"parliamentary" poems
Transnational capitalism is a gluttonous preoccupation of the aristocrat. Although Simone De Beauvoir nailed her colors to the metaphorical mast of equality, it is reasonable to acknowledge that our perimeter lies beyond intra-personal vistas of gender identity and ****** preference.
The Lord of the Manor will grant entry to your greasy soul, if you embrace the common denominator of anthropological affiliation.
So, weary pilgrim, on this treacherous journey of presumed arrival: I urge you to identify that spiritual lobotomy of the majority where ontological convenience jeopardises the rich tapestry of our planet’s pulse.
Collectivism has a cosmological duality which will never be reconciled as long as parliamentary ridicule insults the intelligence of equilibrium.
Whatever happened to democracy? And, why do you simply conform to dictatorial messages which sink their teeth into the very flesh of community existence? We may not be able to alter the direction of the wind, but we can truly adjust our sails.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while
I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?
Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
You are peppermint:
Red hair, green eyes, white skin
peppered with polka dots.
And I, a pagan, passive and pathetic,
whose paramour is a ******* paladin
with a perfect face, parted pout and
perfumed persecution, perpetuated by
parliamentary parents who prevent you from prospering.
And I have to pitch a poker face
Pretend that your painted pair of lips pressed on my cheek
do not paralyze me, peach turned pink
over a precious peck.
So what is the purpose behind your pretense?
The pointless promiscuity, part time passion,
and I'm patient--
but god--
let me pamper you, pageant-curls princess,
forget the prestige in your pedigree,
let this penniless pauper into your palace.
You are picturesque, purely portrait-worthy,
But your painted claws perforated my paper skin,
and all I wanted was to make you purr.
*(but I don't have a *****
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Hon.Uhuru
Hon.Muigai
Hon.Kernyatta
Mr.President!
At fifties;
So young and illustrious
So energetic and industrious
So promising and eloquent
A sharp brilliant Parliamentary debater
A good financial manager
A polish political tactician
A true Kenyan king
Nature's sacred Mugumo's verdict
Moi's long-knecked prophecies
A perfect great grand transition
As history our universal teacher
Solomon Kipkoech(poet)
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Signals are indicative of current warnings, just like a beacon of light which penetrates the abyss of parliamentary speeches which are designed to evoke contemptuous laughter.
Such animated gestures are not dissimilar to crumbled biscuits which are catapulted before throngs of anticipatory populations.
However, there are varying degrees of rectitude, where the graded fraternity assume grandiosity as they lodge in the fabric of society with loyal deception.
Lurking in the esoteric shadows with the adorned regalia of blatancy and defamed characters - our captors are hidden in plain sight with political sanction.
Gestures are a form of non-verbal communication, where specific messages are planted in anthropological soils with intended purpose.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
The sun is out today,
the clouds are absent.
The flags flap lazily on the pole
halfway between the window
and the next brick building.
I'm listening to Korean rap
and filing through South African parliamentary reports.
others type on their keyboards,
screens facing away from me.
some look bored
and play with hair or scratch their chins.
Some talk to others loud enough to be heard through studio headphones.
Some wrinkle their foreheads or open their eyes wide, shocked at something
(each at separate times).
and four seats down, he sleeps.
headphones in his ears
Ipod on the table.
sometimes he rests his head on the table,
but he always end up leaning back
until his chair tips too far or a neighbor taps his shoulder.
He then wakes up and puts his head back on his desk.
At 2:04, his closest neighbor starts throwing spit *****
he doesn't wake up.
I put my head down for a second
and quit looking at him.
I look back up and he's awake,
dancing to music, talking, and doing group work.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
I have looked upon the latter
but much prefer the former.
Memo:
take a letter
to my parliamentary candidate stating unequivocally
that this life's not the life for me
and could he see a way to see
a brighter
lighter
future for me.
But my candidate can oft' be seen
at Weatherspoons in
Bethnal Green
supping on a pint of ale
(and then I wonder why I fail)
So it's down to me
to make a future I can see
the storm clouds brewing.
Chewing on a blade of grass
I pass the hat around.
Opportunities abound and I must leap
to keep another date
with some politician on the make.
The doorbell chimes a memory of better times
the postman brings me several letters
one from 'Zetters'
(8 draws on the football pool)
I'm off to celebrate.
The parliamentary candidate can kiss my ****
he's just a fool
and now I'm as rich as Midas
you may find me somewhere by a sea
where I once pinned my dreams upon those flowing streams
just to see if they would float.
but now I'll buy a boat and sail away
this is my day
And as a postscript I must write:
I've never been happy with the man they chose
To represent me behind closed doors
and plan my life.
Now my life is planned atop the ocean's wave
and so I wave goodbye
don't cry
I won't.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
Fiddling with filing, as she stood by the cabinet.
Smiled discreetly, as both their eyes they met.
He undressed her with his eyes.
While she fiddled with his flies.
Grabbing hard at true perfection.
Knowing, now there's no rejection.
F***king perfection.
Her lips, they smacked him fiercely.
****** spontaneity.
He responded with passion.
At work, of course, never in fashion.
He slammed shut the door.
As they rolled on the floor.
Hell, he responded.
For he had absconded.
Escaped today's parliamentary debate.
The honourable member of the house.
F***ked his secretary.
Never his spouse.
In a rash moment, she wriggled and jiggled attached to the end of his powerful finger.
Waiting expectantly, for manhood to enter.
She did it for free, cos no-one would rent her!
The rolled about on the solid oak floor.
Bumping and ******* with wonderful wails.
Those footsteps came banging down the hall.
As secretary # two came to call.
She listened to screams of positive pleasure.
Turned her on buckets.
She didn't knock.
Peeped through the keyhole watching his ****
Wanted to play too.
She really did.
Didn't dare knock.
So she listened some more, for a moment or two.
Thought of his ****
Then she wandered into the loo.
Gave herself an ******
Like no other, better than a real lover!
Never played at work before.
The parliamentary freaking *****
She wriggled and jigged while she fiddled, did she get very wet?
You bet!
(c) Livvi
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.
Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!
And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.
“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.
Paul Butters
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
High on the gallows he stood his death near
the rope tight around his neck!
Reflecting on how he ended in this position
from a respected shop keeper.
To conspirator against his beloved country
his innocence no bargaining plea!
Within just a few seconds would live no more
conversations with customers.
Were overheard and misconstrued by some
as plotting against the crown.
Speaking his mind on the increasing unrest
mostly said only in jest.
Word soon got back to parliamentary forces
and action followed swiftly.
He and the few other so called conspirators
were dragged into court.
Tortured to confess to what they'd not done
freedom would not be won!
Humiliated and shunned by those once friends
his family had to escape.
Within those endless unbearable few weeks
each one anded up here.
With his last breath shouted out it was not true
trap door opened he dropped through!
Innocent or guilty to him it mattered no more!
The Foureyed Poet.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Tall boys and xanax bars
Days blur and summer sun rays fade into
Rainy Vancouver-Seattle apathy
Wake up to drizzling
Mild & tired (slow burn)
With vague self satisfaction Oceanside
Pacific west coast Canadian paradise
I'll tell you when upper Eastside vibe
Subsides back to parliamentary
Green city Ottawa grandpa
Sleeping anyway
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
I was officially born in the 17th century.
My homeland was England.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
When the crowns of Scotland and England united,
When James VI, King of Scots,
Ascended to the throne of England as James I;
When civil wars between roundheads and cavaliers
Ended in Parliamentary victory,
At the Battle of Worcester.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
At the time of Interregnum,
Commonwealths, Glorious Revolution,
William and Mary
and the English Bill of Rights.
Reformation and proliferation of literacy:
People learnt to read the Bible,
Then chose to be curious and explore,
Secular literature and novels
In circulating libraries.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses,
Scattered around the city,
Spread throughout the country,
And finally reached abroad:
Another Revolution,
on the other side of the Channel.
My parents were many.
They met at intellectual bacchanalia,
In reading societies and clubs,
‘Cause that’s where news was communicated.
Freely criticizing politics and governments,
They engaged in conversations
in an environment of confrontation,
Social status set aside,
To listen, exchange, formulate,
Understand and comprehend.
Another William called me ‘mistress of success’,
Blaise thought I was ‘the queen of the world’.
Being well informed and debate in social networks
Was a duty, before being a right,
As my parents’ opinion would guide the rulers,
Ideally in the interest not of few, not of many,
but of all.
First heeded by governments,
They quickly learnt to manipulate me,
They muzzled me and domesticated me,
Taking away my freedom and relevance,
With the unofficial excuse by which
My parents were too ignorant
to even have a voice.
Now those coffeehouses have changed their shape,
Intangible, virtual, ethereal,
New spaces for new parents
To develop ideas, opinions,
And exchange;
Not currencies or stocks
but information and views.
