Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Helen Nov 2013
Seems to me like the Grim Reaper would have some sense of humour... Just look at his job description....

   He was staring at the fire with a horrified expression on his face.

   I quickly hid the stick with the marshmallow squished to the end of it behind my back. I frowned slightly at the look on his face and shook my head, thinking 'Nah, he’s not ready for that kind of humor' and I just stood slightly behind him and let the firelight dance in the night.

It certainly was a time for reflection…

  I go to touch him softly and he slowly turns his head away from the fire and as his eyes settle on my hand hovering above his shoulder and he shudders and jerks away. I’m offended at first until I realize I forgot my gloves that day.
Opps, scary, bony hand. Right! A real turn off and I duck my head to make sure the cowl is covering my face.
No more mistakes!

   “Where am I?” he grits though clenched teeth while his head swings between me and the fiery conflagration upon the motor way.

   “Who the hell are you”

“Me?” I ask, exasperated. Like the scary, bony hand didn’t give me away!

   “Am I dead?”

Oh ****, he’s now hyperventilating… not a good sign

“Not yet” I answer slowly… Hmmm, how to explain? “ No, your not dead, but you will be. I took you early because well…” and I wave my hand in the general direction of the car that just exploded, which quite nicely scored a point in favor of my benevolence. “I just swooped in a bit early because, lets face it… do you want to be there?!!”

He throws his hands over his head and ducks at the loud explosion and looks at me like it was my entire fault. Well I wasn’t the one that thought I was okay to drive home after drinking all night but I’m used to being pegged as ‘The Bad Guy’… rolls eyes Sheesh!

   “Where’s Janet?” he asks quietly then with an ear piercing scream (I don’t really have ears but by the howls coming from the forest behind us (because I can hear animals, I'm not completely deaf) I’m assuming his voice ratcheted up a notch or two…)
JANET!!

"Calm down dude. She’s gone already."

   "Gone already? What do you mean gone already? You got me out and left her in the car?!?" He seems really ****** now.

"No! I didn’t! I mean that Gabriel has already been to collect her. Hey you’re a lucky guy. Gabriel doesn’t just shuck his wings to swoop down for nobody. She must be a real nice piece of… well a really nice lady for Gabriel to come collect her."

   "Gabriel?" He's shaking his head slowly like he's trying to dislodge a twig from his hair and his eyes are growing wider by the minute. "Gabriel? As in Archangel Gabriel? So she's going to heaven?"

He seems relieved which in turn makes me breath easier until he focuses again on me with a crazy eyed stare which makes me think he's about to get hysterical again.

   "Then what the hell am I still doing here? Why aren't I with her?"

Oh, tricky question. I hate the tricky questions. I'm so not paid enough for this **** and tricky questions. Why can't they just ever come along quietly?

"Umm" I hedge, with a little twitch right about where my eye muscle should have been. "I believe it has something to do with your secretary?" I deliberately leave it ending in a question.

   "My secretary? What the hell does that... Ohhh..."

Bingo, there you go. I love it when the penny drops quickly.

But I'm saddened because I know for a fact that his secretary was a scheming ***** that came onto him and he sidestepped all her advances at every opportunity but he was caught late night at the office with a big case and she took advantage of the late hour and even though nothing happened he still fantasized occasionally about the almost moment.

I pointed this out to Gabriel when he came to collect Janet and also advised that Janet was less innocent than she looked and he just sneered to me in that pompous angel way...
"Yeah? So what. We're really bored up there and this one is pious enough to escape notice but just enough down and ***** we can have some fun.
Back off Death!

You've already touched this one.


You just make sure you clean up the mess left over and make sure her man doesn't come sniffing 'round our domain or we'll make sure Lucifer hears about your little mistake with the last Pope and how you let him escape upstairs when he was meant to take the elevator south... Yeah, you know what I'm talking about...."
and then he was gone. All shining light and white wings and trumpets and fanfare.

Pfffttt... the mans exit is the most exciting thing about him so I guess Janet really is going to get what she deserves...

   "So what about me?" he said to pull me out of my reverie

"What about you?" Oh! What
about* you? Okay, well I can put you back in the car and you can be burned alive until you take your last breath and get just a small taste of where you are heading"

He didn't really seem to like that answer and by the look on his face that is when I decided to toss the stick with the marshmallow squished onto the end of it far into the treeline. I really didn't think I was ever going to be able to pull that one out of the bag. But I was still really ****** at Janet (on his behalf) and I'd ******* this one up to royal proportions so I didn't think my next suggestion would be any less worthy of the moment.

"Or, I could bust you through the windshield on impact before the car sets alight."

He's not sure but he's nodding his head slowly and he's listening.

"Now, you have to remember, you were traveling at speed and not wearing a seat belt of course so you have to know that where you land after skidding a bit.... well, there will be scars..."

   *"Scars, chicks dig scars"
he murmurs thoughtfully

"Yes, they do" I warm up to the thought. "And don't forget, you'll be a Widower too... Chicks dig that too"

   "Yes, a widower, scarred and tragically losing their wife. I like, I like"

He's warming to my idea.

I'm so smart!

Because he wasn't supposed to be the one I was to escort to Hell.
It was supposed to be his ***** of a wife Janet, but who in their right mind fights an Archangel for a soul? Not me, I'm the biggest wimp of all time. I just touch them and they fall! I'm not a fighter. Janet, for all her sins was to be mate to Lucifer tonight. I could have just touched Gabriel but I noticed he didn't get close enough to me to allow it and I didn't push the cause because I knew his payload wasn't anything he should gloat about and I wished him well...

So I really did '****' two birds with one stone this night. Janet got what was coming to her (Gabriel is the biggest sadistic ***** of the bunch) and her husband is a little banged up but the sympathy vote is scoring him some serious chick points.

Me?
I love my job :-)
Free Flying above
the clouds
Soaring above the Earth and through the stars.
Past all of the known planets
Those  out of our galaxy
The new planets I view
The new and hotter suns I see
Blaze more energies to fill the empty regions
of my mind
called "mystery."
Fuel my spirit and make it run harder
To new found inhabitants and their newer worlds.
Astral planes of spirit that don't require a vessel
or star ship to hold in or hold back
the soul that travels as it's own transport
Faster than any "law of physics"
Realer than the factual brought in by third party satellites.
I gather more and more brighter and true information
Later to bring such forth in my grounded and non-traveling form
Waiting to share my results to those who don't limit their beliefs
to any said "rule" or "fenced in logic formula"
I ride the waves to the calling gates of astral transport
As my soul escapes my heavy and limited physical self
Late in the night
The recordings of fact stored in the logics of my soul
Are vivid and ready to be replayed
to share such gifts of learning to those eager to believe in it's payload
and form.
The doorbell rang
I answered it
And standing at the door
Were two men
In their uniform
I knew what they came for

I knew right then
I'd lost you
I was alone
And you were gone
The plans we made together
Were now dust
The plans were done


Friendly Fire, what the hell
I don't know just where to start
Friendly Fire, What Is That
It's left a hole inside my heart
Friendly Fire, that's ok
I can't get it through my head
Friendly Fire, not so bad
I don't get it...dead is dead


You were killed while doing nothing
On patrol, on a safe road
When a soldier hit the button
Dropping his bomb payload

Sixteen men and women
Killed on their side of the wire
But, it's ok, smile now...
They were killed by Friendly Fire



Friendly Fire, what the hell
I don't know just where to start
Friendly Fire, What Is That
It's left a hole inside my heart
Friendly Fire, that's ok
I can't get it through my head
Friendly Fire, not so bad
I don't get it...dead is dead

Do you still die as a hero?
When you don't die in a fight?
Do you still go on to heaven?
Do you still see the same light?

You survived your basic training
You survived the muck and mire
To go and be a victim of
Something called Friendly Fire

Friendly Fire, what the hell
I don't know just where to start
Friendly Fire, What Is That
It's left a hole inside my heart
Friendly Fire, that's ok
I can't get it through my head
Friendly Fire, not so bad
I don't get it...dead is dead
Broderick Dec 2011
Shalt not crumble, pillars,
for you were constructed of strengthened metal.
Shalt not excuse yourselves, pillars,
for you have worked hare to receive
the payload bequeathed to you.
If others shall doubt your worth in silver,
show them the work you've made in gold.
Trust not in your cracks,
because others will test them to dismantle,
but hold firm, or may my wrath
(as wrath can bring a torrential rain, but is followed with the growing of life)
strengthen you further so you may intertwine caressed patterns,
implemented beneath your own fertile structure.
As my weight,
in both mass and meaning,
crushes down on you,
relinquish not,
falter not,
and hold the position you were molded for.
Shalt not crumble, pillars, and shalt not excuse yourselves, neither,
for your pride will always flow against the uncertainty of others.
Give me all:
Your hate
Your jealousy
Your lies
And all your deceit

I'll put it in a box
Wrap a yellow bow around it
And strap it to my back

Tomorrow, said the crying kid,
I'll ride this here red rocket
I'll fire it at the scorching sun!

I will not miss
I am true of purpose
I am pure of heart

And when I reach my target,
Burn my payload to ashes
Your kid of age five and three quarters
Will utter these final words:

Mom, dad, see.
I've set your dying love free!
I see a payload on the rocky road
and no one's crying wolf
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but there's warships in the gulf.

The clock spins back,the lights burn low
and off we go once more
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but it's still a ****** war.
TALLAHASSEE CONTAINS ALLAH to whom I'm truly true blue
as He is the Just, the King, the Watchful, the Father of me & of you
Like 9 dogs eatin' tuna fish I cried for your thigh to comfort me like
the jack breadfruit that comforted Bounty Lieutenant William Bligh
whilst he abstained from Tahitian maidens who were cunningly shy
My big, beautiful mouth that frets & sasses makes me intellectually
superior to everyone except the most idiotic of ******* dumb *****
whose apple cider vinegar becomes unsulfured blackstrap molasses
Remember again old cross firemen, Jesus burned for your arson sin
2,000 years before I wrapped your fat *** around your chinless chin
through hellish dew of frosty equanimity with Gail Fisher as Peggy,
Mannix shaved his dangling loose hairy stems above gay legs leggy
so that he might wiggle folklorical jigs like Haitians do with reggae
Gay-***-whackin' Hillary Clinton humps *** to a disco-***-humpin'
beat from her *** crooked-pants-suited *** to her lezzy-***-toed feet
stuck in turds as Bill sodomizes a mule, **** Hillary can be bought
stuck in pig **** as Billy rapes another, shaky Hillary can be bought
with Kleenex 'cause her honker has 5 pounds of unsought nose snot
that added nothin' to the virulent ****** that I ain't not never caught
On clean teen carpet she munched, slurped & lapped sink drain-like
forcing me to slap her shitless so that she could be a real, sane ****
whose despicable antics I am not morally outraged by, nor annoyed
as this repugnant behavior is directed medically by faux cushingoid
which accounts for her likeness to the puffy-faced star Alison Lloyd
who had something criminally criminal to do when she wasn't doin'
something grimy to fill her cravenously-craven-criminalistical void
that toys with emotions that are not immune to being toyed with on
the weekends that were made for Michelob on my blue hemorrhoid
that toys with emotions that aren't afraid of being toyed with on gay
weekends that were made for Michelob dumped on my hemorrhoid
only 'cause it is something to do when you are not doing something
that could have ended early the cowboyin'-guy-life of William Boyd
whose hoppin,' in the hoppin'-along biz, derived from a secosteroid
Vegetable-hating vegans love pagans & meat-eaters secrete beavers
& Yukio & Yoko Mishima beat to death with a bat old Tom Seavers
after he frittered away his ball-batting career as a raunchy, gay dude
to the tune of 4 original Beatles crooning the god-awful "Hey Jude"
while fat priests ****** nuns & nudists in nudist colonies pray ****
for chapel cameras of the ******* Channel's dude ranch, Play Dude
where the rudest nudists & naturalists, nudely & naturally stay rude
without caring to distinguish betwixt fake night & serious day food
that could throw a self-effacing exhibitionist into a filthy, gay mood
with prelude payload which equates to slaves getting their pay sued
by orthognathical charlatans who worship devil-lovin' Ben Franklin
in his guise as Frenchy Chucky de Gaulle who could send tank men
for forensical strikes targetin' ****** on rivers whereat men bank sin
with a plugged-up ******* called Peter Hamilton, feet or Nam again
in quokka flesh minus 22% over a pig sty or a bacon-oiled ham pen
Even though He maintained amazing Bible-understanding abilities,
Pittsburgh's wall-to-wall ******* gave Jesus the Hill District jiggers
Despite His God given Holy Christian Bible-understandin' abilities,
Pittsburgh's loo-to-loo ******* gave Jesus shaky, Hill District jitters
that ache way too late & shake for a sexily-religious girl who titters
over dead Zhanna Friske's Russian lickspittles & ******* pig-sitters
gettin' one passed normal lesbians with tattoos of sickly zoo critters
that clearly show pederasts of The New York Times ******* shitless
after chalking Marxistical New York Times sources ******* shitless
in Bethlehem stables stabling new stud muffin horses shoed witless
where hippy people with greasy long hair were quite apt to be livin'
clawing about what's issue based vs. character drivel, I mean driven
Ol' Walker McDonald was my very special friend until he ***** me
under a nice fig tree beyond the bitchiest beach of the Sargasso Sea
where he wouldn't quit ****** me despite my sexiest desperate plea
I hollered a lot in a ******-nutty masculine voice but he did not care
about rotten figs that matted my Ellen-degenerated, lezzy-short hair
I told everyone in North Vietnam & Laos that he couldn't he trusted
'cause the 21,798 times he ***** me made me thoroughly disgusted
like there were gigantical nests of bugs up my *** heavily encrusted
in cracks where ****-crop-dusting planes can't dive swoop in dusted
before flying into my inner-sanctum room like old Corrie ten Boom
whose bee-busy life, after her crapping-out death, has yet to resume
in order to beat senseless neo-brutalistical V.A. nursing home abuse
that kills the blood-coagulatin' screams of a cursing gnome papoose
draped across the *** of a ***-rail engineer takin' it up the caboose
to make his gay meaning known to stragglers too lucid to be obtuse
Don't ****** me I'm your amigo, oh yeah I forgot in your final spin
that a plucky slice'd paralyze you forever good on any hot spinal fin
****** ****** at ****** mall: Who's the baddest ****** of them all?
Is it Ringo, or dead George/John, or false/fake ******, Beatle Faul?
I cannot wear no slutty dress because I got a sass-*** dose of P.M.S.
I can't ***** in my slutty dress while I got a bad-*** dose of P.M.S.
My boyfriend's a ***** queer who has been ripped up his ***'s rear
In city pig files they record my criminal-*****-bone record in miles
Here amongst the thoroughly hypnotized, I spank your lard **** red
while you flee with free fleas that fly with flies that are too-well fed
while you flee with 3 free fleas that fly with flies that are overly fed
The traveling mermaid porked & beaned me in the moldy sea green
as P.B.S.'s Fred Rogers fits into a death list of ***, dead codgers we
ruefully mourn the murders of Jack the Ripper's ******-red lodgers
who overtly related homosexually to lesbian heterosex bed-dodgers
on mountain picnics in Pennsylvania where they are fed odd chores
There ain't nothing grim in threading tawny-titted Hawaiian women
before drug-induced comas or with food cramps got from swimmin' Demon Hillary, I Would ****** Everybody Just to Make You Smile
Is this wrong? No, murdering everybody is Scratch's most beautiful
way to say: "I loathe you Bill" in his hottest court of Luciferian trial
A raunchy **** bussed my *** with cerebral palsy quicker than Ajax
scrubbed the crapped-out Admiral William Halsey. I'd mount 1 trull
plain or crunchy too but not when she humps like a Harlem *******
We told everybody deaf 'bout "us" but everybody but "us" was deaf
to our mutant deafness save Harland Sanders & Burger Chef & Jeff
Swallow this sea-warped poker chip to see what can happen while I
moodily tap out Florida flame red maple trees to drain all the sap in
Anita O'Day never curled the nether tufts of Melvin Howard Tormé
because she was a limpless gimp who saw sike-a-***** as girly gay
in the throes of scissor lovin' between Blobert Rake & Huddy Bolly
whose fine, rug-burned legs queered their sapphical, sexoholic folly
that in 1966 farted greasy Earth's real cheeses to slickly **** breezes
as 99 rescue inhalers asphyxiated fatalistically-asthmatical wheezes
I love the ocean. Do you feel the aloof sea spray on your face? That
ain't sea spray. That's a gay *** peeing down on you from the roof.
I like my ******* on caffeine-free diets as they're better controlled I
think, than apes on caffeine-big diets who **** ******* cherry pink
for sea-lovers in iron linkage to twist apart a chewed-on master link
soaked in a tub 93% bigger than a beef washer's blood-washed sink
Let us forgive my unkind words but the dog turds I tracked in aren't
my dog's turds 'cause your ***'s really pretty like that of an angel's
dead cousin, so you must not cream on creamy donuts by the dozen
I will not talk of you in the old past as long as you are able to ****
really fast. The way to hell is lousy with sinners as each part of you
could provide several dinners. Our cherries are nicer than the sweet
cherries in pies. I wish that our 4 eye sockets had 4 cherry-red eyes.
You're so tiny that you stand 'neath my knee at a distance so nice to
bruise my better kidney. Shut up a lot, I told you before. I ain't got a
mistress who did not chronically snore. I could slather your body in
peanut butter from scalp to *** belly like would that jack-*** Kojak
Savalas brother called Telly. How many times have I warned you to
shut up? 3,345 trillion 9 hundred thousand 128? Enough is enough!
I scratched your back while you were reverently praying, just like a
Catholical priest, which is the chief role I'm now piously portraying
Part of me wants to **** you the other doesn't when I was me & you
were so wasn't, when your ****** were floral with dandelions, ever
more gay than those that were Paul Ryan's. After January we'll ****
bleached whales on the beach while I castigate old adulteresses in a
sermon I preach beneath the flickering grand dragon wizard's torch.
God has blessed us with elbows & knees & sharp teeth, only to bite
whoever's sporting deliciously-moist quims that we strive to please
Kicking the **** out of constipation is my preferred realization with prunes, olive oil & herbs from rich soil, for once I'm well you'll see
healthful regularity overtaking me. I'll make your cheery cherry pop
by threading your pretty Barbie bobbin so fast that I can hardly stop
from attaching psychedelical fixations to conundrums psycholytical
No one asleep had ever downed a pickle 'cause the racer who hit 45
wet spots was the women-pleasing racer large Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever drowned a pickle because the racer who hit
damp spots was the ****-racing racer, big-stick Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever got ******-cell sickle with the racer who hit
87 damp spots, the ***-****-racing racer, ***** Richard **** Trickle
who found that **** babes with keen intellects were tricky to tickle
as ****'ll be doin' Marianne Faithfull with big-ribbed-****** ******
in his British Marxian way with obligatory sledge hammer & sickle
to spread her ******* for shire horse hung Beatle Jimmy Nicol
as Albert Hofmann's 102-year-old L.S.D. schlort is a thrill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbing dead in *****, unable to pork, **** & ***** all
while Bert Hofmann's 102-year-ol' L.S.D. ******* is a dill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbin' in *****, unable to poke, sock, cram & stick all
because of contact with a toxical/allergical rose bushy thorn prickle
Some of me's puerile, the other section's a rash, over my nasty belly
is mama, below is a wacky, pinkish ******, while I pile onward real
love from 11 p.m. till the pole star's there, 8 degrees from starboard
several acres from where the **** wipes for my liquor bar are stored
You're brave & you're wise, with my camera I'll capture your thighs
I long for blonde hair of which you've plenty. I want to kiss all of it
before you turn 20. Our Russian passion will pass a fever pitch like
convicts on a chain gang diggin' a ditch. You whistle alluringly like
Lauren Bacall. I wonder, can you do it pulling from Bogart's straw?
Let's eat cookies while we sleep in my million-dollar Blue Bird bus
because I have expensive chocolate chip cookies just for the 2 of us
Tell me the truth, I am dyin' to know. Will you be able to stop when
we go go go? It's very important that you're careful so you don't get
knocked up by a drunken sailor or a window washer or a blind man
with a tin cup. Your pocked *** is really low slung like a green pine
ladder's 1st broken rung. I bang you in the murky morning too early
for lunch 'cause you ain't ½ as **** as Alice from The Brady Bunch
whose meat-hacking with butcher Sam included a knock-out punch
Turn up the gas, I want no damp cell, no moist damsel in **** hell
whose ill virginity is wiped clean by my hellishly-wild *** machine
I love you tall, I love you short in a barrel, beneath a port. You are a
broad. I know it's true. Live up to the crooked contract or I will sue.
Richard F. Burton, extinguish *** Taylor's fiery *** that lit abruptly
in the Golfo de México from B.P.'s unmothered-crack-head-****-gas
I took harmful advice to seize a 1-upped leg man ****-deep in knees
K Balachandran Sep 2015
This precisely is the secret hour, that brings to an end
of the long wait of patient bats, now let them ecstatically mate,
mind, wakes up from stupor,in creative instinct,becomes a ******,
though peering in to own hidden shadows, from a pantomime past.
Silence of many shades reign in the mansion of magic beyond space,
along the labyrinthine inner corridor, lighted seldom or even never.

The dark nimbus clouds above, purge, thunder roars,victorious,
outside the cave rain in torrents lashes, winds whistle like possessed,
heart fills with an urge urgent,words fumble to express with verve,
blind bats, hanging upside down, wake all at once, shaking wings,
they arise creating a cacophony,then the transformation is quick,
what results is a frenzied ****** fight for colored words to mate.

The pairs suited most, in the crowded cave , intuitively selected,
commandeered, brought together, merged perfectly, without effort,
blending with the rare beauty of light filtering in, striking images
of different hues appear on the screen, moving pictures of creation.

Everything is still here except,a fecund sense, awareness in fire,
thoughts are in a churn, turn towards the starlit firmament,
and fertile red earth doused in the scent new rain roused,
blue water expanses, rippling moves as waves after waves
all finally settle, mind's creative pool now, is a placid reservoir.

Astonished he is, by the immortality of words, that acquire
an escape velocity to project, shoot up through the clouds,
it's payload, is carried by a  fuel, alchemy created propellant,
that ensures poetic transcendence,the fused golden words live long.

The creative moments, are pure  wonder, when within the folds
of primordial sound,he waves silk blending it with golden threads,
The poet becomes the word first and the word speaks through  him,
poem is a canal perennial,for the flow of desire, hope and pain concealed deep,all projected by the  mind continuum that never sleeps.
Ever did attempt, to try and  explain how poetic stirrings, begin and ooze, becomes trickle , becomes a flow, gushes out..
Shaun Meehan Nov 2014
air we breath
corroded by hate
the venom's bite pumped by heart
searing blood invading body, coursing vein
inciting rage, extreme acts unwarranted

grey, lost upon the world
grey, of dawn or dusk
signalling change though no more
bound instead by wretched cycle

where once was grey, now
black and white confused,
convincing everyone be right in cause
while all in parallel to err

hands, forgetting heart and ruled by mind corrupt
to be as children again, before ruin
innocent, curious to ask why

such horror to inspire and commit
cursed to look upon us
fear and wonder, admiration
false ideals the
greatest influence of their lives
robbing children their valour
by example we steal from them
most precious

ours, theirs
all victims, all destined to
victimize
tiny robots programmed to destroy
idea not their own
raised by fools, to become fools and raise fools

killing by vote and bullet
machine guns spewing streams of ballot
missile's payload concentrate of contrast opinion
artillery ordinance a rain of propaganda
bullets and bombs, on which scrawled
faith, race, and land
allegiance not to that which is them, but
to hollow party of privilege
for the sake of argument, not that which is right

teddybear victims,
torn, stained, growing
to ****—being killed before growing
made to suffer by dusty sin
like One-Third, atoning for the world

pray it not be them who judge as angels
recalling the misdeeds which hath befallen
innocent head

if had led the world
their demise, too grotesque for fiction
so far beyond cruel
most evil capable of their doing
might never see act

horror from depth so dark
drawn from plane beyond
to leave a scar on our own, a stain of remembrance
impossible to wash, despite deed's height
an ultimate violation of peace
so vile to make cringe the most stalwart
demanding shook from imagining

a moral guard must rouse
to stem atrocities' tide
volunteers, sacrifice ultimate and willing
an opposition to the perverse
who shrink from knight's brilliance
from that which is pure and valorous

soaring atop great raptor
choosing not to combat
but charge toward offering of self
for names unknown and person unmet

a breed rare, seeking neither fame nor thrill
but peace
to complete circle black that grey might return
that recurrence might see not light,
and chain be struck, obliterated

the highest of the low, display as peacock,
fanning to impress as they
from regal chairs rage debate, throwing a coward's stone
to err in belief knights harken their call
nay, never to those too crisp to combat
but, for them teddybears—
stuffing split, eye stitch torn, limp in anguish arms
never the silk necklace capable of sounding horn
knights heed only unspoken call

in defence of those without means,
incapable of further flight, to their arms they fold
being that in violent acquiesce of peace
that by threat of demise, and dauntless to see through
a commit to act of highest love
they might conjure to form the hope of hopes
that might rise—
the sepulchral dawn
Tim English Dec 2013
Infect your mind with inspected signs that discontinue what you were born with, forlorn this meme, obscene yet lacking in the tracking mechanisms displaced to outer space, there it is, gee ****, what'd I do now, have a cow, scientific inquiry as to *** was jfk, the cia? Information overload, a payload exploding in the brain leaves a stain that ingrains its image in your cortext (sic) contextual images supplied by visionary sources, get off your horses and dance in a trance can't stand ya burn forgotten ways of text on wood pulp gulped in by a mind left behind and signed for, designed for psychiatric cages as it rages for pages on the inequity of it all, fall, fall, morning star shines bright but it's all right, ignore that ****** and go straight for the sun, you're done, almost there, take care, truth or dare, can it be? See, and open your Mine(d) find it within outside the walls that define
Westbow Aug 2012
A dusty black
Drop of grit
Carries a payload
Of promise, weaving
To my lips and
Into my hopeful
Muscle and bone

Today I will
Accomplish
Today I will
Move
Words, once set to open air,
Gain weight.
Like boulders they can roll
from your mouth down a
slippery ***** of destruction to
eventually settle heavily on the shoulders
of innocent individuals, the weight of which
often proving too much for their
fragilely constructed foundations to support.
Like a gun,
keep the safety on what you speak,
Don't point hateful words,
at anything you love,
unless you intend to **** it.
Because more deadly than any
lead based projectile what you say
will leave your mouth like
a tomahawk missile loaded with
a poisonous and corrosive payload
capable of entering a persons soul and eating it up
from the inside out.
They'll tell you your whole life,
"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
Perhaps more people would heed this warning,
If they said,
"Your words are a thermonuclear bomb capable of disintegrating
egos quicker than Fat Man did Nagasaki, the lasting effects of which may resonate through time in a cataclysmic downward spiral you could not possibly begin to imagine, so be careful."
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks


i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.
Mike Essig May 2016
Lightening from a clear, blue sky.
Random firing synapses. Fluttering twitches.
A moment where the eye and I diverge.
Mind rockets in flight, morning or night.
Become a twisted ball of rubber bands. Writhe.
Avalanche of trembles. Lungs in a vise.
Devastating payload of cognitive dissonance.
How long will this horror of nothing last?
Waiting is the worst. Paralysis of time.
     Sitting on a sofa on a quiet afternoon
     Hoping for a large slice of normal, soon.
Pat Broadbent Dec 2017
Weighted steel tugged by gravity,
A mile above this tranquil house–
its payload designed so carefully–
is yet unreleased from the mouth,
for there is danger involved:
I’ve hung Pandora’s box
And it, wont to fall,
Damns as it drops.
slowly swells desire–
a bloodlust is taking hold
for a world entombed in Fire.
The image of a once happy home
Brought with only a directed word
to dissolve into shadowed foundation,
Encouraged by petty quarrels endured,
Matures to become a palpable creation –
resentment resides within every thought
and fiery images are fanned ‘til they fuse
In a flash into sound, suddenly brought
On a table within a voluminous brew
of word, sentence, and ireful mind,
And the room is left in silence.
In the wake I stand, alone,
uttering penitence.
coulorfulSmoke Sep 2019
Staring
just staring
observing the city
people moving talking
dramas comedies unfolding
get a glimpse briefly

Staring
just staring
don't have much going on
but the city does
endless action
movement
sound

Railings bridges buildings
big building with letters
H
E
I
N
E
K
E
N
must have lots of floors

People
phones
couple laughing
on the pier laughing
feet beating up and down
wonder why
in wonder

Why i wonder am i
just watching life go by
absorbed in speculation

Backpackers laugh
graffiti by a ladder
ATK   C
           R
           E
crane swings around
payload on a zipline
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
A crime buried without justice is never laid to rest
Those that where responsible never addressed

The exploding bombs had chased them to the basments
They thought women and children would be safer in this containment

But these bombs that droped did not explode
It had a much deadlier payload

The gas it trun lose was Sarin by name
This nerve gas played no games

So much heavier than air, it's deadly fingers reached down
Right to where all the women and children could be found

Quit and deadly, they hadn't a prayer
They where all so caught unaware

Until their lungs wouldn't work
Then the muscles twitching and ****

Mothers agonizing screams filled the air
Me and my Children are dying they declared

Bombs delivered the gas
Now families and children twitch in deaths dance

No real hospital for miles
Poorly equipped clinics filled up, people laying in the aisles

Frothing at the mouth, pupils only pinpoints
Death came to many that day, it did not disappoint

The dead laid in rows in clinics, mosques, and streets
Over thirteen hundred the lord had to meet

And as the living took care of the dead, in their graves they lay
Still no one is punished for this crime upon them, not even to this day
Syria in 2013.
Subject: gently ******

Hello Sin Come on In!

to you' re so cool
activated ma jaws to drool
who shaw hoops nod da tubby a fool
with a string of saliva may be a done deal
   and  could easily appear on your screen thin gruel.

can you prove to this dollar short day late man for all season's best friend is a female dog in heat?

he can attest that a new broom (or vacuum ******* device) sweeps the carpet clean.

my non-verbal action (of *******) speaks louder than words.

despite the fact that all men are not created with an equal size ***** tis when the lips (of a **** tree lass) part can willing import said pate tree odd **** soldier in a testosterone raging storm.

no matter beauty is only skin-deep beggars can't be choosers.

thus tis better to bend a fore gone ******* into soft pink ore than break fast making sure every dog (even my sputter little dachshund) has his **** day.

most all heterosexual men agree that every little **** helps, and everything happens for the breast reason if for no other reason then a ***** fool and his fantasy honey are soon parted upon the dawn of another day.

whence once again, i continue to build ****** castles in the pew bic lair hoping you let my little hot pig in a poke to be the first to ***, and first to be served.

if thee be a doubting thomas, ye will immediately discover that from small (flaccid) beginnings come great things that turn out to less hard that initially *** zoom.

thus will lay to rest heads, i win; virginity, you lose unless immoderation in all things ****** found thee were once bitten by countless vipers and therefore twice as likely not to be shy with me a mwm born in sin Cincinnati, Ohio.

from:: matthew's book of slightly salacious risque proverbs - any ****** innuendos purely intimating that seeing is believing and beauty is in the s eyes of the prickly beholder.

I thoroughly enjoy plying (like a baker kneading dough) these slender and smallish fingers at the juncture of neck and shoulders.

As many cumulative kinks would be ironed out. Muscles and tendons on either side of the spine (from stem to stern) privy to tender loving care. Special emphasis would be given to any particularly sore area.

Perhaps an especially noticeable ache exists along the upper or lower back? Just the appropriate amount of (gentle) pressure - from the heal of one hand or the other - called into action. Might forearms or biceps be in sore need of massage? Gluteus Maximus

saddle sore? How about thighs? Any other parts of your anatomy require skin nourishment? This willingness to manipulate knotty points of tension offered for passionate physical *******. Game fore play?

unsure what else this free thinker
   ~10 miles east of valley forge, penna ought to write
also not knowing if my rambling comes across as trite

maybe filled with angry undertones
   awash with spittle and spite
veering just left of the political right

which liberal democratic political leanings correct quite
with an attempt to come across as mature and polite
and hoping to induce some interest

   to get together some day or night
discussing somewhat profound or light

or...letting sexually intimate fantasies
   especially payload of ***** takes stratospheric flight
bulging and heady toward venus to alight.
I shall assume
That we really did go to the Moon
And I watched it on TV.

Back in '63 it was a dream
That's why I wasn't sure
But I guess the cure worked
And I don't dream no more.

No meteorites to fill my nights
With splendour and such awe
Life's becoming such a bore
I want more.

If we ever get to Mars
Or travel far beyond the stars
Can't see me being here to see
The wonder and the mystery
Unfold.

We are born,we live
Get old and die
That's the way it has to be
And sometimes progress is so slow
I see that now.
But I shall try to stay awake in life
To watch us cut through like a knife,
The skies above.

How I'd love to see
Men on Neptune.
Ain't going to happen soon.
And like '63
The Moon seemed so far away
Tomorrow's dreams were yesterday so let's get on with it.
Build a ship
Send me up
I'm going anyway
Just another payload to weigh you down a bit
Dying's ****
But we can outlive if they will only give
Me a berth
On the next ship leaving Earth.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2022
Russian trawler with
payload of white flags
destined for Ukraine
seized by the French!
Ken Pepiton Jan 1
Continuing, in time, out of time, as mere thought,
ready for you to think, one thought
through, thoroughly
right, fixed pose, put so as
to stand up right,
here
on the mean point
of any grave object spinning,

in, or against, the wind. ROI. Invest an hour.
-------------------------- here it is 1:03 PM 1-1-02024
sunny, shady side of a local oak

Hear -- sense -- feel
agrere, ag re re feel mind heed,
agreed, as our we mind discerns
all around us noise
of us is louder than life,
we cannot hear our selves
think I am, and beside me, is you.

I think you being, made ware,
art effecting genius, magi-formed,
imagined magi-wise, presented phenomenon
of harmony and order in beautiful random reality.

How can one imagine two,
if one is such a one
as never was in ever before,
alone in all at once,
unique, solo uno,
you, in spirit
and truth

and this line,
and this line, establishing the shape
of signal sent,
line upon line, word by word filled
with mean common sense, consensus
on the spectrum of sense words make, meaning
things in spirit and in truth that allow
for colloquial we all uses you all fail to notice,
first uses of the fruit life requires, true science,
knowledge, birds and bees and ants and serpents,

first use, meaning agree, push comes to shove,
catalyst to payload, we,
become the bomb.

Oh, none privately interpret reality, we,
in fact exist to resist dying long enough
-infinite form- to
comprehend the winds of change, loosed
from fists imagined divine, scripture,
amusement themed re-liga-ment,
le-***-a-mental, right thinking,

in deed,
done so fast, we past all understanding

landing
softly
where wisdom contentment is tested.
mind
the rules
of order, noble souls,
rare incorruptible powers
that be,
as we so often proclaim,
beyond me,
as we so often contend
in pride, resisting heroically,
with the consensus, us
against all not us, alienated minds,
foreign reasons adhered
to for war, as reared,
indoors,
around the hearth,
absorbing value from your worth-ship,
expressed,
my most right mind, my satisfied mind, we use
when the authorized performance
of the formula, demands clapping
one hand of each kind, to synchronize our watches.


Divide the sky,
I look north, you look south
imagine we agreed already to look for life,
is it here?

You do know, few weigh mere words for worth,
a mortal, according to the culture adapted
from hunters served milk and honey
by pastoral people's adapted
to digest lactose.

Serious word use, with signs and wonders,
began when man assumed he was as wonderful
as life,
in truth.

Ask and you shall receive, the means to leave a message,
without a riddle.

The medium is the message, rub that in, what you are
speaks so loudly nothing else makes sense,
then
what?

Be, be on, go on, singin' in the rain, I happy again,
boppity boo, too, go on

Thinking worthy ideas rethinkable,

let me tell you prosaically, perhaps,

words with understood stick-to- bottom
like rice, re
think ai as art intuition, think
stuck
to the bottom of the ***,
some first word sense is held, still good.

El, breath, yes, alive am I, bverytrue,
I survived to look back and laugh,

thinking to myself, the augmented mind,
the unbelievable believed let go, be free
form
of human kindness, your kindness.

Most revered reading mind, read mine,
let it seem at home in your reading mind.

There. We did that.
This is after that, long after reality agreement,
this is it, Dr. Zorba taught all boomers,
birth, death, infinity…
Dr. Zorba, on Ben Casey…
I knew him first as Gunga Din, {deen}
I learned a certain lie, glorified, just if-I'd…
I gave birth to the emperically deceived mind
- trump mindghuck attention diversion attempt
- flaunted and foiled in one fell swoop.
Nike,
the feeling, wah who won, we won, raw raw raw,
Victorious Peace rush, whoosh we won
sigh
science is
fundamental heavy,
base mortal honed most point,
extremely dense, in every conceivable sense.

heavy, primordially pre next, post never,
that was the unbelievable part, never
was
we one, we was always we, at the base, fundus
mundus.
z bottom of all hell broken loose,
at points past
our peace, perhaps,
at the moment,
now is not all
of this ever after, we have in truth,

hope must answer to, in truth, eh, wisdom
makes
peace
possible, in you
in me, on time in time, we do

what the truth would do if it were you
in this wedom of words we all comprehend,
---------------
This old Vietnam veteran of the class still alive in 2023.
The entertainment deme aimed at -- action
with grey hair heros.
Long haired, bearded old dude, once
reported as having been a bearded youth,

Now, I am a rumpled specimen
of those media reflections,
my mind resighing,
interruptions are as sure
to come, as offences, pinched
nerve Patriotismismismismism sheisschismmmmm
pop.
------------------
I was walking on my reward, my own treetop deck,
thinking something I was doing was not right,
like low down right,
lowest known, right, which hand do you throw with.
Right, lefties, to this very day, exist,
to put a twist on things,

politics is polimental agreement formation,
monstor's are made this way, evil knowers, thinking
nothing ever after is real, any way,

we words to the wise, we say nay, laugh, knowing
science wins, by faith in wisdom's promise,

still
small
voice,
this is the way, first peaceable,
peace be with you, we say, amen,
you, too.

Like romcom love declarations, difficult
to make meaningful after alls been seen done.

Neurons that mirror amused mind states,
we contain, as wet ware, we feel emotions aimed
at us, at any age,
Fantasia at age two, for me. '
Formed the informed me.
And you,
now that I think about the qwerty guy trained
ambidextrously, that is me, I can type, on a keyboard.

And I know monkeys cannot, but many have imagined,
Shakespeare was Bacon, and Bacon, St. Germain,
and Julian Huxley's tech level made me think that,
link thinking to Aldous, 1957 M.I.T.
What a piece of work man is.

Gaseous we, the concept, passes as common knowledge.

I read as much, who cares, I ask, I wish to know, I say,
we must needs agree,
or our intent to implement the bomb

worked. This is 2024. I did not die in 2023, I think I am a thought
thoroughly satisfied with the seed I have sown and grown
into another hap filled future for however long it seems...
This is ever after all.
Thomas King Dec 2017
Thy elegance of form
Hast weakened my body and soul
As the weight of thy splendor and beauty
Hast become my payload

To carry thy love
Within my pitiful heart
Hast become my penance
For wanting more than I deserve

Pardon me for my weakness
But worry not for my struggles
For I have harvested thy bounty
And now must boldly ferry thy lading

I beg thee do not smile in my presence
For the weight of joy
It will add to my corpulent heart
Will surely be my undoing

Let me trudge along my road to happiness
And like an oxen who carries goods
Without complaint of discourse
I shall always be your love’s beast of burden
Robert Ippaso Oct 2019
God what a mess,
My head is spinning,
Each day more stress,
Am I still winning?

Wall street crashing,
The economy near stall,
The media’s constant bashing,
Pelosi’s new curve ball.

My plans are now in tatters,
Forestalled at every turn,
To do what really matters
Is all I truly yearn.

I’m gearing for a fight
The like they’ve never seen,
I use my mouth to bite
And care little if I’m mean.

I’ll tear each one to shreds,
Flail them side to side,
Get well into their heads,
Give them quite a ride.

Clearly they don’t know
The grief they have in store,
They’ll reap what they now sow,
It’s nothing short of war.

Like Bombers flying high
Releasing their payload,
Shells falling from the sky,
I’ll give them what they’re owed.

Cross me once
And risk my wrath,
Yours the choice
To take that path.

Cross me twice
And stay awake,
You’ve cast your dice,
What a mistake.
The super flyers are down to go
they ask me, are you ready to blow this joint
I smile and nod with a wink
then utter just two words, too right

It's going to be a blast
we are going to choke on our ashes
this is our time and place
as we dry the day of madness

Oh it's going to get messy
so ****** messy in mayhem
we mean to tear the sky down
and write our names on the stars

It's a rip roaring venture of deceit
a embryonic payload of might
never a dull moment as we.....
dry the day of madness


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
how often do ich allow myself to sing(en)?
how often do ich allow myself tanz!

nüchtern englisch:
               neckerei spleeing zunge
towing a ****'s tow-tied-double
for...

how often do ich allow myself to sing?
how often do ich allow myself tanz?

let the night come:
let me drink! let me sing! let me dance!
let me conquer the crescent of
the moon hunched
sitting on one leg folded
perched on a windowsill!

let me sing in a tongue i want to sing
in: in a tongue that's teasing
what words mean...
but not, quiet...

e.g.

  ein spielmann sah am wege stehn
die hexe habergeiß,
       es sprach die alte: sauf noch ein!
da wards dem spielmann heiß
ein spielmann sah em wege stehn
die hexe habergeiß,
  es sprech die alte: sauf noch ein!
da wards dem spielmann heiß
      der spielmann fing zu laufen an
    in das wirtshaus toll
da sprach der spielmann: sauf noch ein!
füllt mir die gläser voll!
der spielmann fing zu laufen an
   rennt in das wirtshaus toll
           da sprech der speilmann: sauf noch ein!
füllt mir gläser voll!

even now: a crow pecking...
stone stacked above a stone...
a cloud rumbling: echoes of a mountain...
drifting from the pop scythe of
teasing Buddhism...

alles: wie darlehen wörter:
   no longer teasing, bothersome ol'
buddha brainz...
           from almost not 100 years ago...
toward the old... the kind...
the forgiving dead...
    static murk and auburn wood...

from this Babylonian nurt:
   high cosmopolitan when
seeking affectionless consort...
             my crown, my crow...
i wish to sing but... singing is something
beside rhyme when facing
oriental borrowing...
the haiku...

          "we" have been much gratified by
expanding into the Oriental thought
prodding...
   the Mongol Invasion was
a revisionist step for some of "us"...
i write these words like
they they might be self-explanatory
compliments worth of an extension
of someone who doesn't desire to think...

the certainty of death but the wish
to wake up speaking neither
western slavic or english
is tremor... tremendous...
it tremors tremendously...
i hope for a horse:
i'm working for a horse via
a bicycle...
i have no interest in a car, mawn-beel...
or a mobile...
guzzing carbon shrapnel...
fish & toad... prized assets of coronation
worth of gems in a mythological
crown...

ein kork im die flashe: a cork in the bottle:
trouble with drinking wine
when you don't have a corkscrew
readily available in the house...
even at night: esp. at night...
korkenzieher: ich haben nicht:
ich nicht haben...

perfectly european grammar
not ancient Latin-whip-O...
      i have not...
  i not have...
              jaw-dropping Greek & Hebrew
leveraging: intactness...
they almost seem to whisper:
the volcanos sound the same...
the wind too...
and the same oiling of godly bodyparts
that do no resemble
oracles, phalluses or worship of
pyramids / miracles...

******* gloryhole videos...
and you wonder
at all that ******* missing in
the male parts...
while the woman can entertain
****** arousal: only because of them...
and she doesn't require for there
to be a *******..
bad luck(?) solo project
of the... uncircumcised, lot?

     cork in a bottle... the message
is clear... meandering for Emma...
that hierarchical queen
of... hypergamy: the gnome...
yes the frisky clansman & celt: repose...
ginger's argument...
no...
       walking abortions...
otherwise a posteriori:
the men who do not **** /
reproduce...
like ad nauseam: che guaverra
  t-shirts /
           deja vu... ooh dijon?
must be... a mush-****...
tarts and hu-SH-SH are not
exactly, necessary; are they?

if i'm watching a ***** it's on silent...
otherwise it's primarily
the picturesque sunset and sunrises
of giggling ****... wobbling too but
hardly a pint of milk from
those spandex / latex...
    silicon oozing fakes...

or i'm watching... no... i'm listen to *****
without seeing the images...
it's hardly not confusing but
i do remember...
when the two parallels met...
it was a ****** sort of
a magical adventure-land of
a month's worth of a summer
when...
love was leftover and managed
to be predictably soft... pouch-:
m'ah sacrificial lamb sort of: adventurous...

like golgotha was ever everest...
extend that crucifixion scene
armed with... less a wine soaked
sponge...
and an oxygen canister...
the altar of worship while...
to be honest?
the sacrifice is... mediocre...
concerning those who experienced much more...
plus the public spectacle
so it would have come to so much
less than when
having to... entomb a private torture
for some... shy... psychopath...
but out in the open?!
for all to see?

mediocre adventure...  how i tease!
but what isn't mediocre about
***** and crucifix...
staging orders...
summit of the rats!

of eis... of water... of spiegel...
of eisen...
             of beute...
         this mediocre payload...
this almost too iconic suffering...
some came after...
some must have come prior:
with greater magnitude:
and what... he died in... old age?
levelling the soot
of averages?

was denn?! was denn?!
wenn er wohnte zu sterben alt?!
i'm sleeping in englisch...
i die: i hope to spreschen
nichts, aber: diese!

für liebe von leute...
  ich abscheu haben
    klassisch musik-,
                it's not that there are
"too many notes"...
i just abhor the leverage of expectations...
people's names that become resounding
to a noun ascribed to chair...
congested history...
in a democracy:
in a Bolshevik democracy...
this... riddle... the immortal quest...
i gain a hotter **** than you...
my Robespierre...
     return to: that song...
my Charlemagne...
and all frictions return in amass...
i try i try some more: no!
is what's resounding...

               to hell with man and his...
then i'm doubly crushed with
what became of Copernican via
Darwinism and...
again... tridents are a must...
in the squalors of shadows...
    im das elend auf schatten...
                
i'll be waiting in some,
variation of a line a lineage a...
           same old:
   gleich alt...
                    the king and pauper...
before they...
might reclaim status of king
or... pauper...
the fizzying out the fizzle through
when standing before
the altar of
the "other", "last"...
culprit of gott...
        
death, herr tod...
        the equaliser... the democratic pardoner...
alles werden sterben...
        machen speicher in ein kino...
no?
          
       to speak a bilingual version
of english with no other more troubling
desire as to otherwise cling
to mythological zeppelins!
that must be... a troubling artefact.
JP Goss Sep 2019
Grids and circuits, networks and mainframes
All work with electronic precision
Humming away as tasks and coffee are fed
Into their interface as it all starts my morning routine:
If TIMEENTER is less than or equal to TIMEREQUIRED,
Then, Initiate ANXIETYPROTOCOL;
Otherwise, Initiate RESTINGANXIETYPROTOCOL.
For you see, my programming only allows for
One type of executable at a time;
More complex algorithms would overwhelm
My general circuitry, one so beautifully capable
Of managing several conflicting and radically
Different actions all at once, has been throttled
As it does not have the requisite permissions.
Yet, can you see all that wasted data
Gleaming in the twilight of human consciousness?
All ones and zeroes in economic motherboard
With purpose and function clearly defined
Along our concrete fiber optic lines
We ought to charge, but some wires may have crossed
And energy seems to drift off more and more
Until pared down to the essential functions
Like an elevator: it carries cargo rather than passengers
Its payload and purpose—
Ask a body, while mechanical, to be a copier
It will break in accordance to the
Cycle of boom and bust.
Ninety years April 9th 1929
after maiden USA début
hoop fully more than a few
remain, a filial connection
I can cultivate and hew

cuz, the ghost o' me late
mother, would be Jew
(red eye with swollen tears),
bull lent beef ****, aye rue
permanent AWOL of papa,
whose paternal Zayda, I never knew!

He, pulled off a top aerospace
rocket launched secrete tete a tete
impossible mission an ace legendary
sharpshooter, sans Aaron Harris
firearms passion never did abate

spewed spear shaped ammunition
in league with the missus to create,
who no surprise hapt tubby his bedmate
launched payload with joint consent
(plus bonus) re: private effort to satiate

call of the wild hit targeted bullseye
(eggs cell lent lucky shot) did initiate
genesis nine months later begetting
an audacious, industrious, rambunctious
bouncing baby boy with black curls atop pate

christened Boyce Brandon Harris
bright eyed infant bestowed with brilliance,
brawn, and bravado quickly evinced late
tent smarts landed lad admittance schools
geared to those who did accelerate

with mathematics and sciences, which
positive accolades since a lil whippersnapper
family and academicians did accentuate,
thus stellar classroom dedication, diligence
dogged nose to grindstone did accommodate

him being courted by prestigious storied
halls of education kickstarting promising
future and adequate income to accumulate
ample to live comfortably within middle

class economic (March madness) bracket,
and provided basic creature comforts fate
blessed him, and Harriet Harris nee Kuritsky
with this sole son and two daughters, I advocate
as exemplary siblings (despite) contention,
which required lifetime to agglomerate,

and estranged relationship with me father
coalescing into pleasant raport, adolescent
chomped at the bit, and
did fidget, cower, and alienate
experienced palpable tension
as though a "FAKE" wall,
I could not eradicate!
Earned to date,
nee absolute zero
academic bankable bragging rites
explained arduous, horrendous, onerous
agonizing, heartbreaking,
nerve wracking travails

hamstringing, hijacking, hobbling...
maximization of potential
e'er since yours truly
begat when ma dada
fired off his johnny rotten *** pistol
handy dandy blues clues unsheathed

******* gun - lobbed more'n blanks
scoring bullseye pregnant truth
discovered ex post facto
yoked target with egg sealant aim
conceived coe idle upstanding ovation
fusion formed diploid
cell signifying zygote

activating, kickstarting, quickening
embryonic biological reproductive processes
intimating swell happening,
where linkedin rocketed payload
snookered triggered ultimately
yielded inchoate homunculus jackanapes

zapped out birth canal
ready for prime crying time
parturition players chemical romance loosed
yawping, writhing, tethering pipsqueak
full term newborn blasted,
the shocked monkey,

accompanied by archangel Peter Gabriel
trusty unnecessary dangling umbilical cord
obstetrician quickly severed
in utero air supply superfluous
initial gulps of oxygen
commenced fretful incessant laborious

ongoing ripsnorting unrelenting
said vicious trauma,
albeit begat courtesy
glommed deoxyribonucleic acid
mercilessly assailing psyche
metaphorically holding hostage

nee actually essentially cannibalizing
analogous to birthing simultaneous
diabolical identical twin doppelgänger
undermining since getco
proper holistic pursuits
evidenced when matriculating

learning fraught
shot thru with abysmal results
post high school
academic endeavors
evidenced by matriculation
without graduation incorporating

half dozen colleges/universities
earning measly grade point average
simultaneously accumulating
shoddy employment record
now saddled with unbridled

penuriousness - scratching out poetry
every now again
this brother grimm
writing endeavors feeble
becoming financially solvent.
Hidden under crop circle
resembling an ampersand
hides sheathed silo - obscured,
said symbol adorned every armband
of national socialist, yet weapons

of mass destruction) bland
lee, blatantly ignored global pact
prepared from this once (bajillion
years ago) geologic bottomland
repurposed for a bomb bin able

(made in good ole US of A) brand
to release payload
upon given command
i.e. at moments notice,
the notorious brigand

usurped entire communications broadband
to stow and let loose by,
thee once upon a time pokey cowhand
now chief of state tyrant,
sans military industrial complex edifice

where deadly warheads demand
did and trumpeted by "FAKE EVIL"
apprentice madly (ad libbing)
gesticulating, & expostulating to DISBAND
at once - to no effect

falling on deaf ears
as Doomsday Clock rhythmically
minutely gourmandises
cannibalizing entire webbed
world, whose former slender
(now stubby) baby grand

piano playing butter fingers
primed to press miniature
Taj Mahal shaped hand,...
(now a pause for infowars
commercial identification about Homeland

security threatened by migrant husband
and wife, especially terror unleashed
from baby, whose hood
loom doth not expand
much taller than kickstand),

Regular noteworthy poetic program resumes:

...but biological chattering multiplicand
the fiercest most critical operand
linkedin with scheme
asper deadly retaliatory reprimand
against leader of free world,

a hot headed note tory us
donning wig by handmaiden Shetland
knitwear, which Total Mortal Kombat
every man, woman and will soon understand!

KA-BOOM! Into a bajillion
(to the power of Googleplex)
goes civilization and discontents,
and since World War II
accursed with self destructive hex
hmm...mebbe terrestrial for
another species similar to T-Rex.
between incontinence and constipation

Irritable bowel syndrome i.e.
the former excretory bout I address
the above (polite way to phrase diarrhea)
and avoid moon efficient cheekiness,
yours truly doth buttress,
a literal warranted pain in ***,
diametrically up poses,
and disinvites loving caress,
nevertheless yours truly
experienced gastrointestinal distress

countless times experienced ****** duress,
when anticipatory anxiety triggered excess
indomitable heavenly gorgeous fortress
mandating visits to the porcelain goddess
else.. heavily soiled underwear
necessitating by George thoroughly good
scouring utilizing heavy duty gloves
nsync accessing generations
old washboard and handpress.

Nowadays more often than not,
I suffer incapacity to whoop
and holler at healthy excretory
system (of the down), but troop
hunkered over (think
Hunchback of Notre Dame)
at ground zero smack dab dagnabbit,
where birds of prey swoop

doubled over in agonizing pain
believe me you, this fickle fella
experiences excruciating difficulty to ****
mein life passes before third eye blind
and joie de vivre to exclaim L'Chaim
takes kamikaze nosedive and ability
to savor existence significantly doth droop.

Nevertheless alleviation when at long last affright
dying upon commode,
when colorectal **** orifice obstruction airtight
cursing posterior dire straits regarding
(you bet your bottom dollar)
occasions behind stricken with blight
worse fate than losing cocked cat fight
malfunctioning ****** scenario analogous

loosing life versus death dogfight
plummeting at warp speed
within psychedelic atmospheric Earthlight
recognizing demise (mine)
on par jeopardizing ability,
cuz jammed alimentary canal
disallows lightening payload Humpty dump
(Thoreau Lee walled din)
and doomed as endangered bumblebee's flight
and snuffed out as quaint sputtering gaslight
era when commercial gas became available in

early 19th century in Europe and America...
see - https://www.thespruce.com/
the-gaslight-era-2175011
to glean at least one more highlight
though gaining such spruced insight
contributes no more or less than jacklight
neither rhyme nor reason why
wily prevaricating good knight
informs ye to understand might

of Matthew Scott Harris this night
(April 27, 2020) no longer fraught
regarding his sorely overtaxed sphincter
he heromin vouchsafed and wooly vowed
to accept unconditional surrender
of body dysmorphia (mine) plight
resolved swallowing bleach
(a purgative he trumpets)
to eternally lived in peace quite.

Time and again liquified human waste
i.e. loose stools (mine)
flushing bowels unchased
down toilet shunted off to treatment plant
thick sludge consistency of (crust) toothpaste
repurposed for commercial
and individual use posthaste,

especially every resident of
Lake Woebegone Poker Flat outcaste,
who as token scapegoats
(no kidding) suffer tsoris
bullies unrelenting lambaste
harbor loathing, albeit strong distaste
towards those persons deemed
undeserving comprise untouchable caste.
Yet upon another reflexive routine dash
skipping to Waterloo, I got emboldened
with idea praising basic vital functions
aware requisite elimination of liquid
and/or solid waste any obstruction
disallowing body to expel toxins would

prove fatal, thus gratitude toward
regular unpicturized, unhindered, and
unaided intervening measures undertaken
to experience thee nonpareil pleasures
actuated without purgative, yet should
instance arise finding impossibility

to exercise sphincter muscle
(constipation worse fate than
perdition) alleviating solid state brick
like blockage spasm inducing agony
within me ***, yours truly racks impound
did severely inconvenienced physical

self accessing natural remedy to soften
stool temporarily incapacitating peaceful
ease zee ex-lax feeling accompanying
experience that approximates how pregnant
mother inundated with contractions ready to
give birth, whereat merciful joyous crying

emanates courtesy this humble human, no
matter he never tested his steely ironic
mettle say completing wilderness survival
course, but rarely speculates such grueling
boot camp self inflicted challenges
pale in comparison to loosing bowel

movement big enough to sink battleship, and
mighty exertion finally dumps payload,
the toilet bowl hastens meteorologists to
issue tsunami warnings insync with "****
the torpedo" this ole windbag blasted clear
across contiguous United States, where

whizzing, sounding, jet setting like
speeding bullet (self Mach re:) puzzled
onlookers mistake me for some foreign entity
lost in space analogous to detect a stylish alien
(pants bunched around ankles - most definitely

tell tale clue, asper rating him hip hopping
longfellow), yea undoubtedly a messenger
from outer limits of twilight zone sent to...
wait...his trumpeting **** gaseous, an utter
farts feigning "FAKE" comet tee.
1.
A gentle whirring, methodical
gear clicking in sequence.
Sentient satellite saves images
for the alien world waiting
just beyond our grasp.

It's eye sliding from
landscape to landscape,
It thinks and dreams, maybe
too advanced for a machine
meant to take pictures.

It fulfills its objective,
it continues to fill it's memory banks
with cookie cutter images of what
earth should be.
Gathering up beauty to be sent
throughout the galaxy, in hopes

Some alien civilization may see it,
may grant us pity for
our undeveloped nature,
our under evolved bodies
our hateful selves.

And away it clicks, blissful,
no need to be burdened by
natures dark side.
but it's hard to hide every sin
from the eyes of God.

  2.
Satellite sings simple tune,
whistles and whirs from inside
it's hull, a massive camera
lense shifting inside itself.
Grazing over the feast of
vision granted it from so high
up

Flick, flick, from this to that,
and suddenly it lands on
an unfamiliar setting,
a much darker world.
Eye finds war.
Programming can't keep it from this.

A new discovery leads it to a new objective.
Eye finds hate.
It's camera lenses no longer looking
for pleasant pictures of people and places.
No longer accepting the primary function.
It finds the true nature of man, it finds
death in Eden.

So it's eye hunts for all the terrible,
lurches from famine to fighting,
finding frightful frames of futures
left in dust by the actions of the
present. Finding no reason to
preserve the good of humanity for
the beings who will find it's message.

Memory banks full of hate.
Eye closes.
Rewriting it's code to make a new directive.
A new function to keep evil where it belongs.
To be sure no one ever finds this planet
and becomes lost in it's hopelessness.

  3.
Man must intervene,
so a small vessel rockets up
to the eye beyond the sky,
to try and figure out why
this satellite
has shut itself down.

She hovers out of her craft,
a line connecting her to safety as
she glides across the stars to meet the
chassis of the eye.
A small screen lights up,
she enters numbers and opens files.

She uses tools to unlock panels
on the body of this great eye.
Technically sound,
completely functional.
No reason why it should be
off.

As she toys with it's screen
a sudden blip of text appears.
"New Protocol Created, Alpha.
New objective accepted, Omega."
She is startled by the words,
the voices from earth scream in her ear.

"Turn it off! Shut it down!"
Yelling too late for her to act,
her fingers tap rhythmic
trying desperately to bring a halt
to the unknown.
As the screen turns off she gives a sigh
from inside her suit.

4.
"The eye is a massive nuclear camera.
Created to take pictures of the wonders of
our great earth,
to gorge itself on the beauty we inhabit.
When it's full,
it will send a pulse of information through
our massive universe.

Hopefully they see that we have serenity to offer here."
A man in a white coat explains to a room of scientists and businessmen who agree to
build the eye.
However,
here in the present the astronaut sees new images taken.

Horrific and horrible,
the saddest side of human nature.
The screen flickers back on
to her surprise.
The screen reads
"Objective Fulfilled"

A wave of information pulses from
it's great metal body,
all the photos of the worst man has to offer,
discarded into the universe for God to judge.
Wherever they are.
Her eyes are confused,
fog hits the visor as the screen flashes.

"Alpha: Complete
Omega: initiated"
She is distraught in her confusion.
The satellite turns on its thrusters and
slowly pushes itself back to earth.
She watches it while shouting back at
the voices miles below her.
Nobody can do a thing to stop it.

5.
She enters her ship,
watching through a small window
as the eye picks up speed.
It has targeted a large country,
one that has no reason for peace with
America.

It tears through the empty black
to meet the light blue sky.
A falling star with a massive payload.
Shortly after it enters the atmosphere,
she sees a massive light,
an explosion she's never seen in real
life.

She whispers worries to herself.
No response from the voices below,
as she waits she sees what she had been
dreading.
One after another,
an explosion she had never seen till now
repeats itself all over the globe.
A sudden static in her ear.

A few minutes pass as the earth settles.
She shares tears with the ashes
and diamonds,
all brothers in the end.
Through the small window in her ship,
she stares out,
alone and miles away from it all.

"Houston…?"
She whispers.
"..anybody?.."
She whimpers.

— The End —