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MJL Feb 23
Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag

© 2019 MJL
Rich Hues Apr 20
A reporter gets killed,
Hate deepens like the coast shelves,
Let us recognise the evil
Of those who wish to govern themselves.
AllAtOnce Dec 2018
I can’t wait for the day when I don’t think of you,
when I feel acid rain pouring on my face like fiery fingers and tears,
or when curls bounce around my face like the phone cord in the first house I remember,
or drink cinnamon orange tea and write forty pages of gender theory.
I can’t wait for the day when I don't remember you won’t message back,
and I’m left on read like a newspaper reporter without a following,
or when brandy and coffee doesn’t smell like your breath or how I thought you’d taste.
Because fiery tears are acid rain on my cheeks
that won’t burn the scattered pieces of you away.
By: Cedric McClester

Iran hit the Saudis,
Or so they say,
What’s that got to do with us
Why should we be the ones
To make ‘em pay?
When Saudiis care less
About the Houthis they slay

The war in Yemen
Isn’t justified
Countless civilians
Have already died
So why did we take
The Saudi’s side?
And how come proportionality
Hasn’t been applied

The Saudis pay cash,
Or so, the President said,
While in their Turkish embassy
The reporter laid dead
The Prince didn’t order it
From all I’ve read
So if not the Prince
Then who instead?

Since when do the Saudis
Tell us what to do?
See I don’t have the answer
Neither do you
Yet the President responds
To them, as if on cue
Leaving us with the question
Who the hell knew?

            Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.
Ken Pepiton Apr 5
October 1968

Strange day away from a war,
in a bubble

with the liar who was my friend
who wore a shirt with
a combat aviation badge
a dead man had earned,
first stolen glory
I ever saw.

We are awol, but nobody knows,
then a doughy white guy with a camera,
asks the liar why we are
in Saigon,
at the zoo, in the middle of a war.

A Stars and Stripes reporter,
the opinion of warriors ( right, in Saigon) re
Jackie Kennedy marrying the Greek

He took our picture, asked our names,
we were awol,
but what the hell, how many losers
ever see their picture
in the Stars and Stripes?


send a boy to fight a war,
never tell him who wins, if he lives.

As an old man,
like that tiger, in a cage,
not San Diego Zoo Eco-accurate Habitat,
a cage, concrete floor, old-time
cowboy movie jail barred

like that tiger in the Saigon zoo, 1968.
Just memory
JLB Oct 2018
There's a woman drenched in blue
walking in a cold stone room
circling in a blinded way--riddles raddling out of her brain
and into a shoe.
what to do, what to do.
she walks with armoured gate.
hardened in nature,
speaking her truth,
she holds a hand high to measure
her worth
and it begs the question: do we believe her?
I don't dare go inside,
for worth dwindles with time.
the shelf life on her truth--
though certainly dire,
is short and sweet as vermouth
and society must hear him
before lighting the pyre.
I, a reporter,
root for her-- her biggest supporter.
through a peep hole I can see
the man, and then she.
but I can't type too loud, or the alarm will sound--
one eyelid closed, ball point pen stabbing down
to release some subliminal seismic rapture:
invisible to me, but gushing all around.
Our collective furry, coming un-wound
while unwavering folks still capture
a crooning boy in their arms
despite his cloying false charms.
She throws the shoe, blind,
spilling its rhyme
onto the stone floor
a moment of quiet
and some piece of mind...
but ending somehow
the same as before:
There's a woman drenched in blue
walking in a cold stone room
circling in a blinded way--riddles raddling out of her brain
and into a shoe.
what to do, what to do.
When you think about Tom Brokaw comment about assimilation?
He didn't address the assimilation they need to face.
In your secluded community, many yet to face the truth of a changing world.

In other words, yet to catch up.
Most one race segment was created by those not assimilating.

Little Italy, little Cuba, many black communities came about because of one group.
And here a fame reporter talking about others need to assimilate into society.

Who created Jim Crow?
Who segregated Asian American during the second war.
What group tried to eliminate a mass Jewish population?

Presently, still using fear tactics about others because they know this group fears others.
mars Mar 28
She stands in front of me holding her microphone at my lips, cameras flash around us.
                                                           “Congratulations on your book.”
I wrote a book. I’ve done something with my life and that makes me GOOD. smile for the camera, million dollar grins taste like bile. Thank you, thank you all!
                                                          “What inspired you to write this”
I don’t remember what book she’s talking about, incarnadine, middle of mars, buoyant, the harry potter fanfiction in my google docs.
                                                                       “What are you afraid of?”
                                    “Why won’t you tell us what you’re afraid of?”
                                                                     “What scares you the most?”
The gun shoots into the back of her head, her mouth drips blood onto my dress. The girls are gone, everyone is gone, I hold the dead reporter and scream for help.
I turn her over to see her face, my friend stares back at me and the weight of the gun is heavy in my right hand.

Darkness. Pitch- black- darkness-
The phone rings on my bedside table, i scramble through the empty bags of goldfish and glasses of wine. The crack shoots through the middle of the phone, when i slide to answer the pressure of my finger makes the screen turn blue.
                                                                                         “What are you-”
I throw the phone against the dresser and when I open my eyes I’m standing on top of the bank of america tower, rain pelts my back stinging me through my clothes. I step off the ledge and plummet-
Underwater in the pool resurfacing for air, my dead friend laughs with her boyfriend, throwing her head back for the last sip of beer. The bullet hole is gone, she’s alive. I didn’t **** her.

Or maybe you did and now you’re dead too.

The gravestone rests in the corner of the brandon graveyard, surrounded by mossy trees and mud there are no flowers here, not a valuable life lost.
                                              Madison Ballou
I cry on the bench, holding onto the frays of my black cardigan to steady myself between the sorrow. How old was I? How old AM I? Seventeen, I was only seventeen when I died. God sits next to me, spinning tarot cards in his hands.
                                                                                  “What have I done?”
He doesn’t say anything and flips over the card. The tower.
                                                                           “Tell me it’s not too late.”
The train pulls into the station, the station being the graveyard, over my grave. They let a train run over my ******* grave. It’s smoke billows into the atmosphere and the whistle is loud.
I look back to God and he holds nothing. “What am I doing?” I ask, talk to me.
“You were seventeen years old when you died. You were seventeen when you were born, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“Get on the train.”
“Where will it take me?”

I’m so ******* hungry right now.
I haven’t eaten since Monday, look at me, look at me. Ravenous, hunger, belly aches of nothingness. I am beautiful! God almighty, BEAUTIFUL! But these ribcages aren’t letting me breathe anymore, size 0 isn’t as glamorous as it seems.
I drink wine to fill the void of food, I eat food to fill the other voids, but i filled those with LSD and now there’s nothing left.

Standing in front of the refrigerator, the reporter comes and stands next to me. “What are you afraid of?”



The phone rings again, vibrating across the room. I crawl on carpet and reach for it, the ringing stops once it’s in my hand. 3 Missed Calls from Brandon. Standing up my room my head spins and the ceiling is still out of reach. The closer I get, the further away it runs. Am I alive? I check my neck for a pulse and it beats with a rapid rhythm. Water, I need water.

The lake is beautiful, clear water, drinking water. Pandora! Heaven! I drink the water and it cools my insides, my heart slows to a regular beat. Then the water turns thick in my throat, the taste of metal making me gag. Blood fills the lake, bodies of the dead floating.
The cameras catch me in front of the lake, I turn towards them with blood still running down my chin. “I-”
“These are all the people who cared, all the people who cried.”
I turn back to the lake and I see the funeral, everyone I love dressed in black, expressionless faces. My mom hides her face in her hands and a part of me is thankful I can’t see it.
“What are you afraid of?”
The choir sings but it sounds like blood.
“Mars!” She yells. “What happened to you?”

Idon’tknowanymore. I don’t know.
I don’t know what happened to me and I’m scared.
I open my eyes to my uncle, molesting me once again.
I remember this vividly.
I open my eyes to being punched
they close again.

My stomach drops, I’m falling. I cannot see where I am falling, everything around me is dark- only a blinding light from above? Have I died again? I jolt on the couch, waking up to my friends house. I cannot recall how I have gotten here, or why it is midnight of the next day.
Friday-sunday. Saturday forgotten.
The computer is bright in the dark room, I can hear girls whispering in the other room, one jumping in the pool. My name comes up on the screen as a user ID, waiting for me to type in my password.
My phone lays beside me in a mess of blankets and pillow sheets, 30 new notifications. Nobody is wondering where I am, so I guess i’m not lost.

My snapchat memories are filled with videos and pictures of my friends, we went to the beach today, we threw a party. Where was I this whole time?
In the pictures but absent.

A text comes through, one from an unknown number
What are you afraid of?
I type back, what do you want from me?
Nobody answers.

I know this feeling lonliness like the back of my hand.
We spent a lot of time together last year..
Collapsing back into bed and watching as the roof sets on fire the smoke enters through my nose and I breathe in foggy air. Inside, I ignite.

She comes to me once again, holding her microphone on the side of a hill looking down at the beach. I do not scream.
                                                                          “What are you afraid of?”
The moon hovers over the sea
“Things getting worse.”
ketashia Mar 1
I ate them as a child
Dunking them in water
Because they were too spicy to swallow
Almost like burning coals
Still, I ate them because you did

I ate them in middle school
As we passed the bag back and forth
Between us during math
Knowing if caught
It would be goodbye
To the bag, we both chipped in to buy

I ate them freshman year
Our first football game
While you stared at the cheerleader
In the skirt and high ponytail
Later on, you´d show me the texts
And I would pretend
Not to care too much

I ate them just a year ago
Sitting at my table doing homework
Watching the new
Your car was suddenly on screen
I knew before the reporter even said it
You were dead

I eat them now
As I type a poem about you
You hated poetry
How ironic
As I reach for another
I could've sworn
I felt your hand
Bump against mine
Once upon a time in the land that is down under,
There was a feral pig whose heart was set on plunder.
While wandering the outback he chanced to chance upon
A group of unwary campers and lo, their beer was gone.
The pig was feeling happy, having put away a case,
And he wandered through the bushland with a smile upon his face.
As he staggered through the wilderness he chanced upon a cow.
The poor cow was soon set upon by this drunken sow.
A battle royal then did ensue but our pig was out of luck.
The feisty bovine bested him and tossed him in the muck.

That’s where the pig was sleeping it off when found by this reporter,
Who, at first glance, had mistaken him to be a Trump supporter.
This wild pig put away 18 beers stolen from some hapless campers and then did battle with a cow.
Cedric McClester Oct 2018
By: Cedric  McClester

Interrogated, tortured,
Then killed
Just the way
The Saudi Prince had willed
An oppositional voice
Finally stilled
On Turkish soil
His blood was spilled

The Turks have
A surveillance tape
That would leave
Your mouth agape
The Saudi reporter
Could not escape
A sicker equivalent
Of *******

Prince Muhammad bin Salman
Hatched the plot
So ask yourself
What have we got
How can anyone
Befriend that snot?
While the bonesaw they used
Is still hot

Nine-Eleven involved
Nineteen of them
They’re the **** of the earth
Or the phlegm
We spit out our mouths
When we can
They’re worst than
The Ku Klux ****

Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

— The End —