I am my parents’ voice,
My name is Public Opinion.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
she said,
well she didn't say she had
money,
two apartments in st. petersburg
and a mansion in novosibirsk,
getting an education
in scotland... foreign
exchange rates...
i faked the relationship,
she faked taking anti-contraceptive
pills, wished me dead, asked me to be dead...
when i went back she said a funny morbid
choke... sorry, joke: i have no money...
i never wanted it anyway,
i was given a silver spoon at our engagement
ceremony... straight up my *** it went,
never came back... didn't give parliamentary
speeches after that incident though...
she gave back her engagement ring
and just said... you go live back with your parents...
reality is, most people my age can't afford
any other accommodation these days...
she said, you go back and leave me...
you'll never grow up, you'll always remain
a child... because she was a big grown up
with wealth... but she forgot to mention
being a child also meant being an artist
an freaking people out warming up to the
number of examples easily provided
and the lack of numbers of exampling not provided
to the easiest transition of 20th century
ailments (national socialism) into 21st century
ailments provided not worth citation,
because harming memorising something of
more personal content.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
They try to breakya
with the new
agenda then they'll
mendya when you're broken,
promote you as a token of
new enterprise and we know
deep down it's all a load of fuckin'
lies,
but we voted
didn't we?
for this parliamentary witches crew
who
empty whatya got into the ***
take the fuckin' lot and tell you
you're not worth a light,
right?
It's time we spoke out
time we broke out,
time we stormed the citadel and
sent the cauldron and the coven screaming into hell.
The division bell will sound unless we smash it first and send it underground,
we should tear the mother down and start from scratch.
if you're broken there's a patch for it, a plaster that will cover all the broken **** they put you through, but
the parliamentary witches crew hold all the patents, latent ******** that's all they are.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
Pumping anger, anticipating Changes but numbing strangers
Give me an answer of healing these Aids cases,
better yet, dumping this Cancer
Hard truth on politicians
no youth is contemplating parliamentary positions
I'll call them poeticians, leading by example is simply being self, core
Freedom like a trapping wall,
closing back doors as we grow and dwell more
A fading word passion, busy laughing at the truth
entertaining the world of fashion
Actually a fading lesson, lets all forget the Roots
celebrating the world of cashing
Inside we're all poeticians
Prone to our desires and waiting for premonitions...
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
Many a flame, brightens the sky
Such events to re-enact
A plot in vain that would underlie
A pre-determined pact
Brought up as a Catholic child
Beliefs that would not wane
The distinct view of Protestants
Reflecting royal reign
The disapproving treatment then
Catholic Priests and all
Of secret church services
Hidden holes – no fall
A venture to the land of Spain
Discover and to fight
A brave and learned soldier
Gunpowder to alight
Plans devised, against the king
Thomas Winter’s plot
Fawkes informed and now assigned
Such tales were not forgot
A secret meet within the Inn
Robert Catesby lead
A gang adjoined as one to swear
Our plans will go ahead
A parliamentary opening
Imminently placed
For barrels rolled into the night
Hidden without trace
A letter sent to Monteagle
Reward for such a warn
Uncovered act, to light a fuse
The truth of which be sworn
Hidden in the cellar below
O’ Guy to now arrest
A plotters display of guilty heads
The ending of their quest
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
*Parliamentary procedure and decorum will not work in modifying -
the government , war mongers understand nothing
save for the rifle , the pistol and the shotgun
Authority is a virulent poison dispensed
in small dosages throughout the life of the State , meant to inebriate the peasants , control freewill , to educate the young with propaganda ... 'Politicians' rule by fear and intimidation , amassing large militaries to carryout their doctrine in the name of 'peace'
Government will resort to wholesale death and destruction to secure their nationalist schemes* ..
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
The parliamentary question is,
how can we do a bit of biz'
on the side,
got to make a buck or two and who the ******* hell are you to tell us no?
back in Eton there's some heat on the old boys who tried to fiddle with their tax affairs,
some ******* on the radio and the facebook crowd all seem to know just what we earn,
how we yearn for long gone days of yore when people knew their place for sure,
we'll legislate.
the state is what we are, a state, and we can set a new tax rate and rake it in,
a new car for Dave, a suit for Nick, don't it make us people sick,
just look at them,
old and fat and greasy men who with a single stroke at ten can change the rules.
we are fools to vote, it may be wise to get a rusty razor and just cut our throats, easier and simpler too, do it to them or sure as ****
they'll scalp you little bit by bit,
it's business.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC