Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

I do not have a ****** heart..
It's been ****** with,
And torn apart..
My heart is a *******,
Getting payed with love-filled lies.
My ****** body isn't yet caught up.
I gave all that was inside of me,
Trying to protect what I was born with,
My cleanliness, my virginity,
My purity..
My ****** body is white, pure, clean.
But my heart is black, broken, dead..
Waiting to be revived.
So please, revive my heart..
But don't take my body..

i stopped hanging out with my friends after the hook ups went around in a cycle. first, it started small. the same voice every week. it was always, "he texted me and asked me to hook up". melancholy out of not-giving-a-**** and not condescension like she'd hoped it was so it wouldn't seem like she was overdoing it, the rest of us would say "no way, again?"

every week. then eventually the rest of them got the same text. and they'd start overdoing it, too.

my first thoughts were, "gee, we can't even ask people to **** in person anymore." but then i thought, how do you do that if you aren't in love with them?

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after the hook ups went around in a cycle at parties. apparently, it's easy. first they broke the ice (when the term "hook up" just meant making out) with some attractive other of the opposite ***- or same ***, i really don't give a **** about that, either- and it'd be really special because they weren't just kissing one person, they were kissing ten. all of the others before. i found that lovely.

then after a few parties, they'd mature. ready for the next best thing, the next BIG thing, the thing that made you interesting. next it was "hey, let's **** in this bed that two or three or seven other people just ****** in while we listen to a melting *** of drunk and high teenagers scream and stumble to the worst music on the floor below us". i found that lovely.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after they thought they were acting so rebellious by drinking when no parents were home. i won't lie to you, i had a few sips. but it tasted like ****. so i offered it to one of them after i had about down to the very first brim of the top of the red solo cup. so naturally, she took it, gulping three times before she pulled the cup away from her mouth and in between laughs i heard "i'm an alcoholic". i looked her dead in her face as the cup went back to her mouth, a slight laugh saying "you're not an alcoholic", but i was already done laughing by the time she did, overdoing it, again.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after i realized they didn't know what being an alcoholic meant. i judged as they waited until five minutes after mommy and daddy were gone to crack open their super risky Mike's Hard, Bud Light and Twisted Tea. i judged the flavors. i kept thinking, "you know it tastes like ****, that's nothing close to what lemonade tastes like, have you TASTED lemonade??"

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after it was clear they'd never ******* tell each other why they ****** each other off. most times they were smiling way too much. overdoing it, again. i thought, "you're seventeen and you can't tell people how you feel but you can **** in a bed that two or three or seven other people just ****** in with a hook up that's not really one but ten."

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after playing Cards Against Humanity a few times and i realized i felt they were more ****** up than the cards.

it was pretty bad. and their answers were really ****** up. the sentence would say The greatest thing to happen in history is and their answer would be The Holocaust. they were ****** up for sure. but by the fifth week i didn't need the cards to think so.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after they all started dressing the same. it was like being surrounded by mirrors with different faces, all that so badly wanted to reflect the other. being atypical i started to feel typical just by sitting in between them. they stared at each other the whole time and after awhile it was like they couldn't see me because i was the only one who dressed different.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after my anxiety started ******* me every time i was with them. the voice on my left said "go home if you don't like them" while the one on my right said "you *****, if you weren't so boring you could have a few drinks and get fUUccckkIIINNGGG LIIITTT, DUUDDEEE".

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after i realized i ******* hated every single one of them. i hated their culture. i hated that they couldn't say anything interesting unless they were drunk or high and even then their ideas weren't good enough. i hated that they never thought about the universe or art or how it's really ******* fascinating that the earth's lungs are trees and we're its cancer. i hated that their consistent use of alcohol got boring for me. i hated the alcohol. i hated their lack of originality. i hated the videos where i could hear them saying "hey, blow your vape into my camera". i hated the voice in their head that told them that it was a cool idea. i hated their perception. i hated how they always had to worry about everybody else's perceptions. i hated how they always agreed with everybody else's perceptions. i hated what they payed attention to. i hated that they payed more attention to who said the most but did the least. i hated that they started doing the least. i hated their values. i hated that they valued nothing. i hated that they got more than what they gave because they always gave nothing. i hated that they depressed me. i hated that i was too depressing for them. i hated that i couldn't share my thoughts for the sake of not being too serious all of the time. i hated their blank personalities. i hated that their personalities started fusing together until all that was left was one big blank personality. i hated that they were so easy going. i hated that they'd never stand for something. i hated that they were so easy going that they never had an opinion. i hated that i was alone. i hated that i was alone because none of them thought like me. i hated the way they thought. i hated their thought because they never thought it through. i hated their vibration. i hated that they made me feel singular when we'd sit around a fire. i hated their singularity. i hated that at most times i was surrounded by empty bodies with no brain. i hated that they never used their brain. i hated that i hated my brain because they never used their brain. i hated their culture. i hate their culture.

i gave up on their culture.

I can't wait 'til
Nightfalls
Tonight
I will
Construct nightmares
So insane
Phantoms couldn't fathom
Fantasies make foul turns
Fascination fails
You'll frail frantically
Your chain of the thoughts
Become a train
Derailed
From Loco motives
Your emotions
Are now
Monstrous motifs
Built moments
Before happiness
You'll stare
In terror eyes
Scared as cats
You scratch
Along the wood floor
Forced
Through dark corridors
The doors
Horror tore off the hinges
You're inches away
From no longer living
As soon
As you've given
Yourself away
I take
And make worse!

Death dances
At arms lengths
I've never seen someone
so anxious
To reach

Too anguished to speak
How shall I satisfy?
This shallow heart
Is empty
But simply filled the rows
Of this cathedral
With people
Who payed
To see the price
You've payed

I guess,
Hell sales
This thriller will terrify
Eye's should stay confined
When I
Comply to my conscience
Can science comfort you
It claims this isn't real
Well
It really helped me
Make you feel
Comfortable enough
To sleep
Deeply
Anesthesia
Will be the
Reason for your sweet retreat
As soon as your
Sound asleep
I'll compile vile thoughts
And send you on a journey
With intent
Of you never returning
A one-way trip
From float, freight or flight
As long as it brings
Fright
By mars at night
Where nightmares
Are the day
And you're fearful of it's sight

Valor Gates poured her younger siblings cereal, they sat at their broken kitchen table.  The cereal was stale and she wasnt sure if the milk was spoiled.  Her anxiety was through the roof, her mother hadn't come home last night.  It wasnt anything new, her mom was a drug addict, she would go out to the club and not come home, sometimes not even for days.  She wouldnt call, or text to let Valor know she was okay, or where she was.  She couldn't even call the police the times she went missing for days, because she knew they would call child services, and they would take the twins from her.  Angela Gates was the typical ****** mom, got pregnant at sixteen, she had no way to support a child except through her now ex boyfriend Charles,who she had cheated on, hence Valor.  Charles had sacrificed his teen years to try and raise Valor, he'd been a father to her, and she loved him for it.  He left six years ago, a little bit before the twins were born, they also weren't his.  Valor at ten years old had taken on the mother roll when the twins were born. She'd even named them, Andrew and Abigail.  She thought of them as her own.  She taught them how to read, she'd taught herself to read.  She taught them how to tie their ripped hand down shoes, she hadn't learned tell she was eight.  She taught them how to ride a bike, she didn't know how.  She taught them how to swim, she'd never been to a lake or a pool before that.  Valor went to school part time, then skipped the rest of the day to go to her job at the hardware store.  She got payed minimum wage, her paycheck went to the bills, and the small portion left went to the groceries.  She got the twins clothes from the shelter, or from neighbors whose kids had grown out of them.  She hadn't gotten any new clothes, or new anything since two years ago when Charles bought her some clothes and a cheap ipod for her birthday.  Those gifts had meant everything to her.  Valor sat down in the broken stool by her little brother and patted his little blonde head.  The twins were beautiful Andrew was tall for a six year old with short blonde hair and giant blue eyes.  Abigail was just as gorgeous, she already had thick hair to her tiny waist in tumbles of blonde satin, her eyes though were very different.  One was as blue as Andrews and the other was the same mossy green as Valor's.  Valor wasnt a blonde with blue eyes, she saw her self plain with thick long brown hair, and shining mossy green eyes.  She worked out to stay fit, and she didnt get to eat much in fear that the twins wouldnt get enough food.  She dug out a small cheap phone that Charles had boughten for emergencies , the small screen was blank.  Her mother hadn't stumbled into the house and to her room like always.  Valors heartbeat picked up two notches and sh could hear the blood rushing in her ears.  She had a anxeity disorder that also gave her a bit of OCD.  Her OCD was extreme cleaning.  Everything had to be neat, she thought it was because her life was in such disaray that the one mess she did have control of had to be perfectly in place.  
She debated weather she should call Charles and ask if he'd seen her.

I wondered if I was too soft, too pliable, to bendable, to breakable

I wondered if my sensitiveness would be better served on a censorship list

if it would be better to weather my own emotions until they eroded

a road not known to be so gentle

because when you're always spoken to like a mistake

it starts to be the only thing you can taste and you end up feeling less like great and more like pain

my mother swears that I am the air that she breathes

so when they diagnosed her, I hope the doctors didn't blame it on her environment

and when my friends would talk about that chick and wanna bone her

 bone would carry me back to the skeletons in my closet

while they were only concerned about getting in between that girls hips, when they ***** her

              I wanted to be that girls hips, the bones inside of her

                    because without me she couldn't move alone

                                   and without her heartbeat

                                           I'd just be bones

I can't tell you how many times my friend Maddy was battered up on   homeless plate

but we still dug out love

she was rocked quite often, but was one hell of a mountain climber

she payed a hefty price to wear his fists, and they were the most expensive eye makeup I've ever seen

when my friends would brag about how many lamp shades they would look under in their room, how many metaphorical lamps laid on the nightstand surrounding their bed

my mother always said if I let them shine in my mind, I wouldn't need not even one night stands

    I hold them high

                   spell a woman

                                a woman is a
                         man
                   on
            wo

and you can still be fly if you land on one

disrespect them, and we're kicking dirt on the land from which we all grow

while most guys are treating the inside like a candy store, I found that all the getting inside in the world don't matter until you feel like you've found your golden rapper

while most guys are wishing that girl is blind enough to see their ulterior motives

they've forgotten most women have super powers

all they see are invisible men, and I wanted to make her feel my words like brail to the unseen

I wanted to bring life to those frozen in time words once told to her

because those 'I love yous' and 'I miss yous' from her exes were paralyzed from the neck down

they were just trying to get ahead, and once alive, need oxygen to live

and sooner or later she was only living to breathe life into those words, and I wanted to breathe life back into her

my mother taught me things

she said, just because someone before you  

                             spent time in her boiler room
    
                                 doesn't mean they turned

                                              the heat on

she said, no matter who smashed you make sure you love that girl to pieces

a girl's past is like cremated ash, it's been lived already

my mother said, kisses are like stitches, they heal all wounds as long as they don't remain hidden in a bottom right corner of special occasion birthday cards

       because every kiss does not begin with k, they begin with lips

                                         and so does every life

                       It's time for us guys to start

                 respecting where

         we came

    from.

By: Cedric McClester

To achieve your ambition
Stop hoping and wishing
Voting is a mission
It’s like going fishing
No fish will you find
If you don’t cast your line
So drop your remote
And go out and vote

Your candidate
Might not win the debate
But let me clearly state
If you don’t participate
Then you abdicate
By not voting your choice
You lose your voice
And can never rejoice

Democracy demands
Having all hands
Both critics and fans
Despite their brands
Being involved
To get their problems solved
Things tend to revolve
So we’ll be absolved

Voting is a right
We could lose over night
Unless we unite
Stop being uptight
And stay engage in the fight
For which people died
Payed in blood or their hide
To not be denied


Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

She wanted to fly away
She felt she was not free
He always had his way
He took his mistress to the sea
She felt the urge to leave
She never had the guts
He never had some time
He was a very violent man
She accepted all of his flaws
He thought he had no flaws
She never left the house
He would not let her anyway
He said he loved her before ***
She thought she loved him too
She knew of all his ways
He payed for hookers anyway
She knew nothing was ok
He always had his way

"Holy Quambats!",
bellows low-orbit sports announcer 33e, a.k.a. Rick,
"The Zargoball's been switched! With a hopping Ugaroo!",

(An Ugaroo is an adorable jumping rodent from Vulky II, and a Quambat is the ten foot titanium pole typically used to hit a Zargoball across any particular preset playing perimeter- this for any listeners at home who are new to the sport.)

"Not to worry! It seems that Team Lime Green has gotten the Ugaroo caught in a snare- placed here in the ancient past for JUST such an occasion! Uh-oh! Here come the Iron Knights to try and steal their capture!"

(There are over 70,302 teams [exactly 70,303 teams] currently competing for possession of the Zargoball on planet Zargoz, partaking in the galaxies favorite interstellar pastime- a popular sport known also as Zargoz.  The current round began at an unknown date in the planets ancient history, and all that remain of its origins are a plethora of wildly conflicting and confusing myths. It seems here that Team Lime Green has passed down knowledge of their hidden snare for hundreds of generations through word of mouth before this incident today. Miraculously, their bizarre efforts appear to have payed off.)

"Oh, what a blast! The Zorodan Order has just dropped a neutron bomb over the site of the capture, eradicating all life within a fifty mile radius! All referees are currently contacting their lawyers! And now... The word is in! The new Zargoball has been placed in the Temple City, just outside the Zorodan Temple! Power move!"

(...)

"The timing however couldn't have been worse! It is now 29:29am of the third day of Rayah on the Zorodan Calendar! All Zorodan on Zargoz must now drop all clothing and physical possessions, sit on the ground, and spend the next 3 days in holy naked meditation! The Council of Crystals has now moved in and captured the temple, decapitating all naked Zorodan on sight! After burning down the temple, the Council will be transporting the Zargoball via Air Carrier to ninety-third base, where hoards of treasures await the recipient of this hard-earned point! It's a long journey though! Before they arrive, someone had better discover the secret location of ninety-third base! And quick!"

(The secret location of ninety-third base actually, out of sheer coincidence, is also inside the Zorodan Temple- however it will now likely be well over a hundred years before this is discovered, as the only living contestants with knowledge of its location have been recently decapitated and burned.)

"Folks, I'd like to take this minute to promote our sponsor, Fizzwerz! A bubbly drink, sweeter than theropian glass-grass and recently determined to be more highly addictive than human crack, now cost you only 13.1 Gobi credits! These are- HOLY GOD!! Attention folks, I'd like to interrupt this interruption to announce a spectator of honor here in the low-orbit VIP section! Actually God himself! What a serious honor! And now we return to our broadcast! Oh here we go! Oh dear! It seems that the pilot of the Crystal Council Air Carrier was a Swamper spy all along! The carriers passengers have all been knocked unconscious by his thick perfume! What a show!"

I'm clever almost never
That's untrue, I am quite daft
I once came close to dying,
I got stuck under a raft
Sarcasm is my strong suit,
I use it when I can
This fact became a nuisance,
When I worked for Uncle Sam

In class I played the clown,
I was often tightly wound
Always acting out
The court jester to the crown
I know how this must sound
A rotten apple on the ground
Just don't beat me while I'm down
I might shock you with the knowledge
I still have parents who are proud

See, Im verbally proficient
Surprisingly efficient
I'd cast you out like bait
Cause I’d much rather be fishing
I'd cut you down with such precision
If this was my decision
Without any permission
I'd stitch up your incision
That seeps down in your torso
And turn it into a tradition

My verbiage is unrelenting
Savage and outstanding
There's thought behind my speak
I'm a primed linguistic freak
Destroying all on-comers
Feasting on the weak
Tiptoeing like a sneak
Subdued and quite discrete
Let's hope we never meet
If we do you should retreat
Along with your whole fleet
Like the shepherd to his sheep
Go on head back to momma
Continue ******* on her tete

You can't handle what I'm dishing out
It only adds to my mystique
I'm steadily reminiscing
Back to when Caesar led the Greeks
Conquering all his enemies  
Well established as elite

Your eyes were shaded by a vision
When stricken with a nasty condition
Embarking on failed missions
Should I even bother dissing?
All while leaving a lasting impression
On the mouth you never were kissing
To only end up missing
The target you were *******
Without help or assisting

From beginning to the end
I'm burning bridges I can't mend
Breaking all the rules no one would think to bend
Born to live until we're dead
No more all this wishing
That you were dead instead
Using the brains inside our head
And coming to a conclusion
Your brains' been underfed
Relying on the masses
To muster up intent
Resolving every problem
With a bandaid made of lead
Surviving on a crumb of bread
Its only temporary
A fazed out forgotten trend
Like disco and bellbottoms
Or mohawks and shaved heads

It's time we payed back our debt
Make sure the homeless are all fed
Put these issues to rest
Tucked away in bed
It's not time for story telling
The fairytales of past regret
Back before our needs were met
Finding solutions to our problems
We mustn't ever forget

she was someone you didn't want to stop looking at.
you had to pay attention to her, or you would feel like you were missing something.
you payed attention to how she read a ragged old novel with a title you never heard of,
how she gripped it so hard, her fingers turned white that you almost couldn't see the tattered cuticles that surrounded the black nail polish of her nails.
how she held a cigarette delicately, taking in long drags as she lifts it to her mouth.
how when she was outside, the sun changed her hair color so much you couldn't even tell what it really is.
you payed attention to her smile, her laugh, her eyes as they met yours, crinkling as you tell her something funny.
you payed attention to how her hand felt in yours,
a tight grip as if she never wanted to let go, forever wanting to be yours,
but her hand always let go,
and when your hand was empty,
you realized she never was yours to begin with.
but you never wanted to stop looking at her.

When most of what I see
I just don't understand
With back against the wall
Leaving little left
When the voices in the air
Tell me that I can't
Reminding me of the things
In this life I've said

When all four walls
Are closing in on me
Having a devil of a time
As he won't let me be
When all in front of me
Looks like impossibility

That is when I feel the need
To get down on my knees

When I think about
All that God has done
Thanking him for sending
His one and only Son
When I want to give back
A portion of his love
When He forgives out right
For my many wrongs

When I think about the fact
I have been set free
When I look upon the Cross
And what it means to me
As I am thankful for the call
And that I payed it heed

That is when I feel the need
To get down on my knees

When I gaze out at the world
And the shape it's in
Looking at it deeply
Into the sinful heart of man
When the flame of torment and sorrow
Is being continually fanned
As I see it setting fire
To a once great sovereign land

When I know the answer
But I need the strength
To shout it from the mountain tops
To the valleys deep
When looking for the answers
That keep eluding me

That is when I feel the need
To get down on my knees

Please don't even shed another tear,
I'm watching you all but disappear.
Poor girl sits on the closet floor,
Never handed anything has to work more.
Can't get hired, can't get payed,
Can't get a car, can't get *****.
There I lie behind big gates,
Have it all never had to take.
Oh poor girl she makes me sad,
Wished I could give you all I had.
You deserve it all you know it too,
So much to offer so little you can't do.
Can't get hired, can't get payed,
Can't get a car, can't get *****.
It's odd how similar we are,
But we are divided by some bars.
Bars of the mind that we build together,
The cells outlast kind and cruel weather.
Either way we are locked inside,
In the corner shadows of our mind.
Can't get hired, can't get payed,
Can't get a car, can't get *****.
Poor girl with those lips,
Could make her more happy with just one kiss.

The reviews were in and as usal all were pretty much what I expected .
the crittics were so dam hurtful course what do you expect from a teenage windbag
who cant take a **** without posting on twitter how terrible life is.

But much like the **** on his hundred dollar sneaker's made in a sweatshop
by someone who makes ten cents a day .
There words much like there sad little yuppie cast life's  seldom amounted
to a pimple on the worlds ***.

What kind of tormented hampster take's glee in cussing out
a semi insane  carear criminal with a rap sheet that reads longer
than one of thoose Harry Potter books.

Being a man  of  much free time and plenty of found cash.
I decided to vist a crittic of mine.
And what better place to vist than a sunny state with not enough brains
to convict a woman who kills her own kid yes that true think tank
of complete dipshits Florida.

As  my plane touched I down payed close attention to my target I mean crittic.
It seemed he was versed in many hobies a few including.
Taking pictures of himself and his homies with there shirts off
wow no wonder this hampster was viewed so much by older gentlemen who run the site.

He also liked tiedie shirts and beer well honestly who doesnt the beer I mean.
Unless your a steriod fed pro wrestler or ***** hippie who wears that **** when there sober?

The name much like most things I could give a **** about seldom stayed with me.
Cause much like the hampster im writting about  honestly was as about as forgetable
as that night I spent with his mom ohhhh snap.

He was in a cult and it was a cult that had millions of followers
the cult of the yuppie spoiled ******* for which he was the states chapter president.
hey what can I say he was a good worker course that's what the guy bathroom
that used to be a politcian said dam you Sonny Bono  why  did you ever break
up Peaches and Herb!

But enough with the foreplay children.
It was bright as hell outside warm and annoying with all the people on the ******* sidewalk
Jesus man take the wheel im trying to mix a drink.

After some brief sidetracks what?
I figure why not   **** on a place thats biggest mark is hurricanes and ******* conventions
oh yeah and people who cant convict people who ****** good thing cause this vist was gonna be a breeze.

I stood at the door that stood at the gate that stood befor me and stood befor
my verbal punching bag locked in his yupie fortress.
Yes sir are you expected  the guard asked me.

Honestly no sir I wasnt but thats what happens when  a loose woman make's bad choices.
As usal like in the cases of most people that come from that clan we call normal.
he just looked at his list and prayed I would leave.

Sir Im gonna have to ask you to leave.
I knew this man's logic but seldom do I let sense and reason get in the way of a good
time or a Gonzo on a mission to payback a Yuppie ***** who much like his work
I often forget.
But hey look on the bright side when ya run outta toilet paper you always have
something to wipe your **** with.


The man kept asking yet like most people I simply ignored
his pleas.
Let me ask you sir what did the face say to the floor?
The man paused thought and as the tasser bit into his neck
and as his body went as limp as the states thought process
i kinda had to feel bad as he hit the pavement with a thud.

Im kidding I like I care?
Past the point of no return and little reason I was yet at the main door.
Were little now what was his name hmmmm  oh yeah young ***** Bagginns
called home.

Why you should have seen the suprize in his eye's
when he looked up from his coloring book to see his favorite
person to talk ***** about.

Or herd the screams   as his little **** was thrown into the wood chipper
hmm oddly enough red really wasnt his color.
Im kidding I didnt **** him right away hell that would take all the fun out of are little get togather.

And besides i bought all this kickass stuff at the hardwear store.
He kicked and cried.
For the love of facebook and texting i didnt mean it im sorry!
I was deaf to his cries for hours the torture went on.

And  just when he had hit the point of total agony I did the most cruel act of them all.
Well my friend time for a little TV.
What how the ***** that torture you idiot ?
Seems this little hampster still had some fight in him.

I pressed play and what appeared apon the screen was a horror so cruel it pains my long winded **** to
write it well maybe not.
Justin Bieber appeared on the screen.
Hey guess what ***** Ive set it on loop.

From the top of his lungs he screamed like a young school girl who fell victem to this
Pagan God.
Nooooooooo anything but that.

As I made my exit from his lare slash basement he somehow managed to muster all his yupie strength
breking his bonds a bolted like a yuppie cheatah he was to fast he had reached the shotgun befor
I knew dear lord! this was it I was gone for sure.

I cant take it anymore!
The sound was beyond words.
The celling was covered in yuppie sludge.
I felt myself was I dead?
Hey they got all the channels on this satelite kickass.
As I sat lost in my private time i had to wonder was it wrong
to target little spoiled shites that bully others and shouldnt we just try to reach out and understand one another?

Yeah ***** that what am I Dr Phil?
I have to admit young ***** really was cool now he lay dead on the floor and you seem so more open minded.

Course being it's blown  off it seems to help.
I laughed I cried I ordered like five hundren dollars in adult films on young ****** satilite.
Hey I was celebrating his life and staining his couch.
You cant put a price on revenge duh.

And as i bolted from that State dumping the corpse in the Everglades.
I had to wonder what drives a young ******* to cross a old drunk hampster
like myself ?  

Well like I was really conserned I was way to buzy enjoying the gators rip the
young no talent **** to shreds.

Note to crttics get a life and avoid me or I might be making a road trip to a city
near you!
Yes someones gonna get hurt and it's not gonna be me.

Stay crazy hampsters

"Shh," she hushes me.

I watch her close her mouth, then her eyes. But her very soul, she exposed to everyone, to me, in the auditorium. The music begins, and I literally see the intro of the song sink into her skin. I notice her shiver; not that i didn't want to put my arm around her to warm her up because it wasn't the temperature of the room. It was the music. She was feeling it. She is it. Her breathing to the piano's notes, her heart beat rhythmic to the dancing fingers on the keys: I can see it all. Her shoulders rising and falling--

"Oh," she softly speaks, pulling me out of my melodic reverie. "Did i just-- A tear, how silly of me to cry."

But before she could wipe her cheek, I took her hand in mine and kissed the tear away. She had this confused look, but it soon melted as I neared her.

She was not only music, she was a symphony. And every fiber of me was in tune with her, and there wasn't anything else in the room which I payed attention to.

I came into this world,
My sister automatically hated me,
She wouldn't get the jewelry,
That my mother promised she would give,

My mother told me about jellybeans
"it will make you feel better,"  she said

I first learnt to walk,
My brother let me fall,
He said two children was enough,
Then I came and ruined it all,

My dad gave me a jellybean,
"it'll make you happy again" he said

I turned five,
My teacher didn't like me,
She found me a disgrace,
Just by being the way I am,

My friend gave me her jellybean,
"the jellybean would make you think of heaven instead,"

Ten was the worst,
I was fat as hell,
Girls picked while boys laughed,
Everyone just said it was puberty,

I ran home to my sister,
She said,"the jellybean will drive the pain away"

A teenager I soon became,
My father was drunk,
Rapping on the door like a ghost,
It was as if he felt his life was done,

My brother covered my ears,
"don't listen to his say, let the jellybean lead the way"

My grandmother died,
My mother cried her soul out,
She was like a sister to me,
My life was now incomplete,

My aunt dried my tears and said,
"Bite down on this jellybean, it's your only happy place"

My mother was stuck in depression,
Nothing could help her,
I was on my own now,
Everyone looked past me,

god came down to me and gave me a jellybean,
"never give up" was his advice to me.

20 was my age,
To rise and shine,
My family was finally happy again,
It was so great I had tears in my eyes,

My family gave me a box of jellybeans,
"more the merrier!" they said to me,

It was during college,
Did a handsome man ask,
"why eat those jellybeans,
When you're supposed to be sad?"

I gave him a jellybean, smiled and said,
"more sweetness fills in, than tears are shed,"

The man became my lover,
We were everything to each other,
We planned a whole life together,
Until he had to part away forever,

He kissed me on the lips and dried my eyes,
"please take this sweet, as token of my love for you,"

I went back home to find,
my brother had gone haywire,
He didn't listen to anyone anymore,
He was a rebel now,

I calmed him down and all he said,
"Carmel, you don't understand, all you care about is jellybeans,"

Soon after there was 'breaking news' on the TV
My brother had killed,
But soon ran away,
And I was related to a murderer,

My sister hugged me and asked,
"does this call for a jellybean?"

I got a job as an assistant  mental helper,
What more could I do?
My resumé didn't hide my history,
Dead gran, criminal brother...

My sad face softened the one on my boss,
"have this jellybean, it's all I have," he said

A year after the same routine,
Did I learn my father had a drink too much,
The hospital bed he lied,
And went away without my goodbye,

After The nurse told me everything, I looked into my purse,
"oh beautiful jellybean, please do your magic," 

After, a marriage was arranged for me,
The man was sweet, but not mine,
He was a choice of someone else,
Which is what hurt me a lot,

I looked for a jellybean, but my sister sighed and said,
"you are about to be married, no need for those antics,"

In reality, the man and I were friends,
We had a bit in common,
But nothing like my lover,
I was alone again,

My mind yearned for a jellybean,
But I stopped, for my sister knew what I was doing

The day to tie the knot,
My mother was half gone,
She came in a wheel chair,
Yet she was clapping along,

The priest spoke as my 'husband' smiled,
"no jellybean, but smile, smile for them," I thought.

After living a different life,
I still hadn't learn to love him,
My sister got mad and ran away,
Far away from me, she said,

My husband sat down and gave me a packet of jellybeans,
"I know it's what you love, take them and smile again, for me"

31 my brother payed a visit,
He had changed so much I could have loved him instead,
He cried and apologized,
But I just gave him a hug and SMILED,

He gave me a special jellybean,
"to tell you how much I appreciate it," he said.

He lived with me for a while,
My "lover" said I needed the company,
We laughed, smiled and cried together,
It was the best year of my life,

My friend came up to me and said,
"a jellybean for improving your happiness," 

Later my mother was fully gone,
My brother couldn't bare the pain,
He ran away, for he wasn't strong,
Sadness filled my air again,

My neighbor came and wished me well,
But no happiness came without a jellybean.

My depression,
It became my obsession,
My husband tried and gave up,
There was nothing he could do,

Cigarettes were my new candy,
"I'm sorry, Carmel, you're too old for jellybeans'' 

My husband screamed,
I would never try,
So he packed his bags,
And left with no sweet goodbye,

I cried my heart out, and pulled out my cigarette,
" wow, Carmel, look what you've done"I said.

So this was my life,
I was lonely as hell,
No family to love me,
No one to ask if I was well,

I left the cigarette and took out my special jellybean,
" at least it sweetens the pain, reduces the hurt, and make you feel as if you're whole again,"

After all that has become, 
after all that has been done,
The jellybean never left my side, 
It was the one who loved me, all this time

"I love you, Jellybean," I said, " you are my one and only, best friend,"

like electricity entering the body
heat from the vent, money well spent
being payed up on rent
like winning a trip to Disney land
or laying on the beach in the sand
laundry right out the dryer
setting a candle on fire
calling out a liar
your favourite song on at the right moment
being ready for in the morning
hangovers after a good party
having someone to lean on
is almost like all of the above ,
like the silver blade giving you a hug.
that feeling you get when you cut

Go talk to that angry customer, they won't yell at a cute little girl like you
Turned into
Hey, you have thick skin go talk to that angry customer
Turned into
Go talk to that angry customer, flirt with him if you have to

Hey tell me what you need so I can carry it for you
Turned into
Hey tell me what you need so I can get it for you
Turned into
Do you need anything?

Dude she's 14
Turned into
No they don't call me *******
Turned into
I'm still 16, no matter what I look like.

7.25
Turned into
7.39
Turned into
8.00

You're a little girl, that's why you get payed less
Turned into
You're a minor, that's why you get payed less
Turned into
You're only getting payed .30 less then the average male worker

Yeah the ones that started last week.
I've been there for two years
And I'm still new
I started when I was 14
And they treated me like a feeble princess
Now I'm 16
And they treat me like a useless girl

Even when I am the best
He is better.
Even when I'm right
He is more right.
He's so right I'm left.
Right?

"Who profits more?
The cup that fulfills its purpose?
Or the drinker?"
The students didn't answer.
The bell had rung.
They wouldn't get any participation credit.
It wouldn't affect their grade.
The professor didn't care either.
He was just filling the time.
If they thought about it or not,
He would still get payed.
He fulfilled his purpose.

In all my years as professor of Paleontology at Ublique University, I never thought I'd have a bad day. My life was a happy one. I had a car that was payed for. A cold refrigerator, full of food. New & improved gadgets & gizmos. A wife who would rub my back on request. & it all changed when I turned 42.

It was the morning of August 12th when things changed. An orange & cool, slightly windy day. The sun had a warmth that started as soon as I woke up. No heat. Just warmth. I woke up to find nobody at my bedside.

"Bacon." I quietly whispered in excitement.

If Sharon woke up before me that meant breakfast. & that meant coffee. I could use some. The night before, we had a party celebrating my 42nd birthday. A special one I think. Making it to 40 is a feat. Surviving the next year is an accomplishment. But, driving gracefully past 41 into a mature 42 is... smooth.

I stretch & roll out of bed. Squeezing into my slippers I noticed the bedroom is messier than usual. A few things are missing out of my drawers & the rest of my room. The bathroom is missing a few things as well. Soap, washcloths, towels &...

Oh dear, lipstick!

There's a lipstick message on the mirror in elegant cursive. "Goodbye" is all it says & needs to say. Sharon's left & taken my heart & soul with her. & the bacon.
"Alright, time to think." I keep repeating in my head. I'm thinking, but only one thought comes to mind.

"Why?"

Sharon's gone. I get up from the bed. My heart drops to the floor. That's not her handwriting. We've been robbed & she's been taken for ransom.



I sit down for a minute.
No!

Not for ransom!

It's a sicker crime. They only want her. For their own sick, twisted reasons.

"****, what should I do?" the only thing rushing through my body.

Again. Stop it.

I run downstairs into the kitchen. Alright, i have a knife. I'm armed & dangerous. I run into the living room. My blood runs cold. They're still here. ****, ****, ****, ****, ****, ****.

I run back upstairs.

In a flash of white light the scenery changes.

I'm in a hospital.

"How did I get here?" I ask myself. My stomach hurts & my left arm & leg are wound in casts. There's a vibrant red lipstick stained kiss on my left foot with the words, "You knew all along" written in cursive along the bottom of the kiss. Before I can collect my thoughts, a sharp looking doctor walks in.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors? Or rather, knives?" he asks.

She did & I musn't have listened. I had a hard time listening. Sharon! She almost slipped my mind.

"Doctor, I need to go home." I semi-ask.

He rebuttals with, "Nope, the wound in your stomach isn't life threatening, but we want to keep you here for a few days."

I bite my tongue ax logic kicks in.

"Okay." I say.

I'm going to escape.

I pull out the IV's in my arm & look for my clothes. Can't find them, so I settle for the guy's down the hall. They're a little loose on me, but the belt fits. The shoes however, do not. ****. How am I going to get past the guards?

Wait, there aren't guards in hospitals. Are there?

No.

Maybe.

No.

Definitely not.

I take the elevator down to the main floor & walk out the front door. It was easier than I thought to escape from a hospital.

I'm outside & no one is chasing me. I hail a cab & realize my wallet is back at the hospital. This whole thing is crazy, I know.

I arrive at home & pay the guy with some of Sharon's jewelry. Looking around, I realize the living room isn't trashed. & only Sharon's purse & shoes are missing downstairs. Maybe she wasn't taken for ransom.

Again, time to sit down & relax. Not relax, but think.

Last night. Something must have happened last night.

Okay, there was a party. It was a surprise party. Ron, Sue, Burgundi, Jon & a few people from the campus were there.

I'm not that guy who hates surprise parties. Or surprises for that matter. They're great. So, I remember walking in the door a spectacular Friday. All my students  wished me a happy birthday.

The house was dead dark when I walked in & then, KABOOM!

The place lit up. "Happy Birthday!" they all shouted & champagne is thrown my way. All was normal there. I talked to everyone. Had cake & opened my presents. My favorite was the pen/pencil combo.

Then I went outside to the backyard, lit a cigar & watched a silvery, grayish cat scurry along our wooden fence. Night had fallen & the moon was half full.

I can't believe I broke my leg, my arm & stabbed myself in the stomach. I walk back upstairs to change.

Wait.

There's no blood on the stairs. & who called 911?

It's quiet in the house. Too quiet. Someone's here. I'm three steps up the stairs, no point in turning around. The bedroom & office are safe. So are the closets. Under the bed as well.

Relax. Change clothes & relax. It's difficult getting into pants now, but I make it happen.

Back downstairs. The living room, kitchen & bathroom are safe. Okay. Either I don't bleed or something strange is going on. Maybe, Sharon came back & saw me.
But she couldn't be that heartless as to leave me in the hospital alone, could she? Oh no! Maybe she didn't come into the house. Maybe, she really has been kidnapped.

I'm staring at my hand. Noticing the deep & fine wrinkles along with my veins & cuticles. My palms look like satellite images of rivers & microscopic views of capillaries. There is a candy bar on the coffee table. I eat it & instantly feel better.

My head swings back & my body warms & tingles. I close my eyes & see my granpa showing me how to measure & cut wood to turn it into something useful. We're making forms for a concrete pathway from the house to the garden. A blooming garden with peas, onions, spinach & okra. I reach my hand to write my name in the wet concrete & a bee stings me. It hurts for a millisecond. Then the pain moves away. My granpa looks at me from in the garden. Then he hunches over to look at something in the ground. My arms goes numb as I walk towards him. I feel something pulling me back.

I look behind me & see myself unraveling. The threads of my shirt & cast are being unwound like thread from a spool. In a few steps, I'm naked. I keep walking as my granpa shouts my name. I see his mouth moving, but can't hear him. My body feels lighter with every step. I look at my bee wound & find that my hand is unraveling along with my arm & the rest of me. Layer by layer I'm being unwound. I'm down to my nervous system, brain & eyeballs when I open them & see my granpa's face. he's smiling. I'm down to my eyes when I start to look at what my granpa sees.

Time slows & my eyeballs unravel,
leaving me in complete & silent darkness.

As in cargo ships.
Fear takes pictures below.

My heart inside stone ballasts.
Saving letters.

I burn it down.
I burn it down & walk away.

Correct.  
Ate, now sick.

Years ago fruit grew.
My wound grows skin with wine.

& she burns.
Price payed for pale beauty.

Still alive.
My torch home.

I search for my children
Frozen in winter's grace.

feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.

A smudge
appears in the corner
of the eye,
of the view,
of sight.
Wipe away
the tear-less dripping drop.
Amethyst coated
fingers nervously working
to achieve perfection,
hoping that no one payed attention
to the flaw,
the flaw that is one among many,
the flawed that is one among many.

Maybe her make-up is smudged,
maybe she sees herself as one.

i.

Elated, I'm afar from the aqua sphere beneath mine toe's,
I've been taken up by flight, an angel in the night;
A woman, a queen, a mystical paranormal beam,
God heard mine weeping, and with her he sent,
She dried mine Tear's clean.

ii.

I sniveled for eon's, with none hopeful lover's future
Mine joint's were weak, from the lack of nutritional feature's;
At mine lowest point, after imploring mine lord for help,
He sent me mine other half, Earl Jane Nagley, an Asiatic path,
Mine beloved, mine darling, mine seraphic helper.

iii.

I found wholeness, the other purpose to mine sustenance,
She's not for sale, she's not a slave, she's a cherub; not some anecdotal tale. She's not one to taketh man's bribery, she's not a peasant sold and payed for rent: tis she's heavensent- the answer to mine prayer's, she's delicate, she's an empress doth thou seeith, I was birthed for her, as she for me, both made for another, to cherish each other, on cloud nine we shalt be seen.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose

he wraps you in the seams of his quilted fleece jacket
only for you to tumble towards teetering ground with a
myriad of other dissipated items
a dollar bill
a cough drop wrapper
and breakfast bar crumbs.

his face backlit, the stained windows of the church
in which you have learned
that the weight of the world cracked adam's ribs
and made woman
the product of his suffering
but, eve
repeat:
you are not made from the vestige of this man nor the absence of him

you do not owe this to him
you do not owe him the gnawing on your fingernails
you do not owe him your skin, he buries himself under
creates a crater in your chest and uses your heart as his cave

you say he payed for dinner (the one that you couldn't eat: your stomach pulled inside out from worry)
that he
doesn't love you
or worse
you don't love him
speak not softly nor fading
do not let him lick tears off your face
and tell you they taste like sugar:
rip that piece of paper that he wrote his
number on
slipped his hand in your pocket at the club

for
he does not deserve you.

I am starting to remind myself where I came from. Not some royal family, not some kingdom of rulers, I came from an era of hard working hero's. Hero's who got no respect in their every day lives, from their jobs royalty would see as low-status. I came from a blood-line where the blood may have been low-born, plebeian, and commoner background! But that bloodline taught me about what's really important in our short spanning of living. That low status blood is what makes me royal, because by the hard work that may have never payed into royal king blood, it payed into my morals, that's far more priceless,

he picked apart the movements
of girls' hips
like he forgot what his momma looked like
like he never knew how to believe a female tongue
he never thinks too hard
about the sentences she can make
only what she'd look like if he
forced himself inside of her

he ate his words like
a picky child who only ate cigarettes
and ******
he bathed in the brute fury
of how they never payed much attention to him
until they were screaming stop
and he was going anyways
he hated them for being beautiful
he hated beautiful things in general

but he liked the feeling of cornering his prey
in a dark stairwell
he liked playing the devil
and walking to meet sin with a backwards heart
a heedless skull
a set of fingernails that always chipped
as he picked away at them with his teeth

he liked to think he could have anything his way
if he made it so
he liked to know that if he made himself
the faceless shadow in a dark corridor
he could become the boogyman
he could wrap around bodies like silicon
and swallow them like tremors cracking the earth

every girl he'd ever hated for her body
would have nightmares about him
and he liked them better as dead bodies
because it's the only time they'll shut up and **** him
he boasts tire tracks running along main bloodlines
a broken brain like a land mine
a chance of luck that he could **** some time
following the scent of something feminine
the idea that his presence alone
could shake her down to her knees

he wants to take every thing
that has never been given to him
he takes joy in the distorted
the sick satisfaction
of tasting the caviar that no one ever served him
the princess, trapped, in a black dress
pinned down in the dust
behind the restaurant dumpster after dusk
what an interesting view from above
he thought as he perforated the flesh
and though he never cared for the victim's clothing choice
he liked her best in red

he was not a mommy's boy
and it showed
he took care to take in a way
that he knew left limbs hollow
in it's wake
slit wounds in a human
that were harsh
in places where white legs flashed beacons
a wraithlike shape that closes in
on women wreathed in dark streets
and poetry that hasn't been written yet

she had a sonnet to spout and a poison
of malignant parasites she couldn't shake out
that latched onto her veins
as she arranges them over her arms
and lower around her knees
and he never showed much promise
and he's angry that he has never been able to please
the world
so he waits for her
and he takes from her

and now he traipses out
with the blood
and leaves her to lie there kissing an ink spill
from her pen to the tar
have a billion conversations with the pavement
until the wounds dry up
she'll stumble into the arms of gravity
and leave her dead body behind
live with the infestation of his invasion
fused into her spine

making her squirm and shiver
years after she wormed herself out of your grip
she will always feel sick
of all the ways you almost got away with it
even when you've also died and gone
she knows
you've never been a mama's boy
and you'll never be a ladies' man
you'll only ever be the amens she made
after praying you would die
at point blank range

it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt
it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.
              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).

I can't wait till
Nightfalls
Tonight
I will
Construct nightmares
So insane
That phantoms couldn't fathom
Fantasies make foul turns
Fascination fails
You'll frail frantically
Your chain of the thoughts
Become a train
Derailed
From Loco motives
Your emotions
Are now
Monstrous motifs
Built moments
Before happiness
You'll stare
In terror eyes
Scared as cats
You scratch
Along wooden floors
Forced
Through dark corridors
The doors
Horror tore off the hinges
You're inches away
From no longer living
But as soon as you've given
Yourself away
I take
And make
Worse

Death dances
At arms lengths
I've never seen someone
So anxious
To reach

Too anguished to speak
How shall I satisfy?
This shallow heart
Is empty
But simply filled the rows
Of this cathedral
With people
Who payed
To see the price
You've payed

I guess,
Hell sales
This thriller will terrify
Eye's should stay confined
When I
Comply to my conscience
Can science comfort you
It claims this isn't real
Well
It really helped me
Make you feel
Comfortable enough
To sleep
Deeply
Anesthesia
Will be the
Reason for your sweet retreat
As soon as your
Sound asleep
I'll compile vile thoughts
And send you on a journey
With intent
Of you never returning
A one-way trip
From float, freight or flight
As long as it brings
Fright
By mars at night
Where nightmares
Are the day
And you're fearful of it's sight