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Simon Fletcher Sep 2011
Dead souls reprising the hollowed echoes of my suicide
Thumping inside the tunnels, marking sudden genocide
Lonely families gather around, witnessing a terrible act unfold
All the husbands have no jobs, keeping the children shiver cold

Gaunt and pale, sleepy and overtired, clinging to me
Making me think of our future and fantasies
But unfortunately, all of those things can never be
Because all I want to do is hang myself from a tree

I don't want to think about you and me
I don't want you to call me when you think you need me
I don't want you to visit my house  when you want to see me
I wish I was dead, but I guess I will lay here and sleep instead
Sleeping is less painful than having a bullet lodged into your head
Erik Apr 2019
As a Man
I am no more able to judge
the contents of my heart
Than I can judge
The distance to a mountain

This is why
After a long trail
I was surprised
how far it was
To meet the crest

It’s also why
At the dusk of that day
The storm looked
So far away
And we chose to stay

The next morning
When I awoke
The snow piled
To the third spoke
But we had hope

Three days later
when we still survived
The drift was up to our eyes
We weren’t gone yet
But the food was

Six days after
Snow still high
Who, but she, would die
Surely I was next
But I had to try

The next day
My food was back
Lying next to me
Cold and still
dead as a nail

Ten days later
they found me
With  a hollowed out chest
On that crest
I told them I tried my best

You cannot tell
The contents  of a mans heart
So as they dragged me in a cart
They saw crying
But I was  planning
On reprising
This is low key a poem about cannibalism
judy smith Sep 2015
Jenifer Garner looked every inch the mom in control as she and estranged husband Ben Affleck picked up their daughters from karate class.

The actress, 43, strode out ahead clutching her cell phone in one hand and car keys in her other as the Argo star, also 43, followed behind with Violet, nine, and Seraphina, six, and carrying a canvas shopping bag.

Garner also had her wedding ring back on, but on the ******* of her left hand and not the ring finger.


Affleck, though, seems to have ditched his wedding ring altogether.

He hasn't been seen with it on for a couple of weeks at least, although when they first split the pair had made it known they'd still keep the gold bands on around their kids.

Rumors had started to swirl of a possible reconciliation between the two after they were seen leaving couples counseling together in Sana Monica on September 4.

But sources close to them moved quickly to quash any suggestion they might get back together, saying they were simply seeking professional help to guide them through the changes that divorce brings.

Affleck was a doting dad on Friday as he smilingly shepherded his daughters to the car as they snacked on apples.

The Good Will Hunting actor was dressed casually in an olive green t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.

Seraphina wore a pretty light blue pinafore dress with a matching hairband and her favorite purple and pink Nike trainers.

Violet wore an all black workout ensemble with turquoise athletic shoes.

Not with them was the girls' younger brother Samuel, who's three.

The estranged couple are back in LA after Garner spent most of the summer filming Miracles From Heaven in Atlanta, Georgia, and Affleck was reprising his role as Batman for Suicide Squad in Toronoto, Canada.

With those projects in the can, it means they can focus more time on caring for their children as their divorce moves forward.

Affleck is also prepping his next project Live By Night, a Prohibition-era drama that he's written and plans to star in and direct.

The film based on the novel by Denis Lehane and set in Boston is scheduled to start filming in November.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth
J Penpla Mar 2017
Hey,
you okay Syria?
Heard you were unwell,
according to Wikipedia.
Set out searching
for something uplifting.
Started cruising the news,
then started drifting.
You were looking pretty fit,
On your wiki-profile,
10 millennia of Mediterranean:
temperate and fertile.
Boasting a motely religious crew:
Sunnis, Shiites,
Christians, Druze and Jews
So ethnically diverse,
with your Arabs, Kurds and Turks.

And as complex historically,
in terms of genealogy.
Just take a look at your etymology:
“the Levant”, meaning:
‘where the sun rises’
And like the sun’s rising,
there is no denying
your history of reprising
war of blood and fire.
Lest we begin at the beginning:
the Ottoman Empire,
which was succeeded by Babylonia,
then conquered by the Persians.
From Macedonia,
through countless imperialist conversions.
And the mosh-pit persisted
Full of havoc and haters,
Jews, Muslims, and Christian crusaders.
Through multiple millennia
to the twenty-first century,
you hardly gained independence
As a republic, parliamentary
Then on loop, military coup after coup…
Still looking more cliquey
Than an American penitentiary.

Not that conditions
Were too civil before
but from the Arab Springs,
sprung yet another civil war.
Claiming nearly half a million casualties
And ten times that in refugees.
Syria, are you begging, are you bawling,
are you crawling on your knees?

Mesopotamia, the market’s hot.
Leading natural resource: petroleum.
Coincidence? Of course…not
So Syria who’s in charge?
Who’s assigned to officiate?
Let’s get this straight:
You’ve got your head of State-
That is mister president.
And mister prime-minister,
well he’s official head of government.
May I ask where is Mrssssss….
No, no. Not much room for her in parliament.

Pardon me, my political perspective
might be a bit bourgeois
but might there be connection
between your strife and sharia law?
Again, pardon my impudence
but Allah’s jurisprudence
hardly seems prudent.
So, Muhammad, the prophet
left behind a prophecy,
spelled out in religious text
on which you base your polity
From which are governed
all matters of legality,
like, for instance say: the death penalty,
which seems to be the official decree
on any member of  the L, G, B or the T.
A strict hetero-only-policy.
Nothing is guaranteed in life though,
except for death and tax.
Thankfully, on these matters
Muhammad was a little more lax.
The *****, the infidel,
the unbeliever, the abomination
has a bit of say regarding
Death or taxation.
For those who do not believe
reprieve is a matter of yes or no:
Yes – conversion and enslavement
Otherwise, refusal means death row?
And even less leniency is granted,
to the lady adulterer
caught in twisted **** laws
punishment must not evade her
Wait, nope: Allah’s sharia clause –
lest he, the victim, opts to marry her.
And should she deviate
Muhammad left a legal loop-hole
For the gentleman may repudiate
any respective young mate
Should she have already
begun to… *******?

(C’mon, really? I mean
I genuinely don’t get it)

I confess though, I’m a bit ethnocentric
It’s just that to me,
sharia methods seem too eccentric,
nay, morally questionable.
Kafirs, gays, women,
basically anyone vulnerable,
well their disenfranchisement,
seems culturally commendable  
if legally permissible.

It may not be my place, so again
I apologize for the tangent.
Does this Muhammad though,
not seems unfit for management?
To govern your soil
as drenched in blood as it is in oil,
land, so godly-blessed,
Syria, why is it that your name is so
synonymous with civil unrest?

Back to where I started, though
Syria, tell me: how are you?
But answer only if that query
is not too risky to respond to.
With arbitrary censorship,
detention and torture so widespread,
journalists must be etching cell walls
with “blog when you’re dead”
while offshore expeditions
on the Mediterranean Sea-floor
in the six years since
you declared civil war
leave you reliant on foreign credit
more than ever before.

So, how are you, Syria?
Just curious to hear from ya.
Meandering footsteps throughout the Autumn darkness
Toward each sallow recluse of a moment
A simple ending ceaselessly beginning
With each sniff of smoldering residue from the grass
Beyond the harsh horizon of what may as well be eyelashes
And inside- yes, inside
Within the blank fortress
Is a scoundrel of a man, who
Knows not for what he’s come?
To die, dear dalliance; fickle, frolicking foal of the Frühling!
And out the pasture’s gateway
In the Autumn, in the Autumn
Unaware
Above the marshes and the moon-orb’s
Sweet icing on the water
In an eerie sort of night
Forgives the foal a mare’s ear
Silently reprising in delight
Yes, Yes it is the Autumn
And the riders are far from sight
MMX
Oct. 19
helena ferpin Dec 2012
Although I hate how wrong this ridiculous sense of common we have for everything is,
Sometimes I just wish we were these two ignorant people
That think the world is wrong but we can't change it
And work hard just to buy a bigger TV

Sometimes I just wish we could live a mediocre life together
And never mind to all the things that happens around
Since our favorite show is reprising saturday night

I wish we could fight every day to decide who's going to supermarket
And what color should be our new car
And fight over and over again about if we should buy a dog or not
And stay up late playing scrabble with our boring married friends

Sometimes I just wish we were these two empty consumerist people
That complain about everything and fight everyday about nothing
But are so so happy
*Together.
Nina Rose May 2010
Dark Roses

Scarlet tears erodes silkweed faces
Emancipated anguish
Drips slowly
Shards of despair
Penetrates souls
Like thorns from this rosebush of grief
Laced with velvet silks of heartache
Mourning for morning to arise
In darkened crevices of hidden agony
Throbbing blood vessels ache for resolutions
Affliction pumping wildly through tamed veins
Airs of sorrow stagnant the lungs
Steadily reprising cycles of disappointments…
An array of flowerless bouquets
Sprinkled across immortal graves
Buried beneath shadow less rays
Softly, broken records play
Evaporated figures depart
She is broken
He, battered
Broken arts married to engagements
Years of porcelain affections shattered
Plastic cylinders await moistened palms
To dissipate the sting of desertion
One, five, seven or more
Will execute death for peace…
Keiko Larrieux Dec 2009
Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state my present condition

Reveling misinterpreted guides
Keycards lock the door
With me inside the floor

Blood dripping on me now
Mops began to plow
Yellow taped neighbors disavow

Red clocks separate events.
News mikes electrify the tents.

Reporting flesh
Reprising death
Writhing pain

Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state the present condition

Never fooled by green grass
It will leave me.
It will pass.
Özcan Mermaid Jan 2014
D.Z
My head aches from the thoughts of you ravaging my mind,
your face burns;
your voice reprising over and over, a thousand times.
Tom Salter Feb 2021
Oh Ikelos, thief of my dreams
Steal from me not the night
For I hope of loving schemes
And an all so beauteous sight,

Long have you napped
Under the blanket of the moon,
Until the curtains cracked
Reprising the mournful noon,

So forfeit this draining rise:
An all avenging burden
Upon your somber eyes
That linger amoung the curtain,

Oh, sink into the muse
Of Nyx’s design
So that your waking blues
May surrender, and resign.
Filomena May 4
I don't understand this.
You don't understand these.
The Cowboy is a city kid.
The City Kid is me.

I was nothing. Now I'm something.
Wish I wasn't. Woe is me.
Why should I be anything?
The pain will set me free.

Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!

They say it's always getting better,
but it's never good enough.
The window pane is getting wetter.
Dry it off and toughen up.

Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!
Blows to the head!

The sun was set, but now it's rising.
Raging fires have fallen low.
But wait till darkness comes reprising,
and blazing flames in flurries flow.

Blows to the head!
Distorted flower burning by a touchstone
Flat benches extend, extend, and extend
Trappings collect cool and dark
Hound vs hound for a meal
The being with thumbs holds to the left
Reprising fruits of our labor
Rotten vegetables decomposing, warming me
Beanies not covering sound
Don’t block the tunnel
Pull and slide wherever
Michael Marchese Dec 2022
You’d think
I’d run out of ideas
To keep writing
Exhaust the last fume
Of creative igniting
But come gloom and doom
Through the roles
I’m reprising
The constant
Invariable
Is revising
Disguising no longer
What made me this way
It’s as natural to me
As a child at play
Its intricacy
Formed
By simplicity’s
Hand
And it’s guided along
By emotion’s command
Yet unplanned
Like a pregnancy
In love conceived
And reflected upon
Like a widow bereaved
When I once again leave,
Venture on,
Bid adieu
To the words overdue
For the few I write you
Once again, yours truly
dishes out his regular dose
of literary gobbledygook
even Count Dracula
would not even bat an eye
nor give me his evil,
(albeit harmless) look
regarding feeble effort I undertook.

Don't forget hour hands
of clocks spring forward
sixty minutes 2:00 AM on
Sunday March 14!

Yes roundabout third eye blind -
doggone (con seeded)
melon collie month every year,
one garden variety ***
(inconvenienced truthfully)
precariously balanced
while tethered to Earth hoop fully
explains himself, hence following mishmash
divulged courtesy unnamed generic chum
purposelessly manipulating
space/time continuum hold over.

About 103 three hundred sixty five day  
increments elapsed since
United States adopted
Standard Time Act of March 19, 1918
confirmed existing
standard time zone system
and set summer DST
to begin on March 31, 1918
(reverting October 27).

Rat a tat tat doth lightly drum
upon mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
i.e., a sensation of jet lag
(with earthling out of balance)
as if aboard Monty Python's
flying Circus within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to craft reasonable rhyme,

nor be leer re: cull (lyrical)
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood
as picky hewn *** hum
fortunate rising son, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics

comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched to and fro
hither and yon from
sea to figurative shining sea.

Graham ma mother earth glum
where live yik yak wired vanguard
trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
reprising Tom Wolfe
("O Rotten Gotham — Sliding Down
into the Behavioral Sink")
her cremated inert ashes boxed
for more'n eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum

bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans

defiantly thumb nose,
where body, mind and soul
weeknd strength (viz a bully did cower)
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the band
(re: oh speed) wagon of father time,
who riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic energizer bunny
fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Michael Marchese Mar 2023
So glorify more
Warring ******
Hoarding wealth
Can’t ignore
The death toll
That it takes
Mental health
Unsurprisingly
Compromised
Lies
Monetized
Until losers
Are winners,
The past is revised
Yet reprising his role
Always fit for a king
Is the bad actor
Masking
His hack
Accounting
Just another product of that good American carnage
Once again, yours truly
dishes out his regular dose
of literary gobbledygook
even Count Dracula
would not even bat an eye
nor give me his evil curse,
butta I avoid tempting him
courtesy fanged hook or crook
(albeit harmless) look
regarding feeble effort I undertook.

Don't forget hour hands
of clocks spring forward
sixty minutes 2:00 AM
in Pennsylvania and other states
bracketed within eastern
Eastern Standard Time
on Sunday March thirteenth!

Yes roundabout third eye blind -
doggone (con seeded)
melon collie month every year,
one garden variety ***
(inconvenienced truthfully)
precariously balanced
while tethered to Earth hoop fully
explains himself, hence following mishmash
divulged courtesy unnamed generic chum
purposelessly manipulating
space/time continuum hold over.

About 107 three hundred sixty five day  
increments elapsed since
United States adopted
Standard Time Act of March 19, 1918
confirmed existing
standard time zone system
and set summer DST
to begin on March 31, 1918
(reverting October 27).

Rat a tat tat doth lightly drum
upon mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
i.e., a sensation of jet lag
(with earthling out of balance -
an inconvenient truth)
as if aboard Herbert George Wells,
time machine – and trapped
within The War of the Worlds
impossible mission to escape
at warp speed from
this horrid station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to craft reasonable rhyme,

nor be leer re: cull (lyrical)
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood
as picky hewn *** hum
fortunate rising son, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics

comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched to and fro
hither and yon from
sea to figurative shining sea.

Graham ma mother earth glum
where live yik yak wired vanguard
trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
reprising Tom Wolfe
("O Rotten Gotham — Sliding Down
into the Behavioral Sink")
her cremated inert ashes boxed
for more'n eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum

bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans

defiantly thumb nose,
where body, mind and soul
weeknd strength (viz a bully did cower)
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the band
(re: oh speed) wagon of father time,
who riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic energizer bunny
fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.

— The End —