"proceedings" poems
a september bride her hollow sounds
fearfully echo on the leaf strewn trail
with intonations of a blushing bride to be
she makes a graceful vision
obscured only by her hamfisted collection
of undesirable father figures
who stand round the groom and brow beat
him with dire dreams
but his eyes are for her alone and
the tigers of her sensual rainforest
"lions, tigers and bears...oh my!" she whispers
into his eager ear with a sardonic grin
her hollow sounds both haunting and beautiful
they will stay with me as a soulsong
long after history has devoured her
namesake and words
a quick poet of the three line shoot from the hip haiku
pink glossy eyes all damp with remembered tears
she is the quintessential september bride
the long summer nights swayed her
the longer cold winter may undo her
but it is a girlhood dream that
she knits with papier-mâché knights and
bubblegum queens
she waits for me there
to officiate the proceedings
with a bottle of red wine and single red rose
wrapped in the tender notions of
loves sweetest kiss
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Crazy passion fast deep soul kiss warnings word breathe reckless love devastated desk art struggle pinstripe attempts drunk ghost lost wind beauty hunger soul smile elegance latte knowing containment bond ink shallow identity measure chaos stumbling darling life dance frenzy sweat hole paper haunted only dreams ****** vandalized scars Achilles proceedings bare deep still pain inside lied courts darkness wind step empty rocky soul whisper eyes alone wrapped inside Athens love smile abuse truth lies time mind bungalow knowing liar violated Pandora’s entanglement flashbacks ****** self-preservation private suit weakness baklava hide lips ******* played deserve hold earth destruction haunted coffin judgment dreams hands eternity sleep sunset lips hidden kissed desire champagne stars taint lovers fallen what **** PR glistening intense echoes seeing taste depth care finally beach rolling salt binding heat lost quietly resumed park come believe myself arms world you skin love stranger now
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Now you realize what you did,
you took it too far,
this time it was to deep,
to raw,
now its going to be hard for us both.
I asked for your help
' Its never ending, I again want to die.
Please tell me why?
Be my Soul Mate now just talk to me
help me find my life again.
Not with you, just my life. '
I couldn't get your abuse out of my system
you repeated
"You need to do the leaving"
"Let's die rather then not be together"
I said
"Only with You".
The ongoing flashbacks
of pressurizing
demanding
me to do what you wanted
heightened in Athens.
Questioning all that happened
what did it mean
just
******* my soul and body
So abused
I couldn't disentangle from it
So violated
And you continued it
with your talk and talk.
Your lies of reflection and regret
Your abuse of my love and belief
Then my desperate wish was granted
You made contact via a third party
On reflection
to address the end, to answer my questions,
to give us some meaning, to help us move on with our lives
you cared about my life, to be honest.
the day, the place, the time, the third party all set
then you renegade last minute, no explanation, once again shut me out
without a thought for my life, you willful behavior, ongoing abuse.
So finally now I know you are a pathological liar.
I don't give a **** about you anymore.
Its like I have woken from a nightmare
I have no more energy for you
I am not afraid of the fall out of exposing you
I will no longer protect the secret.
The legal proceedings will tell the truth
And you will have to face your demons.
I will move on with my life
which is so much bigger than yours.
I will fight on to free myself from
your abuse.
My life no longer tenuous.
This is the end of my series of poems - love and deception.
The courts will be my voice.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
That tapestry,
Red, Black, Gold
A Celtic Circle--
silently bearing witness
to the proceedings
of that smoky room:
The aquariums--one with
the large eel who seemed
to barely fit the tank
that took up half the wall;
and the smaller, vibrantly
colored fish in the
aquarium with the eggshell
colored coral.
The remixed music played
at a comfortable volume,
by the DJ we knew
so well, together;
as many times
it hardly seemed like
he was working at all,
as he just sat down and
talked to us, for hours.
Looking through
those over-sized books of
old advertisements,
and explanations of
historical artwork;
discussing the contents
with strangers,
who became friends
in the process.
Smoke billowed, enveloping
the atmosphere and filling it
with the smell of many spice
racks, pleasantly rolled in a
shell of a soft breeze
flowing from the oscillating fan.
The smell of joy,
of a relaxed sense of mutual
understanding; that it was okay
not to say a word, because the
atmosphere did the talking
for us.
We just enjoyed sitting
on those red pleather couches
that your **** sank back into,
not allowing my feet to touch
the floor; so they often just
dangled, legs swinging
to the tempo of the music.
As I took a hit
of the hookah,
I manipulated the smoke
into O's, puckering
my lips, trying not
to laugh as you
gazed at me in a
shy sense of wonder.
That face always made you
want to kiss me.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
He was always a quiet man,
never seemed to look up...
as if his eyes were afraid of
what it might mean to
see the sky
His gaze seemed neither
fierce, nor soft.
Neither attentive or lost
He would never look at you,
it was as if he was looking everywhere
except where you happened to be.
I never saw a smile cross his lips
I never heard a laugh escape his lungs
I never heard him curse
I never heard him yell
When he spoke, I could hear the dust
falling off his breath
It wasn't a monotone sound, but I imagine
he sounded like what trees or mountains
would sound like, had they voices.
He existed in the loosest sense of the word
He was an oddity and an enigma
His quietness and unobtrusiveness
could be somewhat offputting
Yet...he was often able to blend into
the background like a rain drop
in a storm.
You can imagine our surprise
when he stumbled into town one
hot afternoon, clothes looking like
he'd fallen into a vat of red paint.
Splattered. Head to toe.
In between his head and his toes,
cradled in his arms, was the
body of a young girl
He had found her in the woods,
he had said, voice devoid of emotion.
She had been lying off the path,
in a pool of crimson.
An investigation turned up nothing
The people, in need of a murderer,
settled on the only man they could.
The man who hadn't shed even one tear
over the death of a young child
The trial was a farce
The kangaroo court adjourned
Death by hanging
The man remained silent throughout
the proceedings. Quietly answering
the frothing prosecutor's questions
with the same demeanor as someone
would use when discussing the weather
He wasn't defensive
He wasn't derisive
He didn't plead, nor pray
when the verdict was announced
On the day of the execution
nearly everyone in town was in attendance
Most of them couldn't tell you why
The noose around his neck, he stared
back at the crowd. Stared through them,
as if they didn't exist.
When the rope snapped taut,
The man flailed as his body
involuntarily spasm'd.
When he finally passed,
his body swinging lazily
under the gallows,
I caught the hint
of a smile
Only for a moment.
I found it odd
That he would only show
a sign of life
as it was ending
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use
bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!
The Christ on the cross
is very old
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven
and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too
and all the people
will suddenly feel their age
wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people
I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.
Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!
It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.
I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.
After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.
And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.
Margaret Ann Waddicor
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits
Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks
You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self
Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly
Absorb information like paranoia
The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana
How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence
It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done.
The length of a breadbasket will often determine
the size of the loaf
The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade
The worst kind...worse than the worst
This document is not intended for distribution
during the lifetime of the author
Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for
the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes
The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense
have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction
Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor
As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder
The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings
Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia
The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in
Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in
That, my friend, is the beginning from the end
That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road
I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion
Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out
Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring
The nonsense is at this present moment complete
Ready to serve, ready to eat
and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Do you go to service. why?
Maybe someone drags you in for your salvation or some such.
What do you believe. I have long released that process as a constant.
Like anything else on this plane. somebody gotta lose for someone else to gain.
Yes that is a bit wooden.
A bit cynical.
Do you feel the spirit as you enter.
What does that feel like and do you agree with all you hear and see.
What do you believe.Is the person up there speaking to you?
Do you take it all in.Or are you sight seeing. I do.
The backs of peoples heads are like monoliths.
Their faces are like masks. Not all but most.
Doubting Thomas in the pews.
The casket sits on display. It beckons and forbids.
The slow procession to absolution.
The occupant sleeps peacefully.
A shell.
Heaven or Hell.
The solemn drone. The Joyous noise.
The shrill and sweaty face of Fire and brimstone.
The call and response.
The well oiled ,stiff proceedings.
what do you believe.
Maybe you draw the lottery on Saturday
The Lord is our Sheppard. We shall not want.
Blasphemy you say.
No I am a believer.
I believe that we are.
For now and a wisp forever after.
A daunting prospect. But who knows. Faith.
The pews have been the uprising and the downfalling of many
Freedom or indoctrination
Left to our own devices. Hell's door agape.
a fertile mind, weak and troubled will gently lite on the word
then draw sustenance
for good
For ill.
The gates that lead to destruction are wide
and broad is the way.
The pews are narrow and finite.You will find me there
from time to time.
.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
The priest performed
a simple solemn service
for the internment
of your ashes.
Your close family
were there
by the graveside;
the small dug hole,
the sacred plot,
the green carpet.
Your sister brought
your wooden casket,
carrying you
for the last time.
Your nephews and nieces
cried as did we all
inside or out.
I guess you were there,
my son, in spirit
looking on, taking in
the whole service
from start to end;
the flowers;
the wooden casket
with your name on top;
watching your brother
place it carefully
in its resting place;
ashes to ashes,
the priest said,
but the soul lives on,
his words meaningful
in the afternoon warmth,
the sun lazily there;
bird song;
you listening,
my son, nearby,
silent as you
usually were,
eyeing the proceedings,
sensing our loss
and ache
at your departure
in a ****** sense;
but you are
here and there
in spirit
as our recompense.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
she was a desperado's tale waiting to be told
she had it nailed down to the cold hand drop dead eye
she swaggers into the song
with a loud preamble that she will brook no delay
in the proceedings
the fat man just laughed and broke into another barrel
wine soaking his paris hewn three piece suit
with jewels encrusted by the professional eye
her drunken violin sweeps you along the winding road
of the heroes return
sends you crashing through the pearly gate
and walks you through the dancing beggars
their rags a fine linen
their riches a feast of a frenchmans table
and the sweetest and darkest of wines
her drunkards song weaves in and out of your conscience
with her theft of jewels too many to count
with her rescue of babes defenceless in the wood
she makes her rough love a lullabye
she makes her hard bent hand a soft caress
she is a feast to the starving mans eye
by the final hours of night
the fat man was laughing his way through
the very last barrel of wine
his soaked suit no longer such fine thread
his poorman eye no long longer filled with such easy mirth
he knows she will come collect her due
at the end of her song
the henchmen of karma are approaching with the
steady thud of steel shod boot on the cobblestone
and the fat mans laugh slowly dies in a puddle of
regrets and well wishers sorrows
her song was over and it was time to pay the piper
he tries to run
but as we all know
you cant outrun yourself
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
Sardonically, lightly, he trips around the argument from last night
The night-time affair-morning despair
Whiskey and gin, liquor scented promises
Still droop over the dawn's proceedings
No wonder he waned quick and rose slow last night
His instincts took form, primal release
Inhibitions lulled by the dull lust quenched senses
Now all come back to the brim
And resurface with surmounting terror in the peak of morning
What might have been found ,
In the quiet moments, between the pauses, sighs and naked glances
Has already been lost
No words escape his,
Or hers-
Save for a kiss
Once drenched with wet lust
That now gathers rust;
Hangs in the heavy silence of their confession
Where none of them utter a word,
Yet the verdict rules:
both guilty.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
. .
)
•
(
^~^~^~^
YE read a love poem here and YE think
This poem could not possibly
Have been written by a woman !
( though thus it is made to seem )
•
The IMAGE produced is usually one
Of a SATANIC RITUAL
Like in the movies
EYES WIDE SHUT
or
THE STORY OF O
Of a debased and humiliated woman
( though she is made to seem PROUD of the role ---
--- as in our love poems )
In some MALE DOMINATED SATANIC
State of helplessness
Naked
Chains attached to her completely exposed
Shaved and man handled ******
Being dragged around as a *** slave
Thru the flames of hell
With everyone gazing on
( as we readers do ! )
In solemn and religious poses
of profound respect
For the proceedings ! )
///
WHY DO THE POEMS PRODUCE THESE IMAGES ?
//
Well
They almost always depict a " naked " exposure
Of a woman's sexuality
( as if that picture is all a woman is ! )
Crying out in some way
To a nameless and undescribed
MALE DOMINANT FORCE
( SATAN )
or /// as desguised in the poem , an almighty
( YOU ! )
To whom the woman is seen to be
TOTALLY DEPENDANT on !
::
Crying out so pathetically
For
A text !
A visit !
A touch !
To produce for her
SAFETY !
OBSCURITY !
( it's just US and no one else ! )
A MEANING !
( as if she can't create one herself ! -- poor baby ! !
BUT (?)
MAYBE (?)
OH (!)
HE ... !
IS HERE !
( thank god for him
Thank him for god ! )
//
/:/
What you see in your mind
Is the emergence of a picture
Of a
Pathetic loathsome wretch
( coming closer and closer !!
Clearer and clearer !! )
Surrounded by flames
::
Screaming
I LOVE .... YOU ! --- nameless Satanic Power )
BELIEVE ME !
( religious words ! )
HELPLESS !
DRUGGED !
CRYING !!
***** !
( thinking
Only the next **** will ease the pain of this one ! )
""
The image approaches
Explodes into BLOOD
And ends in SUICIDAL DEATH !
..
Such a picture !
Such a Vision !
over and over and over again !
/..:
And on // HOT ONES
you might read
10 or 15 of them in a row !!
100's and 1000 's of likes
....
THIS IS HOW WE LIKE TO SEE WOMEN !!!!
( and no woman complains !!! )
..
So who is writing these poems
( WE KNOW ONLY PERVS LIKE READING THEM )
//
The only possible answer is
SATAN HIMSELF
come to debase and humiliate the SANCTITY
OF WOMAN
and hence
THE SANCTITY OF CHILDBIRTH
and hence
THE SANCTITY OF HUMANITY
and ultimately
THE SANCTITY OF GOD
;;
and we
The BROTHERHOOD AND SISTERHOOD
OF POETS .......... (?)
...
We LOVE it !!
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I went to a funeral and lied
I went to a funeral and lied
In junk and drink, no grief,
Just cowardice and pride.
Fear of losing you by my side
Losing you to the other side.
Fear that shook with the gloved murderer's hide
I went to my funeral and shied
I didn't want to sleep or hide
I just held your bloodless, jaundiced face
I couldn't help but feel a fake
As two sets of opache eyes
Did not pass a tear and cry.
Just the shivering hands that stopped your last sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
I drank and stood in black and could not cry,
I strung words and made some ineloquent speech
Loved and held but held love out of reach
Spoke in riddles, played hide and seek
With a congregation of perjured freaks.
I laughed at their blindness where my guilt sits.
Last night in our death bed where I slept
Dry-eyed like your cataract eyes
Dumb mouth fish gape
In the old flat, my eyes, dry, dry eyes.
I didn't hear the trains last night
I couldn't hear grief's knock at all
There was no knock,
There was no wake or ball, just
Your bloodless gape and jaundice face
Shining yellow plumbed and spent
****** leech-mouthed, dumb,
Your cataract eyes,
Under clumsy-ashed mascara lids
A shy pass in some gothic flick
A tetany spasm, no shock or awe.
You looked up at me and saw nothing at all.
I share some dead shark surprise;
Opache, tearless rolled-up eyes
And I lay gibbering at your side
And laughed and hated your passion and cries
King over requiem and bride
Healer, dealer, hood and pride
Addicting storm and flushed aside.
I scraped blood off your chessboard marble floors
Wiped the evidence from cold-polished claws
I burned effigies of pagan-hates
Hoodwinked the sentimental double agent spooks
And threw scent off my mistress as a ******* clown.
This morning I went to a funeral and lied
I could not spill one tear from these witness eyes
That watched the hands suffocate your traumatic sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
Conducted proceedings with the murdering hands’ whys
I wanted the last of you, my bride.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Under the sun kissed moonlight
Which dapples the streets below,
A man leaves his life time employment
To go forth to his new temporary job.
Along the streets he lurked,
Like a thief in the night
Walking not by faith,
But instead by his sight.
Across the city 9 hours before dawn
He evades any face time
To avoid any wasted time
For he cannot be late,
Not on this date.
Under coincidental circumstances
He found this new job,
Around a few drinks,
A clever little minx.
Illumination by the queen of the night
Stolen by the king of the day,
Breathing life into this forbidden foray
A pillaging of the heart.
At the doors of his temporary career
Intentions in his mind much too clear.
Reaching inside the institution
Risking himself with no safety of income.
Into the office he put himself,
His presence made known
More than qualified
For his personal assistance.
The moon stares within the confines
Of this deep, seedy establishment.
Shining light on the dark proceedings
Which are about to proceed into the night.
Ready to work for his promotion,
Changing into his work attire,
Takes his seat in the workplace,
Planning to come second in this work race.
Forgetting his full time employers face
Moonlighting,
Under the moon light.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Feeling extra nervous, when my phone battery hits
forty-four. Feeling low at the half points of my soul,
Train of thoughts burning all of the last coals. Fossil fuels,
going into being extinct. Less than active when I take so
long to blink. So over a thought, but only after I over think.
Did I set that alarm, the daily one I always check before bed.
“I hope tomorrow I don’t wake up dead,“ hasn’t that phrase
been over said? Who really cares, and why do the corner eyes
of stranger’s have such awkward stares? Glares of my glaring
insecurities, usually when I’m treating my flaws with such cruelty.
Disciplinary, proceedings brought forth to the circles of self
beatings on my every worth. Could never describe myself with
just a single word. I’m bent over myself on a road of life, with
the longest curve.
Where am I heading, when it feels like seven seconds close to
Heaven. All the blessings in a straw nest of Christians still
nestling. Going against the world, and t.v. screen’s weaponry.
_Bang, bang, boom!_ We cares about doom, just take it as nothing,
and quickly move.
Onto the very next thing, and trend. Do what the t.v. says,
playing the longest game of Simon says. Like wrestling bears.
That’s a very short fight of pulling hairs. Ha! Being bold to being
bald.
There I go again over thinking ahead of my next thought.
Butterfly fishing, for the wings of a wet slippery effect, I soon
never caught.
By the way, my phone is at forty-one. Rushing to put it on
charge all night for morning’s fun. It wasn’t charging at all.
Well, don’t I feel so dumb.
Sigh! The one time I didn’t choose to over think. Now I don’t
have the device to quickly dot down how I feel.
Being an over thinker is so real.
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 1:10 AM UTC
Fear of the next day
Content at the thought of being inside
The world and the people you know
May be there but do they care
Really care and pass their day in the
Mirror of your life
Hankering after a peaceful finale
A strange edifice of warming thoughts
Surrounding my heart and my simple body
Do not keep a vigil on me
Don't pretend you care
When you quite simply aren't even
In the wreck of the days proceedings
I cannot tell you the things you need to hear
My voice is silent as the moon
I feel sorry for you but then
You feel the same way for yourslf
Isn't that how it gets when time
Just ticks away at the clockface of immobility
My love is still here as ever it was
I always think poor man
I can't justify this message as it manifests
A lump within my throat and I can hear
My heart beating out an untimely rhythm
Afraid of the future, don't be
Your resolve is impressive
Continue your day to day survival
You will surprise yourself as weeks
turn into months then years
There is a life, just believe it
For each must bear the hard cross of lost
Passion and of pleasant encounters
It seems that these count for nothing in the
Short term of soul searching and nostalgia
Nothing is now beyond you
Your best period may be just about to arrive.
For my friend Ken
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
The proceedings are a circus
Justice is a joke
The jury's out deliberating
On whether they should take another ****
Cameras in the courtroom
So we can watch the lawyers lie
Toss up between them and the defendant
On who commits the bigger crime
Media in a frenzy
Toss a line into the public pool
The uninformed bite at the hook
Where both fact and fiction plays the fool
Black robe takes up the seat of judgment
To hear of all the indiscretions
Disorder in the courtroom
Where the unbelievable is now in session
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
A genesis, the exodus, the exodus,
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abbatoir of our souls, it entrenches us
Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthiginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways
S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
Whenever you feel all alone and unwanted
Emotions are running, they leave you more daunted
Just let me come closer and make you feel better
Who knows who you want to be when we’re together
Who knows what tomorrow might deem us deserving
You might not endure this whole self (not) preserving
I won’t let tomorrow keep wasting your fine art
While I know there’s something that’s wrong with your glass heart
The heart moves in rhythms you can’t comprehend; yet
Your eyes let me know it’s not up for discernment
Just let me make sense of the mess in your head and
We’ll thrive in our solitude; blissful and golden
Let’s leave before sunrise comes prancing on over
Before you might change your firm will to recover
Come let us be gone before twilight’s proceedings
It’s quite hard to see what a fear you've been fleeing
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
Court has commenced
Everyone is in court and the Jury is all set to begin
Grandmas Lawyer’s is ready
Santa is representing himself holding steady
The Judge has entered the court and the proceedings give begin in the gravel
Grandma is on the witness stand and sworn in
The Prosecutor asked Grandma to identify Santa in the room, and she points on the right
Grandma gives her testimony on what happened on the day in question
I had Egg Nog with a touch of Alcohol for the Winter cold for warmth before going out
Grandma explained as she walking, she was caught by surprise and run over by Santa’s Reindeers and Sleigh
The Prosecutor then responds to Grandma that she wasn’t alert in her right mind
Grandma’s Lawyer responds with an outburst bullying the witness
Judge responds with over ruled
The Prosecutor asks Grandma, Did you hear any jingle or bells in warning?
Grandma abruptly responded with NO
The Prosecutor then responds with, Grandma, I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, “You said you had Egg Nog with Alcohol to keep warm
If you were drinking that meant you were probably unstable
Where were you going?
Grandma stated, I was going to the store to pick up food and Soda’s for the Family get together on Christmas
The Prosecutor reminded that there were no witnesses and just you in the circumstance
You wasn’t sober, have no idea into whether you were run over by Santa’s Reindeers or a car
The Hospital records indicate that you were in fact intoxicated
There is no evidence that proves Santa and his Reindeer are at fault
It is now Santa’s turn to question Grandma
Do you have any personal feelings against Santa?
Grandma abruptly suggested, NO
Your remarks seem to state, that you are the one in question
Intoxication
Santa stated, I don’t drink, and always remain sober at all times
The shoe now is on the other foot
The Judge asks the Jury to deliberate their verdict
The Jury made their verdict as Santa and his Reindeers are innocent
There was no doubt because of strong evidence
Grandma needs to understand to be sob er and alert when going out
At the moment, appraisal from everyone in the court, but of course, Grandma was upset with the verdict
Grandma has a Drinking bout
Santa was cleared of all charges
Judge’s Gravel
Court Adjoined
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 11:38 AM UTC
Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.
Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Letter 'C'
Letter 'S'; compress.
Wrap it to the left side,
Now to the right.
Fibres sooth my skin,
Rough ****** against integument.
Take it from below me,
Kick it away.
My neck and jaw hold me;
Rapturous, my head is high.
6,000 Newtrons force elongated time.
Ancestry is blocked,
Origin destroyed.
Only twenty minutes,
Trachea gripped, cervical vertebrae;
I'm not kneeling.
Convulvulus arvensis
My roots are deep, hard to suppress.
Attenuated and twisted,
Sheathed around others;
Proceed to ween suoport.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC