"ownership" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea.
At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate.
This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land.
“Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment.
Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement.
Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused.
Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control.
The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed.
In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Oh do not look at me like that.
Although I pulled the trigger you loaded the gun a long time ago.
Oh do not complain that my loose canons of speech are finally repulsively soaring.
When you gave me a deadly spark.
If you do not blame,
Then I promise I won’t too,
The collateral damage of two wishful hearts needs no ownership.
So stop trying to win a forgotten war,
What’s done is done.
No more friendly fire.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014
Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.
Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.
Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.
Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.
Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression
but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.
I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.
We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.
I do know
that stop
that
stop
stop.
I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll
you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.
that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
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QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
The counter-cedar Venice much unparalleled ever pursuant kindly indigenous street streams far above strange beneath the string ...' Dream castle before the 'Requiring much quill 'Peanut lieutenant great ones of the machinery citation / Worth pillow following purposes invasion with a rainfall bombardment epistle the pearl earning era: Closet by sessions pursue arithmetician diaries ' anchor calculus cumulative arrows propellant / Squadron in the field-refueling ' division visions ...' Upswing within the meaning axle conversion processes proofs / ' Electron icons ' Creation wireless reticence circles: Moon ship's amnesty crest reckon 'flaskbone SpurZebra...' Preferment goes by relieves and affectionate 'Oil The Self-graduation Outpouring / Vagrant above ant strides : Rodrigo peculiar ends demonstration/ Forego the-Outward acclimation : Upon all civility citizenry civil-rises other low less losses below yonder / Phrase of prose -possessions cuss ion syn chronicutensils 'asylum systems beyond stems : Preeminence blown 'being ht-thence quarries hijack travels history/Wherein of plant hours ' spicily spoke ***** Pilgrimage dilutes noble companies 'ago-maximize promptly alacrity; Exhibition the underrating besought levels- of quarry / burden oxidation immune slaughter
Cheap Hill Chips
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
The strike of the rainbow warriors
After a few hours in the dark cages of horror we suddenly see a sharp light in the sky of evil. The golden goddess notices another ship coming towards the devils spike city.
At that moment the orange and black pirates run towards their ships in dock and sound a long dark horn of terror. The golden goddess notices a large rainbow type ship sailing in firing laser rays at the pirates vessels of evil.
The ship sets into the dock of spike city while some remaining pirates get cut down and captured with blue laser nets of torture. Our eyes open with horror when rainbow type creatures with bows and arrows jump out of the ship and circle our cages of horror.
A few of the black pirate in the purple bushes try and shoot the rainbow warriors but get cut down with their laser fast arrows. The commander of the rainbow warriors suddenly jumps down from the ship and lifts up the cages with power and ease while the warriors round up the captured pirates.
I comfort a shaking luitent megs while the commander shakes our hands before releasing the other golden warriors from their dark cage. The horses bow their heads towards the commander while the golden goddess looks with hope in her beaten heart.
All of a sudden two rainbow warriors march out a swearing and aggressive woman holding a long jagged sword and pirates armband. The rainbow warriors quickly zap her evil body and hold her down tightly . The golden goddess goes over for a better look while her long tongue of nails cuts of a warriors head off with ease.
The rainbow warriors chop her evil tongue off with a swipe of the rainbow sword before pinning her to the cold ground. two of the warriors then begin to peel her black dress of horror off while other rainbow braves flock around.
A curious golden goddess peeps though for a better look while the warriors are undoing her small black studded bra of terror. The goddess looks on with a smile and twinkle while she screams in anger at her ******* bouncing in the dark cold night.
All of a sudden the commander comes inside the circle of torture and begins removing her devilish red ******* while the warriors cheer and scream. The golden goddess looks on with a content smile while the warriors chop her body up into bit with their glowing swords.
After a few minutes the rest of the pirates are shot and executed with laser bouts while we all sit watch with open mouths of horror. The commander then takes us aboard the rainbow ship of safety while the pirates come back to evil spike city with four more pirate ships of torture.
We all sail across the red evil sea towards a big large rainbow in the glowing yellow sky whilst being followed by two black pirate ships. Once we reach through the rainbows end we begin to notice the water turning bright pink and the pirate ships turning back towards the red river of horror.
A relived golden goddess turns towards her army and smiles while we we all jump about on the rainbow ship of safety. I hold luitent megs tight in my arms while the green moon sets across the blue landscape in the distance.
written by wayne mockler
ownership and copyright wayne mockler
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:34 PM UTC
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Epilogue:
The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.
Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.
“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.
Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner
People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces
The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill
I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
I’m talking to you
in my head
been cultivating this shyness
since I was three years old
talking to inanimate objects
painted smiles, rubber-skinned
metal frames
turning wheels
the family minivan kept me company
as mountains rose and fell
like held breaths
let go.
playing games with pregnant raindrops
rolling down the glass
obsessed with the shark’s fin triangle
the wipers could not
reach.
I’m obsessing over seeing you.
always trying to be invisible
your eyes beginning to skim past I,
they didn’t used too.
*“The voices that once spoke love
but did not mean love.”*
the withered rose living
in the trash,
abandoned friends in the attic
forgotten songs
unfinished books
I am the forgotten
I am the abandoned
I am the left behind
cobweb-and-cotton-dust-collector
the silence connoisseur
I wear loneliness like an unwashed favorite shirt
If I die
Will you read this?
Does anyone else think such things
or is Tonio Kroger my only brother?
I am Kafka’s cockroach,
everyone is waiting for me to die
or to change into what you want me to be.
my name will not be in the history books
by the time my children’s children will have children
I am no one.
Everything fades in this world
like whiteboard-marker on acetate lives.
Desolate corners and garbage
tell stories
art is vandalism, vandalism is art.
and people wear diamonds but they are worth nothing.
and babies inherit their father’s eyes.
I am not yours.
You are not mine.
Isn’t ownership objectification?
If a man owns a clock
does the clock own the man?
Let’s be
money and greed
or
greed and suffering.
one cannot survive
without…
Let’s be
the mismatched pyramids
of wealth and population
form a parallelogram
like bricks on an unstable wall
never falling down.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
In the West I learned western hospitality
Free spirit, free drugs, more ***** more love
If you can remember your problem your doing it wrong
But if you forget your responsibilities you're not worth much
Party everyday pretend you don't understand the methods of your madness
Walk the streets half naked in half a foot of snow
Party, study, party, study
party, party, party
CHURCH
repent and once it strikes midnight start again.
In the North I learned Northern hospitality
It's called minding your business
It's called I have to get somewhere
If you have a question you also have a smart phone
It's not my job to tell you the norm.
You'll figure it out
I learned to walk fast, speak briskly and tell everyone to mind their own business
In the South I learned Southern hospitality
It's where people talk nice to your face and ***** behind your back
It's where the idea of ownership has stemmed way before the monogram
It's where if they only have two faces they are genuine and where they'll feed you fresh apple pie
filled with arsenic
Where you can trust your neighbor only as far as you can throw them
Where everyone's a little racist, a little homophobic, a little god-fearing
In the South I learned
Hospitality
--------------------------------------------------------
A/N
I was born and raised in Denver, Colorado.
Currently I reside in North Carolina.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Even if the season of lust blankets loneliness in a tight wrap
smothering those fragile emotions in the winter months
of a lifetime of cyclical wants and needs
waiting for the summer to send its life giving mantras
deep into the ****** soil of waiting,
the hibiscus waits ready to grasp the first finger of sun drenching
warmth to burst out into beauty
above ground and spread its dense green leaves
with crimson flower and trumpet shape
into the minds eye of acceptance.
Soon the valley changes hue as altogether
the trees spring to life shedding their softness
into every nook and corner, crabbing into crannies
and leaping wings of delight into welcome air.
The hibiscus will soon take ownership
of the entire valley bringing to the forefront
our own wanderlust.
Author Notes
Changeover between summer and sunshine.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
So many products on display
Shopping carts stare hungrily at you
With just a click you can order
Your minds tricked with colorful display
Giving a sense of ownership
Erasing the line between ‘need’ and ‘want’
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton.
Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started
Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my
Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston
Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks
Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own
Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between
My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit.
Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to
Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks.
"Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers.
Wednesday is my day for telling the truth.
2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado.
"I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
I am my fathers daughter.
I know this because he tells me every time he's drunk or every time I'm drunk
I think it started when my mother left
skipped town with the preacher
left me shaking in the bathroom holding my knees like a bad taste in my mouth
this is family
this is coming home or the lack of coming back
this is making toast for your mom when she's had too much wine and somehow ends up where it all began, in the apartment that was once hers but has since switched ownership
this house is not a home
without a mother
this house is not a home without the fathers daughter
we become glue for those who cannot become sober
we become wall, ball and chain, we become our fathers at such a young age we forget how to be anything besides drunk
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Anna entered the room like a butterfly, gossamer to all.
Her face told a different story. One of sadness and hurt.
She wore only the finest silks and seamed cuban stockings.
All eyes latched upon her and followed every step. But no real man ever approached her.
No saviour could get near.
She wore none of her finery, the choice all his.
A trophy bride,
sold like raw meat in her childhood.
It was normal in her village, her adolescence stolen from her.
Anna's delicate neck held an overbearing sapphire necklace. It was overkill in every way.
All for show, all chosen by him, all for him.
He entered with his cronies as though owning the club.
The way he thought he owned her.
Thought indeed, for there is always a price in ownership.
Hours past champagne and fake laughter abounded.
Then she stood up.
Immediately challenged!
She wished to go and powder her nose.
Naturally escorted, god forbid she made outside contact.
But she was not watched within. Minutes passed then... The scream.
She had left, Anna had escaped him.
The anger on his face !
He had no control, lost face in front of them all.
For Anna, oh beautiful Anna lay sylph like wrapped like a cloud in her white dress, its silk floating in a pool of her life blood.
She had left, she was free.
Now her face was different, white, ashen but at peace.
Free..
Anna had left.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
I'm ****** off with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.
Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this poeticaly clear;
***If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare***.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
/ *oh no no no... you don't get a jew artefact at this point, when the play of words comes between the son and the mother... no no no... you're target; she should be a **** a stripper, a ***** but when you do what this, "englishman" did? undermining the concept of personal property? ownership? his property infringes on your property, and somehow: my, yours, our's doesn't compute... i'm ******* craving to **** my neighbour... because all i have left to lose is... frothing at the mouth.*
at a supermarket:
within the confines
of a cashier:
- 'is this your typical
friday night?'
say it plain, chubby...
**** it: more cushion
for the pushin'...
sunglasses at 6am?
a reply:
- 'it could be'
- 'if you were part of it'
- 'what?'
i'd love to fiddle with excesses
of porky...
migrant crisis?
more like a ***** cricis...
import black ****
given the white boy lay low...
it's not even funny,
i find it funny attempting
to whistle...
which i can't,
given that i found laughter...
just don't come between me
and mt "neighbour":
cos i'll **** the ******* ****
and "he's" watching me?
sorry:
i'll **** the ******* ****
fuck-face-tard!
no, i will;
i can't conceive retaining
the anglophone aspect of comedy
within the confines
of the monologue,
with a cabaret....
i'll **** him...
next time we exfoliates
speaking to my mother,
and not... looking
into my eyes...
"englishman": spew!
you! now! clean up this
***********
******* english!
like you bred a people,
gesticulating with
a hand gesture...
new yankies...
britain: home,
of the the wankies.
p.s.
no... private property contra
private property
within this ****** vogue...
i seriouslly will throw
a **** into his garden,
and say...
not enough fox hunting,
d'uh!
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
I fell into a dream
waking up into a
cookie-scented utopia
of apostrophes that indicated
ownership
because it was Marc's cookie
and participles grasped and
secured
like a balloon tied to a toddler's hand
I fell into a dream
where nothing was kool or
rite
and everything had been
twice read, reviewed, evaluated, and
deemed worthy
like the cupcakes that get placed
on the plate in a
Cupcake War
I fell into a dream
of silence during silent work time
not invaded by a slithering serpent
fork-tongued and effulgent with ideas
expressing expressions
idioms cliches redundancies falsehoods
lies
and the silence hung like
an anticipated snow
cold cloaking with excitement
and a feeling of being completely
awake.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Load Steam and select old nostalgic pre-purchased game
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Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
Tear me down.
Push me low and watch me drown.
Amusement as you watch me struggle and gasp.
Your enjoyment is on full display, topped off with your evil rasp.
Once all is done and your ownership is re-certified. You kiss me softly, your gestures now tender.
Each time I'm still terrified but, hearing those two words is reason enough to surrender.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Dragging feet though out of time
Such a new-found face to climb
Be my sweet, sweet paradigm
Be mine.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
a man gave me that phrase as a gift today.
quiver of constant smiles
for well he could,
yet little did he ken
the nature of the present
because
I read the smiles as the
tween the spaces,
in between the words of
anguish that never goes away
how can this be,
how to make sense of this
well I am a father too,
of words and sobs
and ownership of sins
between sons and fathers,
who inhabit
the unfilled spaces within,
the drawers with their name
on masking tape attached
Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Show me a man-father
whose lips
have not quiet quivered
when hearing those words sung
we ease the grip of
carrying them on our shoulders
when they are five at the
Macy's day parade,
running alongside their first
solo bicycle ride
we ease the grip of
the vise of
not seeing them for years,
or never again,
cause they hold you guilty,
responsible for their confusion
have too, ease the grip,
cause we got more than one
singular responsibility
so we dad draw,
a smile from the quiver,
that like those of the elves,
replenished magically,
strap it on wide,
mile high and move on
oh you teenage children, you babies,
with your endless angst and bravado
of drunken scar talk,
first love lost
and the hard course
of being sixteen
put down your tiresome blunt pens
that revel only in Self-intensity glorious-galore,
read of the self destruction
of love pains thirty years in the making
and fifty in the undoing
write of ancient inescapable feelings
decades in the vat, aging, but drunk in the
moment quick searing of
every life breath you take
and it's Sunday nite
and the work week hell begins
but it is no compare to the other,
but **** you can't understand
so chant these words,
reflect on them well,
for soon while you dream sleep,
in clean, dry sheets and safe bed
a man will come for a peep,
to make the checkmark
on the all's well list
so chant these words,
a sad violin melody,
the single sole he ever hears,
*Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
**the ****** heart
(if ownership of a poem makes you proud, considered it to be...trending)**
~~~
~for PoetryJournal~
~~~
*the afterglow of the aftermath,
the chest pounding demanding,
tolerating-no-delay apprehension
of the transcription
of what is
the ****** heart soaring,
the lean-back exhalation,
wet eyes that only you
have secret knowledge thereof
this is why we write,
why we beings believe,
because we ask,
why
by the asking,
we grade ourselves,
both by
our words and deeds
step back and
accept the notion
that feels not wholly right,
for inherently tinged,
streaked with human pride,
that all possess,
and possessive of
our all
you are value,
by the words you have chosen,
by the only human
that can give truth to its essential
value
***you poet,
are trending**
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
You left me with scars
Deeper than those I’ve given myself
With only your gritty hands.
You took a beautiful act
And stained it with grease
Ruining it for any future lover.
Yet, you used my experience with others
To justify your actions
Because you “love me so much more.”
You abused me like a child;
Expecting loyalty
And punishing me regardless.
But you “loved” me;
You manipulated me
Into thinking it was my fault.
If I stopped letting you explore
The body you felt entitled to
You threatened suicide.
I was poisoned into believing
That you actually cared for me
When you were breaking me slowly every day.
We were best friends
Until my mind caved in on itself
And my body was too broken to love.
I chose my life over yours.
You’re suicide instead of my repeated ****
Yet you’re still breathing.
Parts of me died every time you touched me
And when I felt incapable of continuing
You offered money in return.
Considering my financial situation
You knew I couldn’t say no
So I sold you my body.
Emotionless you left me
Stealing breath from my lungs
And life from my veins.
I gave up
Once paid, I left you
But I’d see you anyways.
On the bus.
In the halls.
That day of the final payment.
An envelope full of money
Left me feeling even more empty
Realizing what I lost for it.
With it you left a note
And your prized possession
The indicators of your impending death.
You said you were sorry.
You said you loved me.
You lied.
While I’m happy you never took your life
I’m dead inside still
Because of you.
You took ownership of my body
Without my permission
And you left it broken and incomplete.
Those pieces of me you stole
I will NEVER get back
And you don’t even know you’re a ******
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC