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Àŧùl Mar 2015
So aged he is, but still so zealous for his job.
It feels like he has only known his rickshaw.
The ancient bard in him tells Punjabi poems.
He belies his wrinkles as he pedals his ride.
Just putting to shame his fellow rickshaw pullers.
None remembers or even cares to know his name.
He just pedals and remembers his deceased wife.

He told me a Punjabi tale of partition...

"We were really happy when it happened,
I was 16 and married to my beautiful wife,
But then he pressed for a separate Pakistan,
Just so much wicked was this demand of his,
Punjab was alight due to some people's doing,
We were to cross river Ravi en route to Amritsar,
In Lahore my childhood home was burnt to ashes,
My beautiful wife was still so young at that time,
She was ***** on the banks of river Ravi & killed,
In no cloth was she draped as they burnt her body,
After pouring whiskey all over her lifeless body."


His voice broke and a stream of tears escaped,
Down his eyes they flowed like the river Ravi,
"In front of my two eyes the men had ***** her,
Her mistake? Looking at them once & smiling,
Sin as great to be punished by such brutal drab?
What God, Ishwar or Allah did they follow?
I have known all & none advocates ****,
To which parents could they born?
Must be the devil & the witch."


By now his nose was red and his sobs audible.
He said, "She was not just *****, she was also killed,"
The ancient rickshaw puller gasped for breath as he said,
"Would the high heavens thank them for killing my wife,
She was a Hindu and an idolater with my mangalsootra,
Why they spared my life I have no idea but just remorse,
Will their Allah or God spare them on Doomsday?"

==============
And Google knows who pressed for a separate Pakistan in the name of communal majority.

My HP Poem #813
©Atul Kaushal
Yates Nov 2014
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.

And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.

And then you have...
me.
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.

But

We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
Dallas Apr 2017
I hate how they never warn little girls
to beware the pretty boys
with eyes like gleaming jewels.

The boys with soft smiles
and music in their laugh.

They never warn
of boys with pretty faces
and blackened hearts.

The boys that leave little girls
crying in the dark.
The ones with words like honey,
sickly sweet.

The princes with big money,
who we dream of sweeping us off our feet.

They never speak
of boys with danger in their eyes.
But beauty true blue.

Little girls are never told
of boys of silver and boys of gold.

The little kings,
with angel wings.
The little beast neither soft nor sweet.

The beauty bombshells,
the golden adonis’s.

They never speak of boys
who run like the winds
under their feet.

The boys who shine
like the stars in the sky.
The boys with the world in their grubby mitts.

The boys with lips like cotton candy,
and sins warm and rich.

The ones who have our
stomachs doing flips.
The ones who seem to have it all
shoulders back, standing tall.

They never caution of
little boys with clever minds
and nimble fingers.

Of boys with Shakespeare's sonnets in their hair
and love songs in their whispers.

But little girl,
I am telling you now.

Beware the pigtail pullers,
fear the little Romeos.
Heed the heartbreakers
Shun smooth talkers.

Little girl,
don’t give in.

Little girl,
fear their sins.

Little girl,
run away.

Little girl,
don’t stay to play.

Little girl,
don’t stop and stare.

Little girl,
don’t twirl your hair.

Little girl,
please, listen to me!

Little girl,
loath the charming pretty boys.
For they are like roses
and like roses
they have thorns.
Her alias was Sunrise
The affable Sky
Brags her entity
In the high latitude
Her voice was heard.

There exists Energy
He puts up the plug
With the invisible outlet
Of the naked Sky
His charged particles
Brought collision
Brought wonder
To the full-sized Universe.

The solar wind
The Earth
Both were crowd-pullers
Every one knelt down
As they see
The Roman Goddess of Dawn
Her melodramatic entrance
Her chameleon-like aptitude
The neon lights
Without Christmas *****
Made her zone broaden.

I am the Seeker
A Dreamer
In this winter breeze
I lied down
With the techy remote
Unearthing
The Goddess of Fantasy.

(12/5/13 @xirlleelang)
JB Claywell Feb 2016
In a room full of pundits and pud-pullers
I just wanna be the poet.
There’s not a ******* thing
that’s wrong with that either.

No, I won’t be that guy reading “Pride and Prejudice”
just so I can get a handle on the *******
zombie movie that’s coming out.

Give me a Mickey Spillane novel
and a slice of pizza.
Give me a Bukowski poem
and a pork chop.

That’s the problem here,
nobody seems to want to recognize their
base nature.

Nobody wants to admit that they still like *****
and *******, a nice ***,
and an amazing pair of blue eyes.

Everyone wants to point out what everyone else
is doing wrong while
hiding behind hashtags and keyboards
like chickenshits.

I’ve had enough of it,
and I’ve narrowed my field of
vision, while widening my perspective
You see, I plan to be the best version
of me that I can be

today

then I’ll do it again tomorrow.

If I knock somebody’s drink in
their lap at some point
in between,
I won’t lose a second’s sleep over it.

I’ll just try to do better on the next pass.

*

-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications
I'm perpetually indifferent to my own distinctive decisions.
What sets me apart from the pack is my lack of care for derision.  
The world is on fire, what an elegant effigy.    
So I say 'just let em burn if they wanna f--- with me.'
No time for leg pullers or those who rattle cages
Only time for those who chose to write their own history pages.
The stages I have crossed to play these different characters
Have been destructive in the way they allow me to break barriers
Harriers couldn't cruise over me and spot my directives
Because too many unanswered questions have me playing detective.
It's suggested that in darkness the good's inherently evil
but at least without the light you don't see the ugliness of people.
and I don't mean their faces with no cover up or blush
I mean they don't stop to help someone in need cause of their rush
lushes have become the focal point of social structures
so the male population has pants with flies about to rupture.
So much is fare of the flesh that now it's a flesh fair
and it is encouraged to have no respect and just stare
and we're determined to mix up some smoke in clear air
and we're demanding new jeans that are made with rips and tears.
and I'm aware of crazes and fads I'm not mad
as in I'm not crazy but this craziness makes me sad
I'm at a cross like plaid but this is more like forked roads
I am locked in online without any exit nodes,
I am inside the safe but no one else knows the codes,
so I am me by design 'cause I don't know any more modes.

Listen here -->  https://soundcloud.com/mcvegh/me-by-design
Michael Bingoff Oct 2009
Momma took a lot
of stuff to get where
I'm at.
Momma took a lot of hits
and lived with a broken
back.
Momma still works like
a dog,
Momma walked through
rain, and fought through
fog,
But trust me when I say
still to this very day,
even though I stand
as a broken man,
been knocked down
more times than
Mike Tyson.
I'm not bulletproof
or ten feet tall,
but best believe,
I'm as strong
as a brick wall.
I stomp around
with pounding feet
and Momma can always
count on me.
Til the day I die,
with every waking
breath I try.
Pushers and pullers
need to beware,
when ever Momma needs me,
I'll be there.
Keith Ren Dec 2010
Leave me my rituals
The flesh is an ocean.
The truths are all doorways
As lust is emotion.

The tie-knots are leakers
As passive in search.
My motives are pullers
Leaving me hung in the lurch.

Test me on turnstiles.
Work me on pleads.
I drift only daily.
I want only needs.

Keep safe Your distance.
And I'll keep all my words.
You laid me for power.
And left me for cursed.
nunca mas me molesta
dZang Roller Jun 2015
Constantly with the old trick,
Look up--see the ceiling is really the floor!

Comfortable with the
Rug Pullers Rag
Enough so that
The feet ask the eyes
To check walls and ceilings for nails
Able to lose or gain any floor

Staying as loose,
As the ceilings, floors and walls may fall.
Feet that leave or land
On any surface.
Shelby Predrick Apr 2015
Relentlessly I stab
Counting the wounds on a tab
The red smudges my book
Indicating the lives I took.

Her glassy eyes gazing at stars
Once dreaming of Mars
Now lifeless; preoccupied
With the next big journey of her life.

My own hold nothing.
Murky, clouded and grey
I dream of nothing but cutting
The cords of hope
The ribbon of destiny
The fountain of life, as they call it.

Well, mine already dangles above the pit.
A single snap and the artwork so painfully knit
Tumbles down, glides far
But never fails to crash the tar.

My parents watch.
Moaning, "It's all our fault."
I'm sorry, my sugars
But don't blame the pullers.

My peers gather round.
Their eyes still judging
Their heads still calculating
The times I cried and begged
In the wild games when I was tagged.

My widow, does nothing.
She looks on with pure loathing.
I never did make her life any better
So why did she have to choose the latter?

Finally, I admire myself internally
Restlessly, shamelessly, wearily and calmly.
The beauty of it all touches me
Filling me with delightful remorse
Peaceful insanity and muted roars.
If this is what it takes for a flame to explode
Then send me the code
To living in silent mode.
Harry sensed that all the lever pullers
were in action
he thought that the job
gave them so much satisfaction
Bard Jun 2020
Cook our intelligence
Look at the belligerent
Hate filled hornet nest
Continent of ****** pest
Fumigation of the U S

litigation red tape
when a sticky red fate
gets caught on tape
Oppression communicate
When killers walk out gratis

CIA, FBI, NBC, All of them be
Lying to me, cause the tv told me
this was the nation of the free

**** that we are a nation of slaves
Haven't evolved since yesterdays
Declaration freedom from tyrants
Then drove the natives to tears
Never equal when they see ants

Regicide of a king who had a dream
Martyr the leaders to slow the steam
Now the nation burns its mainstream

ACAB, SRA, BLM, All of them be
Talking to me, cause life told me
That freedom it ain't really free

Data stream use instant transmission
Every one, one team with one mission
Can silence a king how about a nation
All chasing the dream of compassion
Fighting mace and tears with passion

While our president hides in his residence
Plotting with pence on building a fence
And Biden forgets he was the antecedent
Passed in 1997 military gear to the precinct
Two party election, its insanity or compliance

That trump boy works with Geppetto
Puppet and toy to masters he echos
Funny money, president to get dough
String pullers they really made a show
Now the polls they swinging so low

But Biden's another flunky
Dancin to the biddin of ******
Oligarch kings of the country
Sayin dance you ****** donkey
**** the country till it walks funny

Scared of the protest they cant contest
Plants in the crowd to **** interest
Cant fold wont be fooled by insects
Declare a war on our country's best
Commit war crimes in blue vests

I don't know where our future will go
But if we keep movin and never slow
Where we're goin is better than now
Yesterdays wounds will heal I know
This nightmare could end tomorrow

Maybe this was never the land of the free
But it could be if we wanted it to be
If we plant the seed nurture it and see
Keep it safe from greed's insanity
Nurture it with bodies of the bourgeois
Brother Jimmy Jul 2017
Oh what a day and night I've had
With twists and turns galore
My blisters burn,
And sure, I'm sore,
From walking where the shore...
Had been before.

The water level's rising
And all the advertising says
It's controlled and this was planned
...For the shore to take the land?
No more walks on the sand

"No Swimming" signs now pollute the scene
And the swell, it looks a brownish green

The old blue's a hundred yards out!
...Why, if I had any clout...
I'd tell the string-pullers to straighten up
And keep the waters from filling this cup
Eroding away the lakefront lawns
From folks that dine on perch and prawns
And dandelion greens and wine
And now they'll have no funds to dine

Way on high the adjusters sit
Deciding where to close the gap
Don't give me that conservation ****
And this tax season you'll get the crap
Kicked out of you
It's sad but true
Someone was chided
And it was decided
And now there's nothing that you can do
But bite your nails and be part of the stew
Southern shore of Lake Ontario
.

A year old storage written optimal
Expressed gratitude reflect optical
Formal extensions remained original
Developed to produce the instrumental
A record tender date functionality
Insanity holes to cleanse reality
Envious entries are a good ally
knocked actions were a rally


Handbill desire a drag is a release
Deep in my forest the pulse at ease
The centre complimented the list of big deals
You squeeze it breaks the cover ream
You flip the odds outcome you lean
A battle portrays a chance we deem
Behind names covered with uncaptured scenes


Thought birth life time is a read
It happened to be 10 minute clip
Flat and round a compulsive skip
Then it went pause, a mute visit
Pulled is the face dual denials
A manly ignorance the tune with arrivals
Good gestures initiates an approach to gold
A verified platinum boxed thinking is sold
Barcode erased its value is old
Pricetags hanging the cost is bold


Sincere request tuning crowd pullers
Fans remained stationery movers
A scratch is a deep cut laser
Petty formulas binary is a dancer
A skip stops I need a CD changer
Perfect pitch opportunities are a major
Locating is loading an unloading radar
It never alerts an approach to danger
Circle the intro the rest for later


The centre of death initiates middle first
The last line concludes the middle third
180° middle separated
A mourn and a sin liberated
Comparison fathered demos emancipated
Bow down to the theory of the pirated
Clay cemented mistaken for friendship
Heavy a rotation is a power gift


I heard a smell of a burning Tar
An owl clapping from a distance afar
The voice of slavery grants an alter
Events less compatible to time yet late was an arrival
Condolences to efforts
The event was a puking method.
Empty shadows lifts functions
The smell made me float
Exhaling the memory
Matters of the adventure
Until I remembered, I'm an Old Soul.
Tom Shields Aug 2020
Striped to the nines
these cats carry pig stickers
animal kingdom death comes quicker
shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker
chalked out in lines
lead bellies line mines
outlaws make laws, break jaws
drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob
live like all-stars, a full-time job
all-grime, an all-crime job
a romantic era of terror
splashy ink does injustice
while they sidle Fords with Thompsons
every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde
everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron
everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed
they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on
it ain’t pretty
black eyed beauties and black tied beaus
lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows
guns and love and money, everybody knows
it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty
you can get in clean
but you have to get your hands ***** in this city.


A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound
the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive
one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived
to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived
songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground
what scratch he could collect
he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck
wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks
he was not ashamed of a spotlight
a bluesman can’t be afraid
he tore down the house six nights
and on Sunday he prayed
when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed
the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier
a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror
outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll
at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising
he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul
and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising
a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too
pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?”
He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets
bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through
he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air
sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair
he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there
a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed,
he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast.


Putty in palms
men melt in her gaze
Medusa couldn’t ****** a man as easily
Penny flies with fancy and never stays
she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door,
to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her
who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life
which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner
where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife
she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny
she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools
it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value
and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you?
She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all,
until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll
Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was,
this invited trouble to her diner, because
a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean
every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean
he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin
he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in
pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad
she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life
Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife.

Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants
they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men
capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence
you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence
deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it
your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager
used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager
the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya,
I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah?

Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history
like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse
the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery
a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry
you can say it, business is booming
body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming
out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too
it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county
you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy,
an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty
nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy
and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety
terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see…


So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window
make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out
my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route
a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands
I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans
making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back
same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive
I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety
that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop
I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop
an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop
now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood
I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone
but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on
I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him,
he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim
it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a ***** cop’s residence
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance
I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died
one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence
He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all.

Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors
agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency
adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally
coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence
to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections
a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position
never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double
always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts
a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot
it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got
he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot
sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass,
his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ***
hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see
he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last?
His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery
these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free!
He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee
eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out
he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything,
by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing
it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring.

Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see
and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity
I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory
they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me?
All I am is all I could ever be!
Dogged, **** tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes
sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes
investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt
digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt
it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity
they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out
and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt
but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily
a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions
all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me
I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army
where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends?
Am I standing in a web or a noose?
Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose?
I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion!
I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission!
There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay,
when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!”
I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play!
The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way
but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay
any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay
while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway
that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death…

Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight
with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight
she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so
so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night
crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size
she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd
ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize
evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud
she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize
even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes
and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise
was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for,
tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor,
an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner
she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days
and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age
for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page
she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast
and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so,
that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow.

In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case
five to ten
years off the prime of his career
militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face
disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space
and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace
got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced
older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace
he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope
he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race
he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver
so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power
the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver
looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here
he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint-
meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin
when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human
and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass
he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas
promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet
locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals
he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes ******* sings
but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings
and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings.

That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death
I swear to ******* God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath
it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left
I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin
it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again
the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and ****** back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman
all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman
but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their ***** work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then…
Who’s going to be left to clean up after that?
Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat
the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat
figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth
I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!”
for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it,
I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!”
this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man
I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue.

Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and
lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains
we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then
cops were ******* with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men,
every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a ******’ blues musician
it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and
they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end
in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and ******, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took,
I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs
papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain
he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain,
in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane
he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad
that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had
his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp
he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp
I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do
people don’t make the city clean
you know what I mean
there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick ****, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that ******* cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax,
the city isn’t *****, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we **** sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.
write
please read and enjoy
makeloveandtea May 2018
wiping the outside off my face with a soapy tissue,
I wash my hair,
get dressed
and head to dinner.
coffee and the smell of cigarettes
from an European couple at the next table,
I am letting myself have alone time.
not writing much about anything,
only occasional "i'm here"s
and "i'm there"s
in my notebook.
waiting for the cab at an empty-ish street
of returning bicyclists and slow cart-pullers,
I felt the ocean crashing against the insides of me.
just me here,
and red car-lights
reflecting in my eyes.
returning to nothing in particular.
taking off my shoes,
my bracelet,
my shirt;
i'm wiping the outside
off my face.
with my feet up on a glass table
in nothing
but a necklace I know I will struggle to unclasp,
i'm looking at the streetlights in the city from this big hotelroom window; thinking
of asking for another chocolate-coffee for one.
Julian Delia May 2019
My life, my labour, my lineage;
My time - a favour, a privilege.
My very existence, up for sale;
Watch, as democracy gets impaled.

Sold off, bought by the highest bidder;
Out in the cold, caught in a blizzard.
Meanwhile, loyalties are on sale,
Lives are sabotaged, set up to fail.

Born, reared and raised inhaling dust,
Told to vote, to do so’s a must.
Led to the edge by the undead,
Fueled by secrets best left unsaid.
Sworn in, cheered on, values betrayed,
Victors portrayed, losers dismayed,
Our disillusionment displayed;
We’re in deep ****, be ready to wade.

There’s no lust, no zest for life;
There’s no trust, when there is strife.
I see strife aplenty enough;
I see many are acting tough.
Hardened hearts that have come apart,
Forced to live like this, playing a part.

Sold! The entire, impoverished lot;
Sold to the men of the black hand,
The string-pullers, crafting the whole plot.
The world is being auctioned off,
And you are the merchandise,
You are fuel for the enterprise.

You might not believe what I’ve just conceived;
Mark me as read, a fake ‘message received’.
You might look away, maybe take a day off;
I won’t, I can’t, I mustn’t.
There’s no time for going soft.
Getting really tired of this ******* life
RAJ NANDY May 2020
Dear Readers, thses are my few old memories of Calcutta from my early childhood days, after having reached the milestone on the road side reading 77.  Hope you like it ! Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.

REMINISCENCE OF A SENIOR SEPTUAGENARIAN
I was born in the early forties during those black and
white days,
When those big old valve radios and gramophones
records played.
The British flag was flying over Calcutta, the city of
my birth.
That first old capital of British India with its horse
and buggy, crowded buses, and tram cars.
The main streets got washed with water hoses from  
high pressured hydrants every morning,
And the lamplighter with his ladder lighted the
street gas lights every evening.
Radiograms were a status symbol, and transistor
radios had come decades later.
With rickshaws pulled manually by poor old
rickshaw pullers!
Juke Box played popular songs (during our school
days in the fifties) in ice cream parlors.
Whoever even thought of a TV or a mobile phone,
during those happy hours!
For the Bongs the theatres of north Calcutta was a
classical source of entertainment.
Eye ball contact was meaningful with a hug and a
hand shake, - life remained fully extroverted.
Unlike our present highly advanced Corona days!
No wonder I love that great old South Indian serial
titled the ‘Malgudi Days’!
Like our old songs, those golden days shall forever
remain cherished and nostalgic;
And as a part of a senior citizen’s waking dream!
Now please smile, take a selfie with your I-phone,
and go to sleep!
                                       -Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Leslie Philibert Nov 2018
A toenail of a moon,
slightly turkish, hides
in a ***** aquarium

and stops my knees.
We frozen are blind
beyond November.

We dead are actors;
pullers of dogs and leaves,
rootless as the wind.

My grief ? Spooned out...
I halt under the night.
nivek Sep 2023
gravity the grave pullers
outstretched arms
clutches no-one escapes
Waiters
Thinkers
Prayers
Tellers
Speakers
Doers
Dreamers
Believer­s.

Seekers
Finders
Keepers
Drawers
Pullers
Pushers
Creepers
****­ers

Oh, my God! What a lovely short but rich poem!

— The End —