feminine

T-shirt stains, pressed collar golf shirts
of course to those wanting to ball
with high fades, and a pair of high cut Converse
We converse our words to sound a little cool
And knowing nothing more painful as a new
pair of school shoes

We just loved hanging around with the
best looking clothes off the hanger
Nowadays we don't dress to inspire—
but just dress to pass the flu of deciding
which ridiculous trend is much flyer

                                          Sigh!
Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 2022
A tackle with the wind, a tackle with
these modern day kids. Good grief,
as I used to be; childish cares gone in the wind.

A mud crack on a leaf, to leave a
sound of mud cakes I'd make. Under the sun,
till dusk had set; using it's heat to bake.

A first kiss by a door, both parents a few
rooms away to get caught. Curiosity gained
from movie love scenes; tasting the worth.

A bicycle pedal, cycling carelessly. So freeing
to be allowed to ride up and down streets. But
we were young boys of trouble; disturbing the peace.

A stanza getting longer, words can't fit. And like
my mother buying oversize clothing. Barely fitting
in; whether in crowds or clothes in the surrounding.

A procrastinator, in doing first good. Lazy to decisions
of no self benefits. At a time only wanting a final gain
in rewards; you'd expect from growing a little penniless.

A grown boy now, a man faced in the mirror. A face of time
and the lessons experienced. Truly I've seen how much I've
grown; I've grown so much to shed a tear.

A story of growth as you read.
Vinod Padarat Jan 2013
Why did you do this to my soul?
My world has been so cold
Ever since you walked out that door
I don't feel like living anymore
The dreams I have about you is nothing more than nightmares to me now
And all I have to say is wow
I gave you ALL my love, I did what I had to do to make you happy
And what I get in return a bunch of "honesty"
"Oh Vinod, I would never cheat on you"
Well guess what ***** you just did, you don't know what you put me through.
All of those "I love yous" was just lies
You were my prize but now you're oversize
You're a lying fat *****
Good thing I scored!
This is a poem for my first break up, I went through a lot and this was my way of letting out some anger.
She’d gone on her own to the party,
But sadly, for she was alone,
Her partner had left her in limbo,
Had not even said he was going.
A month had gone by, with never a word
And nothing to say why he’d gone,
She looked in the mirror for why she was spurned
But life, as it does, carries on.

Nothing had changed in her that she could see,
She still had her beautiful hair,
Her lips were as full as they ever could be,
Her eyes had that hypnotic stare.
Her figure was slim, and as firm as it was
When her partner decided to leave,
If there was a problem, it had to be him,
Which left her no reason to grieve.

The party she went to was stranger than strange,
With Bogans, Goth make-up and Greens,
She guessed that their ages for most of them ranged
From middle-aged matrons to teens.
A pair of Goth sisters were eyeing her off
And flattering her, to deceive,
‘My, there is a beauty, the best of the lot,
I’d fit her, I think, with a squeeze.’

They twittered and tittered between them, the two,
Whose beauty had long gone to seed,
Whatever they’d had, it was plain that it flew
When excess took over from need.
They fed her with drinks and exotic confects
That she hardly liked to refuse,
Her hold on the present was slight, I reflect,
Her sadness was yesterday’s news.

The ugliest sister, whose name was July,
Rolled in like a mist to her brain,
The cunning of eyes and a whispered surprise
Made her think she was going insane.
She felt herself ebbing, and losing control
As July held her hands in her own,
And then somehow gelling with tissues and cells in
Some fatness that she’d never known.

She watched through a mist as the girl she had been
Laughed loudly, and then turned away,
Embracing the sister, that other unclean,
‘We’ll get you one, some other day!’
Her body felt loose, like an oversize suit
And her lips could but slobber and cry,
‘What have they done to my beautiful youth,’
As she turned to a mirror, to cry.

David Lewis Paget
Micheal Wolf Feb 2017
Netflix tonight!
The man of the house said
She said "Lets watch a chick flick"
  But he wasn't having that.

"Let's watch Brando it's a classic"
was his next idea,
Last Tango in Paris!
Have you never seen it my dear?

They sat together watching with smart price popcorn and cheap wine
Then came the scene where the old boy grabbed the butter and suddenly it was all in the gutter

Engrosed and engorged or a mix of the two, he shouted get some butter,
"I'll try that with you"

It looked fun at first till she got to his fridge
She opend the door and no butter could she see.
Smart price lard was all that was there, this wasn't Chester oh what a mess

We have none she said in a voice of relief
And headed for bed without a buttered rear seat

Half an hour later then came the shock
The cook came to bed with dripping on his ****
Naked and ****** and wanting a bunk
She fled the bedroom before he could mount

In a nighty like a wigwam caught in the breeze and her funbags unbridled
Down to her knees

She screamed to the neighbours he's trying to **** me with a lard coverd **** and an oversize belly

The police came quick, just like he did
They couldn't stop laughing at his melted dipstick
Take him away the Sgt said
That's the last Tango in Noctorum
He'll have with her!!
Rebeca Aug 2019
In this prison full of lies
The cells are oversize
But the walls...
They ain't made of concrete bricks,
They ain't breaking with just six
Wrecking ball kicks.
And the windows...
Oh, my sweet child, the windows...
They don't even exist.
There's no piercing light,
No chasing dreams, no flying kite,
No escaping hopes,
Just me and my thoughts...
I'm pacing blind
In this prison that's my mind.
One of my first ever poems in English.
boy.

those caveman days were brutish, nasty, short and rough.

     ear splitting cacophony felt like listening to partying beastie boys with smashed face on a vampire weekend competing with deafening leopards roar rin n rush shin version of hells bells, inxs of pulp fiction sung backwards by cold play, or a brutally nasty yet thankfully short version per youtube video drowning out beach boys winking in the hood.

     loud quiet rioting !@#$ growls shook bats overhead when this grizzled papa bear disturbed (like twittering angry birds), and forced to wake prematurely from hibernation set his seething animal anger to boil, and smoke to issue from his jack rabbit *** nine looking don Quixote ears.

     argh.

     the gumption from this then profoundly gap toothed, high browed, red necked ursine, viperous spouse getting  one swiftly tailored kick in the bony **** sent me flying like a twisted sister careening forward into out of the summer time sadness air back to the future.
     right then n tha hair, earth, wind and fire convinced this **** sapiens he became gratefully dead.

     upon immediate and most unwelcome exposure therapy to the arctic blast, this mama’s and papa’s boy (by george) was in no mood to tangle nor play footsie with mother nature.

    i  wanted to whip the hide when needles of miniature aeroplane shaped snow white slippery buckshot elements of style kissed, pierced and smashed against his face from those shoddily made flimsy animal clothes that barely kept him warm. lucky for that vat of midnight oil, which shrouded me in n wispy pearl jam pelt.

     tears for fears spilt like pearl jam (like 10,000 maniacs bursting from a soundgarden or highly revved motorhead during a black sabbath)
     stop crying bellowed.

     wah.

     without a shadow of a doubt, these beatle browed monkeys (strewn by denim dog gone hooligans), who cawed like sum Cajun gumbo baboons for a banana split Sunday.

     anyway, i practically froze off mine scrawny ****.
     dang! ooh!
     how purty!
     my oh my!
     a cute deer!
     out came the bow and arrow.

      the feathered lancet described a nike arc with a nike swoosh.
      bulls’ eye!

     upon uttering "hey lucy i am home", the little beasts tore their sharp nine inch long nails into the soft raw doe!

     now compare the above paragraphs to this technological age.

     no way, no how does this domesticated simian relish expending any ounce of energy.

     without the need to leave the comfort of my warm bed, a click of the remote can provide immediate needs at these fingertips.

     why dress (perhaps just a coat of armor), when breakfast, lunch or dinner delivered via robot.

     bathe?
     this waterbed doubles up as a washbasin.

     ah.

     how in the name of judas priest could our ancestors enjoy feeling like a beast of burden? who says you cannot always get what you want? alice cooper in chains? beastie boy george cinderella? eddie money? freddy mercury? iron maiden? lana del rey? madonna? pink floyd? quiet riot? soundgarden? yes! the entire motley crue!

     yeah! obvious, I aint no luddite period! this creature of habit would never give up his pad (shaped like an oversize ipod) and forego any of his labor saving devices the only way to take away these cherished, idolized, prized possessions? you would have to pry these buzzing, flying, whirring gizmos loose from my cold dead fingers!

     don’t get your doggies with dimples hopes up!
     i aint planning to cross the river styx anytime soon.
     maybe not even in this lifetime!
     ha!
     so there!
     nor best ye *** any ideas to boot me from this tear rest trial plane, and put me six feet under.
     capisce?
     comprende?
I am a man with so many wounds
I have been beaten for all my truths.
Yes, I get injured everyday
But I am always expected to bury my pain.

I am a traveller burdened by so many routes
Knowing nothing but expected to always know what to do.
My mind is a bank of unanswered questions
And yet, when doubts come, I am seen as a solution.

You can see why I always sweat in pleasures
I am always faced with faceless pressure.
My heart is a battlefield of countless thoughts
And my spirit is always busy knocking on locked doors.

So, don't be deceived by my smile,
I am not always fine.
I always wear oversize with shallow pockets
Working like a man fetching water in baskets.

Don't mind my suit,
Life has not been gentle to me too.
I am a man of faith,
Attempting a miracle everyday.
I am tired of hiding my story
But I am not asking for your sorry.
We all have our wars
And yours may be worse.

Hence, take me as a brother in the struggle
When you finally have enough, don't forget others in the circle.
I am still a man with so many wounds
I am rose-coloured that my healings will come soon.
silli Feb 2014
i wanted to rip apart
every bit of my skin
I wanted to watch it rip like fabric
string from string
nothing stopped me from doing it
no one cared
I had to just stand there as the mocked me
all they did was laugh and stare
they laughed at my grades and how im a failure
little do they know I wanted to drop out and **** myself
little do they know they wars in my head prevent me from doing better
they stare at my body
im so annoyed by it
little do they know this is the first time in so long that I didn't ware an oversize  shirt because of this fear
little do they know that starting at me
weather it be disgust
or to enjoy
it kills me
that they think they can do that just because.
I know im nothing
worthless
I know
but little do they know
how hard it was for me
to shove back my anger
to stop myself from letting rivers flow from my eyes
little do they know
oh how little they know
Diabolical optical ron stoppable
At your ****** scene
Outlining my master scheme
Cause casket raising is a persuasion
Like Asians
No I rather tackle your brain
So me and CTE are kinda the same
I want to bend your sense of reality to insane
And have you drive your Ferrari into flames
Distorting your social norms
And dissolving consequence
Im like the purge but with more confidence
Run away, scream, or fight back
I like all the above
Cause without a outlet
I would need a plug

See thats the headlines media dimes
Oversize to prioritize what we should
Cannibalize in our social lives
Yet I get hate because I’m wise
This owl is putting who on a loop
Like who made bohemian grove?
Who is willie lynch?
Who runs the new slave trade?
Yeah I’m the two of spades
Cutting into your shady grin
Cause these political jokers
Are two faced like a double chin
But nobody sees there’s villainous
To spew venomous at
The innocent to make them descent
While gain they cents all for
There sinful lent
And you say I’m bent
Naw I’m the anti hero you need
Kinda like spawn if dark horse
Didn’t make him take a knee
So I don’t want glee or to live happily
Cause I love all the jeers and boos
I just wonder when Henrietta Lack cells
Will be in the news?
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)

Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence

before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened

Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks

nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.

Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole pub

must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.

The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges *******
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat

to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
******* drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize ****.
---------------------------------------------------
Lyrics­

Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
Clutches of Adversity







If only her distress could be weighed,
And all her misery be placed on the scales!
It would surely outweigh the sand of the seas
No wonder her offsprings nuked her peace-eggs.




If only her pains could be rain,
And all her tears be flown to paradise!
It would surely outrank her wealth-eyes

No wonder her progeny merry in poison.




If only her sorrow could be quenched,
And all her afflictions be banked like gold!
It would surely oversize the four pillars of the world
No wonder terrors are marshaled against her world.



If only her hurt house havens in hell,
And all her agony be filmed in movies!
It would surely overshadow the kingdom of Israel

No wonder famine thwarts the plans of the milk.






©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
>> 11/07/2017
⊙01:08AM
strawberry cake,

warm chocolate,

oversize hoodie,

bubbles,

disney movie,

run through fingertips,

a peck on rosy cheeks,

write each other a love letter,

talk about constellation,

you.
just you, in general.
sandra wyllie Apr 2021
ball. And his voice
the paddle. He kept whacking
the celluloid globe to the tune
"man on the moon" I skedaddled

as a deer crossing the road
seeing a truck marked "oversize overload"
His notes ricocheted on my forehead
as a concert hall of "the living dead" My eyes

fell out of their sockets as pennies
rolling from my ripped jean pockets. I put my
hand inside to find the lining unravelling to
"man on the moon"
Graff1980 Jun 2017
It is hard to
give a ****.
cause I get stuck
in the muck
with a desire
to inspire
much higher
thoughts
and ambitions,

but I am a mutt,
******* child
of the light
and wild
side.

I cannot hide
my teary eyes,
and my disgust
almost busts
right out of
my oversize gut.

Humanity
hurts too much,
but I am so
******* stuck.
(Otherwise titled poetic
gobbledygook trot -
oven chilly cooked confusion eliciting
faint thanks a lot
unbeknownst this tasteless,
senseless, rhymeless... lettered

Rorschach test tease I jot
interpretation, viz hitting
analogously like amorphous melted ingot
watch yourself...
d's lines iz still smok'n HOT,
now I puzzle regarding how

to extricate mess elf aye got
into try'n to strut and trumpet
hightailing to Hong Kong
entrepôt yea, that dot
on the map embroiled -

in political fracas fifteen minutes
of fame Andy Warhol didst allot
every man, woman,
and child even no bot
tee like me.)

Anyway... when zombie like,
I try to dead reckon eyes
purposefulness astride oblate spheroid
nsync with other gals and guys
either one, t'other or all
mask cue lated in disguise

impossible mission to triangulate
Euclid say logic defies
to comprehend gibberish
no matter how much you scrutinize
his highness, qua shape
shifting imperfect square stumps

any tree men douse great mind to analyze
me skewering, marinating, gunning... decries
abiding any logical positivism
queries best addressed to Lord of the Flies
since nary handy dandy blues clues,
I opted out thus...

******* provided to synthesize
random words helter skelter
strewn to symbolize
absent any rhyme or reason
courtesy handy matted figurative
trapezoid doth employ

no paradigm to exercise
leaving comprehension after mine demise
so go ahead chastise
cuz I already know,
never will said poetry win apprize.

Initially, an attempt
sought regarding Das scribe,
yours truly donning checkerboarded rawhide
collared, cuffed oversize raiment, pride
and prejudice obscured
courtesy hand-me-downs
couture also decking out

alley oop trapeze artist bride
of Frankenstein grooming in attendance
with her bonafide
circus motley crew, a veritable
monster mish mashup
happenstance didst decide
unlike traditional feted newlyweds
swingers airborne did only abide.

The law of gravity aerial
pas de deux bodies airborne
aloft pledging their respective troths sworn
fleeting suspended animation while shorn
infinitesimally of Earth's pull
only expert can playfully scorn

accomplishment courtesy no greenhorne
neophytes in utero umbilical cord,
taking root as metaphorical acorn,
thus unbridled and groomed skill inborn
burst out the womb like heated popcorn
snapped up since birth well worn

genes Ringling Brothers and
Barnum & Bailey circus practiced morn
till night stunts became second nature
encore performance no matters bodies outworn.
Curtain Call now doth close
unrehearsed poetic gambit,

cuz yours truly tuckered out I suppose
ready to take his doze
zee dough into dreamland, expose
zing oft times confused
with dark shadow ofouter limits

of twilight zone, where me lovely bones froze
where sudden night mare arose
gripping courtesy rigor mortis head to toes
daunting wordsmith champion
manifestation of daily woes.

Suddenly me clutched
by melancholic despair
somnambulantly where
countless tomb morrows *****
scarcely undifferentiated from yesterday's care
wracking psyche with wrath plus fear
at accursed purposelessness near
faux sing myself regarding pas
city to emulate good cheer.
No one Apr 2020
Many of our nights together,
I would just nod and kiss your cheek.
Those nights,
I would look at the peaceful stars
and wish that you would see the beauty in things. 
I hoped that one day
you'd be able to see the world as I did:
An oversize canvas
with too many colors.
Yet somehow,
they fit perfectly.
Juliana Jones Jan 2020
As pink as a kiss I kiss your cheek and kiss again, your aged hand in mine.
Frail and shrunken, bird-like bones visible in the last bed you now occupy.
I move slightly as the weak smell of death stirs my senses, oh my dearest dad, not long now I murmur.
Your teeth no longer chatting sit quietly out of reach knowing it is here, nothing more to be said.
I smooth your forehead with lovely tales and kind whispers of nothing, death is close, perhaps arriving as soon as today.
The peal-grey colour of distance climbs onto your  face as if it had just walked through the door.
God is near. Death is listening between the dark spaces as it rattles its slow way.
Your heart shuts without needing my attention, then splendid silence so complete.
How frail all day without a stir while at your feet I weep, and now you are gone?

You wave me off as if stirring the air.
Your warmth still in my hand, your touch for both of us to keep.
With oversize Bible tucked under my arm and your heart the shape of love safe in my pocket, I stand smiling dumb.

How is this story supposed to end?
But you have ended it for me by leaving a trail of crumbs between the pages of your Good Book.

My father who died at 103.
In dedication to my father who died at 103, old and full of days.

— The End —