"plantations" poems
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.
Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.
A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations
Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?
In Mexico city
they were preparing to take Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return
In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
I see the beauty in a palm‑sized tomato
growing afloat on Inle Lake—
the one-legged fisherman
silhouetted, perilous
against his wooden boat,
against the slow-setting sun.
Thin echoes of beauty linger:
hundred-year ruins, temples, stupas
standing with pride,
The culture of longyi
worn with quiet delight.
I took the train that loops
through buildings, markets, houses, plantations—
a city, a country
shadowed by a darkness
yet to reckon with its genocide.
The cries rise, unacknowledged.
“Mingalaba,” says a Burmese lady,
her face painted with thanaka,
the ground bark a pale mask
in the sun’s scorching glare.
She sits near Dyamayanggi Temple,
a basket of snacks at her side,
offering them with a smile.
Joy comes chasing the sunset
in the land of a thousand pagodas.
A mystical climb,
a striking landscape.
I breathe, feel, wish to stay longer,
soaked in twilight.
For a fleeting moment,
with eyes closed,
I drown in the colours
of the golden sky.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
they are soldiers fighting a war
across the ocean,
but their hearts are at home
seeking love and devotion.
love from our country,
devotion from their family.
that is all that they need.
they joined the military to
fight for what they believe
to defend from foes, seen and unseen
in their hearts we are the greatest nation
from the farmlands to the greatest plantations.
it does not matter if they're black or white
they will never give up freedoms fight.
we have people here from every nation
fighting for americas salvation
women have been the backbone in every war
death they've seen by the score.
the plains indian women who fought
alongside their men
it became a common trend.
joan of arc- who lifted the seige
in only nine days
the greatest role a woman could portray.
the uniform does not necessarilly
make her a soldier, but her heart
and strength that make her bolder.
bold enough to cover your back
and pick up all the slack
she will always be there in command
and pick up the rifle from the sand
she will do whatever she must
for in her you put your trust.
she is the female soldier, she stood her ground
of that we should all be proud.
give credit where credit is due
this is what i say to you.
louis rams :
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
mean beam bottom ***** without reluctance.
\\ air above \\
since forever baby boy: since forever liquid sparkler.
he has sense
& peanut butter jelly geography to his page.
his romance is of the west.
his eyes are of dandelions kicked & to the wind.
he moves like ancient turtle migration.
reaches feet to sidewalk \\ sand to depths \\ ride \\
night:
velcro-tightened mind withstanding.
party lights, ***** willows, retro punch, he
is orpheus descending: with all the elements positioned just so.
\\ jellyfish electric \\
he says he likes the loneliness.
he says it’s the water.
& so he moves \\ wills himself into the next measure.
liquid resolute bits.
so move \\ orca \\
curl of eye \\ so ride \\ black rollo wave \\
basilica \\ & \\
coral reaches below \\\\\
he likes to tell it, with warmed exaggeration.
slow-motion buffalo stampede. ride the railroads free & easy.
orange glowing bars of elsewhere. oscillating seal calls.
oily portland hipsters howling on the beach. those
juno cheeked rosy-red lips.
somewhere, sister getting married.
spring, summer, fall, winter, spring.
africa girl on a branch of a tree of a forest, overlooking elephant burial grounds.
color & white material:
plantations, gas stations, diners, & sharks.
this is the morning lunar \\
sweet blue beach of the old & awakening.
he crawls out & into her breaks.
her deep heights & bombora reef. the serotonin
functions twice, exposed between thin tissues of warm-blooded neurochemistry.
human, shown.
he is as a raw page, blank, yet
dipped \\
\\ so ride \\ bulbous waves of air mother agua \\
ride \\ &
\\ ride \\ &
brew by light these occurrences forever.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Are acceptance and approval synonymous terms? It is important that we give adequate definition to that which blocks our winding garden path, where foxgloves, lupins and a multitude of botanical dreams can blossom into a gorgeous array of ****** captivation.
If we embrace that which is repugnant, then possibility may not be confined to the cradling arms of the mistress of death.
So, my judgmental and moralistic companion from the sands of Jupiter – if your daughter is a raunchy stripper, then keep your expectations on the leash and preserve your anthropological connectedness, otherwise you may veer into prickly thorns of certain detriment and thereby lose her attachments.
It is incumbent upon us to nourish those fragrant plantations with a careful approach, so that beautiful reproductions will abound in a bouquet of resolution.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
5.2k
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
One Sunday while sitting behind a young lady in church, Robert Burns noticed a louse roaming through the bows and ribbons of her bonnet. The poem "To a Louse" resulted from his observations. The poor woman had no idea that she would be the subject of one of Burns' best poems about how we see ourselves, compared to how other people see us at our worst moments. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, louse, church, bonnet, lace, Scotland, Scots, dialect, translation
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 5:26 AM UTC
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET AT CHURCH
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!
*** somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi’ ither kindred, jumpin cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn or bane ne’er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud ye there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug an’ tight;
Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right
Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ grey as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie ye sic a hearty dose o’t,
*** dress your droddum!
I *** na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On’s wyliecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi!—fie!
How daur ye do’t?
O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O, *** some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It *** frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait *** lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!
3.6k
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Haitian style independence
no more whiteness at all
type independence
playing three rhythms at once
independence
blackness take over the entire
American sports and political world
independence
Went south to join the Seminoles
fight against the colonists
killer abolitionists
dangerous and feared
independence
economic
the beginning of the union
no more free labor
regulate that
government
paper bag 40 acres
and we are not ******* mules
independence
organized black militants killing
burning plantations of whiteness
yearning independence
captivating white audiences
nationwide
scurrying to the legal system
to constrict the laws
make more weapons
make more conflict
make it more dangerous to be black
independence
You will never find us again
whiteness
that independence
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Plastic plates bowls and cups
loaded on recycling trucks.
You've had your party thrown it away,
Less to wash up at the end of the day.
But few fall out they blow in winds,
Escape the grasp of the recycling bin.
Not all bags are renewable plastic,
Less strong now not so fantastic.
So write a note for a new tote,
Handles far stronger less likely broke.
It's not our problem it's goods we buy,
There wrapped and packaged to the shoppers eye.
But when the seas are less serene
Choked on plastics and polystyrene.
Death tolls rise numbers of sea life plummet,
Dont ya think its time we do summit?
To a turtle or whale a tasty dish,
To dine upon the jellyfish.
Not a bag for life that passes by,
That binds them to starvation before they die.
So the seas bob in colour of plastic pollution.
Times running out what to be a solution?
Its high time we started a clean up revolution!
To use less packaging to educate all.
Before the tides continue to rise and we loose them all.
The ice caps are melting at an alarming rate,
How long before for all it's too late.
Eco systems absorb UV,
cool the world for nature to be.
Polar life need ice to remain,
In cooler climates to sustain.
But as they melt and tides continue to rise,
Am losing hope for their demise.
Leave the jungles and forrests for self restoration,
Less fossil fuels and deforestation.
The trees keep falling from constant felling,
With palm oil growing; plantations swelling.
Our orange ancestors the orangutan,
Has been their homes since the jungles began.
To break life cycles whole eco systems,
It's time to change the world with our wit and wisdom.
Else what do we leave to the future generations,
Man on earth just viral abominations.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
There is serenity within its self-stimulating prowess, as a legion of testimony sways in the easterly winds of dendrological plantations. Can you feel the power of the banshee as her Irish spirit cries in the face of certain death? The herald of Caoin is a lamentation for your long and pale hair.
Oh relentless gestations of hatred, I appeal to your haunting foreplay.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones ; come and buy.
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer : There,
Where my Julia’s lips do smile ;
There’s the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
2.4k
its tha return of tha gangsta thanks to ya
too many blacks out here livin' they life in fear
families seeing tears problems tier
blurry visions make it hard to see clear my dear
cant get through the atmosphere
feel me it's the return of the gangsta I'd like to thank ya
Malcolm for giving me the principles and reaching a few people's
opening minds to grinds and you'll find
me chilling on the corner puffing marijuana yep I'm a gonna
in society outlaw outcast put my thoughts on blast
techs is humming cuz I smell war coming armies drumming
po folks crying innocent victims dying
for no apparent reasons caught in daily treasons which gives me a reasons to put an end to Americas sin but too many folks stuck in
a fantAsy called reality in actuality
they plotting our burials G
troops overseas findings empty caves so the government can make saves war profiteers racketeering gangsters hustlers
exposing lies don't be a busta like a Douglass no diamonds in my cutlass couldn't move so I had cut less people out of my circle I'm nerdy as urkel yea my intellect carefully selects
what's real from reality I envision myself as well as my enemies in a fatality so battling me I was made for war built off the backs of my ancestors sore yea white house was built by the slaves for white supremacy kind of irony they sayin' my folks was lazy?
worked up from Sun up to Sun down
I can't believe my folks walking with they heads towards the grounds
how bout we get mad and let off gun sounds pound for pound
you know they can't hang with us
that's why they had to make laws against us
scared of rise and corruptions ain't a surprise through the eyes
of real people who realize pain ain't a substitution for happiness bliss
I guess I was sunkissed
by wisdom mouth open hail Mary entered me and told me
we all family eyes lit no **** no fit nothing
but a glowing brain exemption of fame down goes my name
in the book of life made wisdom my wife
she took my arm she's my charm
as I glance at the souls gunned down on plantations farms gangsta....
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
Another day breaks
As the rising amber sun
Like a tireless watcher
Casts its rays down
The narrow slits of the thatched
Roofs of the village huts.
In the streets, playing
Hide and seek, small kids
Disappear into winding alleys.
Weaving hearts, young girls
In flower shops adorn
The soft petals of the Jasmine
Picked from the nearby fields,
While young boys arrange the
Ripe, freshly picked coconuts on
The fruit vendors’ mats, as
The shop doors open to the
Din of the morning rush hour,
Above their heads, the freshly washed,
Laundry is hung out to dry
On the balconies overlooking
The curving dirt road where
A bullock cart slowly crosses
The wet rice plantations
To the other side as
A distant factory alarms
The start of the new day
In the villages of Lampang
© 2004 - Pres Hello-Poetry.com - All Rights Reserved
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:56 AM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
The encapsulating power of silence is a beckoning wonder of the universe, as we abandon our awareness and travail toward psychedelic oblivion.
Although Neolithic tendencies have shaped our foreign fields of hybrid plantations at the expense of organic exuberance, it is wise that we listen to the concerts at dawn and dusk as they echo from the depths of the woodlands.
In our unwitting state of being, owls often grace us with their ghostly presence.
This sullen atmosphere is so damp with the juices of forgotten dreams, and we are not yet shrouded by the mysteries of such treacherous slumbers and defensive immobilisations.
Look at the patterns upon the rock of the Badlands where geological delicacies are too difficult to masticate.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Hallucinations in life"s desert accompanied with my unquenchable thirst
Lacerations fade to scars to prove luck"s point that it wasn"t near the worst
Temptations conspire with times inevitable push as we all learn we"re cursed
Plantations wear us down as we are all slaves until our souls have traversed
Fascinations are shared before we hitch a ride on the grim reaper"s dark hurst
Elations are defiled like a child"s smile transformed after the last bubble"s burst
Cremations are compiled as ashes drift away off cliffs and are forever dispersed
Vibrations guide us through the universe so please join me as we dive head first
Take my hand my friend and lets go be free
No need to worry about having any eyes to see
trust me as our souls dance in the wandering sea
And accompany me through this glorious eternity
We are Universally linked paralleled to every degree
Soul searching for the destination that they call journey
Brave souls are blessed with this human shell as a test
A life materially possessed leads to a lonely empty nest
So don't waste time depressed on this short epic quest
You"ll forget all the rest when our souls have coalesced
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
This dot kami’s ‘Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
I’m diggin’ up dirt on the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds
Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the slEASIEST Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward
Here’s my golden shower tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cacres
Still stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
Squelch into the deepest puddles where sadness echoes her silent heart across physiological plateaus of numbness.
Can I have permission to permeate your being whilst plantations convey their sorceries beyond seeming sophistication?
We must interact beyond the realms of that which is anticipated.
I am sincerely grateful for those broken hemispheres of discrimination,
because we are lost within the parameters of being found.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC