"prosecution" poems
She feared execution.
She feared prosecution.
She feared empty coffer.
She feared uncertain future.
She feared darkness.
She feared loneliness.
She feared room and window.
She feared her shadow.
She feared her bed.
Fear was inside her head.
If only she had feared one.
She would have feared none.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Psychedelic Rose
Hallucinogenic eugenics
False beauty
Portrayed poorly
Because it’s unreal
Yet
The feelings pursue me
Persecution
Prosecution
Against this prostitution of emotions
I sell myself cheap
$20.00
The price for my soul
Sold
To the mass
Extinction of reality
Who’s to say this bouquet
Of roses
Can’t arise before
My death?
I decorate
The interior
To design a mind
That’s perfected
In the opinions
Of those who know
No better
Drama setter
Setting the décor
For the setting
Letting the encore
Bring life
In the form
Of more roses
Atrocious Notoriety
From unwanted fame
Or
A poor poet
Starving artist
Projected as a failure
In this motion picture
Called life.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says it’s the tone in your voice
sound of waves crashing against shore
he asks what tone are you referring to what are you hearing
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i’m an artist too you don’t have to tell me
sound of waves crashing against shore
he explains i was simply affirming my vocation in order to elucidate why i perceive another way
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says you don’t need to pose or differentiate for me you are so ******* self-absorbed
sound of waves crashing against shore
he answers self-conscious possibly not self-absorbed i think it is intelligent to question everything to suspect all we see think we know maybe a greater mystery than any of us realize exists beyond all our beliefs
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i think it’s time for us to stop talking
sound of waves crashing against shore
he says why can’t you make it easy why must everything be a fight
sound of waves crashing against shore
her ****** becomes a deep dark narrowing tunnel he is trapped in thinning air smells like ocean
sound of waves crashing against shore
her voice detached distant disaffected says fine
sound of waves crashing against shore
he questions fine? find? line? sign? can you hear me? anyone hear me?
sound of waves crashing against shore
she purposely ignores his panting gasping shrieking
sound of waves crashing against shore
later she tells the surgeon who performs the extraction then the police detectives who conduct the investigation she had no idea he was lost in there
sound of waves crashing against shore
unanimous jury finds her guilty she screams out at courtroom he was a self-absorbed dreamer this is all wrong
sound of waves crashing against shore
the judge declares mistrial dismisses case based on prosecution’s inability to refute so-called artist’s willingness to enter of his own volition
sound of waves crashing against shore
late at night she feels his voice whisper circulating through her body haunting her
sound of waves crashing against shore
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
What happened on Weehawken Heights,
that warm midsummer’s day?
There are several versions of the “truth”
but none for sure can say.
The Principals were both well known:
Hamilton and Burr.
Aaron Burr had made the challenge,
Hamilton would not demur.
Hamilton choose pistols as the weapons
Then Burr proposed the site.
Per the Irish Code Duello
It was all proper and right.
Dueling was illegal,
so the Seconds looked away
so they could plausibly deny
that they had seen the fray.
Each man walked off ten paces,
and Mister Pendleton yelled “Pre-sent”!
Most think that Hamilton fired first;
wide and right, his shot was spent.
Aaron Burr was deadly accurate:
His shot, its target found:
Alexander Hamilton, wounded,
swooned upon the ground.
“this wound is mortal, Doctor.”
was all Hamilton could say.
They bore him to the City where
he passed on the following day.
Aaron Burr also fled the scene,
evading prosecution.
He had “Full Satisfaction”,
this hero of the Revolution.
What is full satisfaction
when Burr’s Star was past its season?
He never more held public trust,
indeed, stood trial for treason.
A person can be haunted
by a ghost that none can see.
Burr’s brilliance had been blighted
by a sort of infamy.
Towards the end of his own life
Burr said of his enemy:
“{Had I known}The world was wide
enough for Hamilton and me.”
On July 11, 1804, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr fought the most famous duel in American history. These two heroes of the Revolution were political enemies and Hamilton had done much to exclude Burr from the Presidency and from the New York governorship. Burr,feeling he had been defamed by Hamilton's published remarks demanded the "Full Satisfaction" of a duel. My account generally follows the account of the historian, Joesph Ellis. Any errors are my fault. Any items in quotes are words ascribed to these two famous individuals. Aaron Burr never after held public office and eventually stood trial for treason for his alleged attempt to set up an independent country in the territory Jefferson purchased from France. After several years living in France, Burr returned to New york where he faded into obscurity. Alexander Hamilton is buried in the churchyard of Trinity Church in downtown New york.
Towards the end of his life, Burr remarked: "Had I read Sterne more and Voltaire less, I should have known the world was wide enough for Hamilton and me."[35]
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
Hallucinogenic eugenics
False beauty
Portrayed poorly
Because its unreal
Yet
The feelings pursue me
Persecution
Prosecution
Against this prostitution of emotions
I sell myself cheap
$15.00
Is the price for my soul
Sold
To the mass
Extinction of reality
Whose to say this bouquet
Of roses
Cant arise before
My death
I decorate
The interior
To design a mind
That’s perfected
In the opinions
Of those who know
No better
Drama setter
Setting the décor
For the setting
Letting the encore
Bring life
In the form
Of more roses
Atrocious Notoriety
From unwanted fame
Or
A poor poet
Starving artist
Projected as a failure
In this motion picture
Called life
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 6:08 PM UTC
**
A fast-track court in the capital city;
A Judiciary of a democratic Country;
Hearing the a gang-rape case,
reserved its order
on the quantum of
Punishment for the
four convicted in the
Gang-rape and ******
of a 23-year-old
innocent girl
A 237- page judgment,
Noting that that the
Crime was committed
in an extremely brutal manner.
“The major part of her intestine
was pulled out from the body,”
the Doctor said.
The prosecution has sought
the death penalty for the
four convicts, while the
Defense lawyers for the
Convicted are pleading
for a lenient verdict.
The arguments in the
gruesome gang-rape case
are over and sentencing
will be announced
at 2.30 pm on Friday,
13th September, 2013
"The sentence which is
very appropriate is nothing
short of death,"
special public prosecutor
told the court.
“The common man
will lose faith in the judiciary
if the harshest punishment
is not given “
the Judge remarked;
Guilty of ******
Gang ****
Unnatural ***
Criminal conspiracy,
destruction of evidence,
Kidnapping and attempting to ****
the eyewitness said
The fifth convict
Committed suicide
in Tihar Jail
in March this year
The sixth convict
was a juvenile at the time
of the incident and has been
given a three- year term
in a reformation home.
A fast-track court,
A Judiciary of a democratic
Country will order
Stop Crime against women !
“Hang them,
Not let them go free”
**
______________________________________________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
What's happening to hello poetry?
I don't need to know when the next soccer game is
And if I can watch for free.
Only football I know is American like the pride that's in me.
My blood doesn't boil the native sounds of my country.
Since my motherland is the Dominican
But America my step motherland won custody and raised me, since the age of three.
Don't forget is not who made you but who you fed you, who clothed you, who saw your first shot to a basket, who saw your first catch, who kept your body warm when you got another cold, and so on.
This is "Breakfast for Champions"
Just ask Kurt Vonnegut
What's happening to hello Poetry?
Show your art
Get your due diligence
Don't sell us your dreams don't broadcast your business unless is a story, book signing or deal.
I don't need a spell to make a girl fall in love. I got these words
For and to whom I might propose
Love or an indecent occasion of lust.
Let my words be the for front on this site but they're second to my actions.
Since I don't speak much b'cause my Latin accent.
What is happening to hello poetry?
Private messages by strangers who don't write or speak words.
Claim is urgent and as a poet
You know kind hearted, love lost, And so on...
You just might want to message their Hotmail.
Sad story under prosecution
Sad story the relation is abusive
Mocking the painful truths of some of us artist.
Just wanting a piece of the pie
But when I order I even eat the crust and never leave crumbs.
Take offense or not I just don't give a ****
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Hey flossy! Don’t offer this smile anymore
Mysterious smile torments the heart
That smile raises up the thirst.
If you agree to surrender all your mysterious smiles to me
In return I will return your love with the usury of love
And with time’s compound interest rate.
If you turn down to surrender your smile
Then know the consequences of it,
Taking incalculable stars as my co – operator
I will abduct the celestial curve moon on the land.
Hey belle! Don’t turn your face away
Tell me,
You will be the reason of how many wars,
And the cause of scrimmage amongst the juveniles?
If you don’t pay attention to me today
Then know it, You spectacular lady,
In the theater of mysterious smile
I prosecute for the execution
Of your heart snatching smile….
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
Ferry Me
Ferry me, but once more.
The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.
Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.
*A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.
The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...
Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.*
But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.
The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.
Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Sleep beckons.
I could close my eyes and call it a day.
Lie down and die – maybe dream
Of all that was unaccomplished.
But with dreams there comes no guarantee.
Compensation for dissatisfaction?
Rebuke for procrastination?
There might be none,
Or some that I might not even remember.
Life is meaningless.
We are but sparks: destined to fade away.
This isn't a game, there are no rules.
No prosecution for any infringement.
I choose to while away at a make believe game
With make believe rules.
But I play fair,
Lest I should be judged by me.
I granted myself the liberty
Imparting meaning to my existence.
Meticulously building a façade.
Filling the void that I was born into.
One reckless step and it might all collapse-
Life, rules, beliefs-
A heap of nothingness at square one.
This choice-
The liberator from the drudgery of existence-
Is the one that binds me.
So I force myself to stay awake
For a few more hours each night.
Trying to get the blocks in place.
Convincing myself that what lies ahead is all pleasure.
Will it be reward enough
For all that I have suffered and lost
At my own game?
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
We are free like a tree in the valley with nothing to see but pesticide dreams.
If you were free, what you speak wouldn't end with prosecution.
If you were free, you wouldn't be dumbing down your senses with alcohol pollution
When nature provides more than enough to lift you as a clear solution.
If you were free, the green pieces of paper would be "My notes",
and not "Federal Reserve Notes" that we owe interest back to.
If you were free, then the walls of the matrix we could crack through.
If you were free, you would be able to choose who could lead your country,
Instead of falsely participating in which dictator puppet reigns supreme in the best interests of the Rich and powerful gaining land resources and money.
If you were free, you wouldn't be on your knees bobbleheading at all the media tells you.
If you were free, you would not accept any leader who actively kills the innocent, and does not say Why, or even show proof.
If you were free, you would stand up, for what's morally right.
If you were free you would look at those in your peripheral
and join them rather than work against in spite.
If you were free, we could actually pride ourselves for being a country all about freedom.
If you were free, you would say NO to RFID chips, already being used on middle and high school kids in Texas, numb, to what is free.
I can't free you, you must free yourself and wake up to the mirage and bombardment of lies Raining down our existence.
If you were free, you would be a threat, everything they don't want.
It's everything we need, with persistence.
Let go of the fear of fear.
When that time comes, just as a flower becomes unfurled,
There will be a triumph for all that's good in the world.
Open your mind, stop the chatter, and wake up. Free Yourself
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
When I was fourteen
I had a skiing accident
Abroad
The one thing I missed about England
was Ken Clarke MP
Come back early or never come
Now I sit alone, drenched
in your sister's sweat
Today, we found two mixing pools
But there'll be no prosecution
Don't hit my cat, Daddy
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
Woop As the siren blares/
Scared nervous/
I hear a loud pull over!/
Its the Grammar Police/
awwww snap
They want to see my diploma/
I keep my hand on the pen
Like I don't even notice/
In my window of opportunity
Asking/
Son Do you know why I pulled you over?/
Cause I'm in the office
sir writing these poems?/
I take full responsibility
I don't got no diploma
I just got this GED/
He said that's not good enough
Put down the pen son
Your coming with me/
Now there's Turmoil thru the streets
drama around every corner/
There should be no commas
Period I question marked your honor/
Butchering with clevers
run on sentences for ever/
The alphabet guys set up
Planted evidence missing letters/
Sworn I had it down to a T
The I before E
how does that go?/
Well don't look now
I done broke another law/
How ever this may trouble you
I keep my vowels sometimes Y & W/
Somethings not write I'm reeling feeling uncomfortable/
Is it me?
Well don't you see/
A fused two V's?/
That's my story
I'm sticking to it
my testimony/
Yet we speak it double U/
confused by another rule/
They label me an outlaw
In the middle of the court room/
A mystery/ A victim being pursued/ by the Grammar police/
The jury siding with the prosecution
I may never be released/
Its Invictus/
The defense rest
Now they have an eye-witness/
With an eye on who did this/
There, their, they're, hair, heir and..... here/
The Ironies in the rule book/
similar sounding confused look/
If i where to spoke this and not
wrote this you would have not notice/
No no Input
was it done on purpose?/
For a purpose?/
One things for certain/
If l lay dying dead in the street
It's cause you took shots at me
Just remember I wasn't perfect/
But you are the grammar police
Just doing your job I know working/
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Apollyon will destroy
your mantras with the truth.
Be without fear
for all of humanity shall perish
in it's own denial
Fear not judgement
Fear not prosecution
All sheep will be herded
off the cliffs of stupidity
and burn in the fires of their intolerance
May they see the light
and be free one day.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
All I really wanted
Is someone who needs me
That's all I really want
I play the game
With such precision
But I don't enjoy the hunt
You come around
With your fancy persuasion
And try to stay awhile
You tried to be
My judge and jury
And put my love on trial
Don't try to cross no burning bridges
Don't cross examine me
Don't try to cross no open spaces
Don't try to cross wire me
I'll come to order
When I'm good and ready
Don't try to make me rush
You know the answers
That I'm gonna give you
Won't really tell you much
Take what you get
I'll give you that much
To keep you satisfied
I have no defense
When it comes to hurtin
I keep it locked inside
I've got no defence
Whe n it comes to hurtin
The prosecution rests
You bound me over
As your own solution
Even though I had confessed
Don't try to cross. no open spaces
Don't try to cross wire me
Dont't try to cross no burning bridges
Don't cross-examine me !!
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Compromises
In the prosecution of celebrities,
And in their sentencing,
We Indians often compromise as we get influenced by their hype,
And for them we harbor many soft-corners.
In the prosecution of high-society crooks,
And in their sentencing,
We Indians frequently compromise as we get influenced by their heights,
And allocate 5-star treatment to murderers..
In the prosecution of petty thieves,
And in their sentencing,
We Indians rarely compromise as we get influenced by their low status,
And quickly pronounce sentences...
In the prosecution of celebrated criminals,
And in their punishments,
We Indians often compromise as we get fascinated by their misdeeds,
And by their outrages....
In the execution of our daily works,
And in their performance,
We Indians seldom compromise as we often get boosted by their difficulty levels,
And put in that extra effort.....
In the protection of our loved ones,
And in their safety,
We Indians never compromise & protect them with all what we have,
And keep them safe......
In our own heartfelt ambitions,
And in their fulfilment,
We Indians nevermore compromise & strive heartily to succeed,
And rise above the world.......
Then why we Indians can't do,
What's regarded right,
In the society & in all the countries in this world,
And progress like never before........
Why we Indians can't stop,
What's regarded wrong,
In the society & immoral in humanity,
And let our land become a paradise again.........
Probably we Indians require a change,
May be you & I could help by bringing it,
In the social, local & national politics,
And see our country become the India of dreams..........
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
The breadwinner was hot railing at last
We have dismantled the illusion
Persecution according to prosecution
If only to feign partiality
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
She stood in the dock,
a ruddy gibbering wreck,
very flushed and very frightened,
The stern judge was a vulture,
dreams of chewing her flesh,
Counsel for the prosecution,
was a rather noisy crow,
In her defence,
an eagle stood,
Clutching close her feathered brood.
the courtroom clerk a budgerigar,
with yellow breast,
and mottled feathers,
chatting and typing litotes,
although not really listening.
The defendant for the trial today,
was a bright pink flamingo,
with googly legs and googly eyes,
that poured out such pink tears,
the way the case was going on,
well,
she could be locked away for years,
the jury consisted of mockingbirds,
who laughed at everything they heard,
the evidence was null and void,
not really heard above the noise.
Having heard what he could of the evidence,
the vulture judge got rather cross,
he called upon a dove,
"members of the jury,
we have to acquit this pretty flamingo,
because I believe that I'm in love".
(c)Livvi
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
*Night of the kettle drum roll
Of black shrouds enflamed with
jagged prosecution
Of the gray coyote disoriented with invisible
confusion
Twilight of the elements hurtling a thousand miles an
hour
Night of the ever constant fight for power*
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
♪ ☠♫☃
Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.
The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred – no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).
You phonies scrolling Twitter-blink,
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.
The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom –
as if it wasn’t dark enough.
The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.
The killer grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines, the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.
The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears
He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.
She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(That free-verse wielding abstract clown!)
Behold her grave – where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander with bemused disgust).
Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder – life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
It was as though I had been on trial
for nineteen years,
due process
disallowed.
The prosecution-
my chemical imbalance-
so harsh,
eased up.
The defense-
Prozac-
allowed to make
my case.
I remember it well;
the day
I decided
to let myself live.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.
The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred—no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).
You phonies scrolling Twitter-blink
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.
The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom—
as if it wasn’t dark enough.
The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.
The killer, grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines: the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.
The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears
He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.
She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(murderous, evil, free-verse clown!)
Behold her grave—where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander in bemused disgust).
Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder: life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC