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"schooled" poems
Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous, prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats! Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote. They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries. They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial!  Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric, neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ****** exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire, perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed; born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce, pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride... Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song, song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India, India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
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Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
POEM ENTITLED: “CAPRICORNS AND UNICORNS”
Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous, prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats! Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote. They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries. They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial!  Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric, neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ****** exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire, perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed; born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce, pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride... Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song, song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India, India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
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21
So ….. Who Are The ... ... " Good Guys " ... ? In These Modern Times ... ? Osama … Obama ... ? ? Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ? What ... Makes Them Good ... ? The Guns They Use ... As If They ... Should …. To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ... VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?! But REALLY … Is This ... What They Do … ?!? I've Heard Stories ... That … Relay TRUTH ... About The ABUSE ... Some Guardia … Choose … !!! Like … STRIPPING Men … In … Spanish Streets ... To ... Prove To Them …. The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ... They're ... BOUND To See ... If They ... DON'T Respect ... The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!! Good Guys ….. !!!?!!! REALLY … ?!? Or Employed … BULLIES ... !?! The Type Who ... FEED ... of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!! The Type That Make ... Young People … BLEED … !!! When ... Guns They … PARADE … Aren't Used … " Properly " … Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " …. Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ... Will Now … RESOUND ... In The ... Hearts and Mouths ... of ... Parents Now … Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!! Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!! WITHOUT A …. Song …. Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ... So …. ??? What Was The Mantra ... ? of … Adam Lanza ... ? To Shoot REPEATEDLY ... In A ... KILLING SPREE … That Took … SO MANY … !!!!! Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!? That His Thoughts … CLEARLY … Had Become … "UNstEAdy" … !!! So … Where Were Connecticut's ... GOOD GUYS … Then … ? With The ... " NRA " ... !?! At A ... Shooting Range … ??? Shooting Guns For … "FUN" … !!! While The Blood of A MUM ... And Youngsters ..... RUN ..................................... Down SCHOOL Hallways ... In The … Middle of The Day ... !?! Now The NRA Says … "Bad Guys with guns, need to face, good ones !" Okay Okay ... But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!! It's ... OKAY For A Man ... Whose Been Paid and Trained ... To ... SHOOT TO **** ... Pretty Much AT WILL ... Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " … By The …. " NRA " …. !?! Who Said ... They Were Good … !!!???!!! I Learnt My Lesson ... Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!! It Would ... Seem To Me ... That ... NRA Peeps … Care ... MORE For ... MONEY ... Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!! It's ... ALL About GREED … !!! Cos' ... Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ... To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!! To ENSURE The Streets ... Are Filled With … "PEACE" ... and I … For One ... DON'T Believe That Guns ... Have … ANY Function … In …. Education …. !!!!!! Educate Our Youth ….. !!! About The ... HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!! They NEED To Be Schooled ... In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!! And In ... Avoiding Depression … That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!! It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!! Our Fight Against ... Guns ... And Time To … " LESSEN " … !!! " NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!! That SUPPORT … " The Lie " of ….. " Preservation of life " … Through The Use of … ………. GUNS ………… Seeing Blood ... Run … DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!! NEITHER Does ... ... The Sight ... of Police In Schools ... With A Gun By Their Side … !!! They Weren't In View … When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!! So FOLKS … DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!! By ... Lobbyist Groups … !!!!! When It Comes To ... ... "Who is Who" … Who Are THEY To Decide … !???! When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ... Who The People Should Believe ..... To Be ………………………… ... "The Good Guys !!!" ...
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Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
"The Good Guys" ... A Poem written by Big Virge 22/12/2012
So ….. Who Are The ... ... " Good Guys " ... ? In These Modern Times ... ? Osama … Obama ... ? ? Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ? What ... Makes Them Good ... ? The Guns They Use ... As If They ... Should …. To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ... VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?! But REALLY … Is This ... What They Do … ?!? I've Heard Stories ... That … Relay TRUTH ... About The ABUSE ... Some Guardia … Choose … !!! Like … STRIPPING Men … In … Spanish Streets ... To ... Prove To Them …. The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ... They're ... BOUND To See ... If They ... DON'T Respect ... The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!! Good Guys ….. !!!?!!! REALLY … ?!? Or Employed … BULLIES ... !?! The Type Who ... FEED ... of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!! The Type That Make ... Young People … BLEED … !!! When ... Guns They … PARADE … Aren't Used … " Properly " … Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " …. Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ... Will Now … RESOUND ... In The ... Hearts and Mouths ... of ... Parents Now … Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!! Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!! WITHOUT A …. Song …. Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ... So …. ??? What Was The Mantra ... ? of … Adam Lanza ... ? To Shoot REPEATEDLY ... In A ... KILLING SPREE … That Took … SO MANY … !!!!! Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!? That His Thoughts … CLEARLY … Had Become … "UNstEAdy" … !!! So … Where Were Connecticut's ... GOOD GUYS … Then … ? With The ... " NRA " ... !?! At A ... Shooting Range … ??? Shooting Guns For … "FUN" … !!! While The Blood of A MUM ... And Youngsters ..... RUN ..................................... Down SCHOOL Hallways ... In The … Middle of The Day ... !?! Now The NRA Says … "Bad Guys with guns, need to face, good ones !" Okay Okay ... But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!! It's ... OKAY For A Man ... Whose Been Paid and Trained ... To ... SHOOT TO **** ... Pretty Much AT WILL ... Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " … By The …. " NRA " …. !?! Who Said ... They Were Good … !!!???!!! I Learnt My Lesson ... Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!! It Would ... Seem To Me ... That ... NRA Peeps … Care ... MORE For ... MONEY ... Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!! It's ... ALL About GREED … !!! Cos' ... Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ... To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!! To ENSURE The Streets ... Are Filled With … "PEACE" ... and I … For One ... DON'T Believe That Guns ... Have … ANY Function … In …. Education …. !!!!!! Educate Our Youth ….. !!! About The ... HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!! They NEED To Be Schooled ... In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!! And In ... Avoiding Depression … That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!! It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!! Our Fight Against ... Guns ... And Time To … " LESSEN " … !!! " NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!! That SUPPORT … " The Lie " of ….. " Preservation of life " … Through The Use of … ………. GUNS ………… Seeing Blood ... Run … DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!! NEITHER Does ... ... The Sight ... of Police In Schools ... With A Gun By Their Side … !!! They Weren't In View … When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!! So FOLKS … DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!! By ... Lobbyist Groups … !!!!! When It Comes To ... ... "Who is Who" … Who Are THEY To Decide … !???! When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ... Who The People Should Believe ..... To Be ………………………… ... "The Good Guys !!!" ...
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183
You were my perfect poem Brief but of many lessons Our life was the perfect paradox For love I thought we could rhyme You hated all I ever loved,I loved all you hated You said dirt was clean and the sun was cold You desired tears for years And resisted all advances of happiness All you hated I had to forsake For our love was at stake But like a toddler you had fun with my feelings Leaving our blindest love in darkness reeling Yet my greatest victory was losing you My severest pain was my sweetest gain You schooled me through experience My all-time worst teacher You were my perfect poem Eternity would be short to describe the undescribable For when my hand is strong to hold the pen Then my heart is weak to pen the words
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Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
my perfect poem
Novice, heed my diction— The learned, the schooled, the politic, Are but fools with conviction.
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Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Epigram
Bang! I heard a firework go off. I don't see any lights. Oh, I think that was a garage door falling shut. Or maybe someone slamming a door. I don't want to think about what it might have actually been. It's not like summer has come and gone months ago. It's not like nobody has garages around here. It's not like people slam doors loud enough for it to echo around the inside of my school. It's not like I'm scared for me and my friends every time I enter the building. It's not like that, I swear. Everyone is scared. Everyone is lashing out. Everyone is on their toes. Everyone is trying to become home-schooled. We want to leave. Not for boredom, not for the next best thing. But for safety, for home. Who's coming in the door next? Who's going to stop them? Who's going to survive? Who is going to die?
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Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
Bang!
When the dust swirls in the March wind the forlorn noon is thick with flames of the forest and the meadow sighs in gold yellow sun my eyes seek Krishna in that aching void. She grazed the cows from morn till twilight and though eldest among the siblings she was schooled only in the blazing days learning to pull her herd to greener pasture venturing into marshes none would dare tread. Not one groom could be found for her bypassed she was for her fairer sisters that went to school grew up were married and ushered new inmates to the world. Then a few summers past when I had almost forgotten her I saw her forehead smeared with vermilion. But why she had to come back playing once again the shepherd girl gathering them for home at dusk crooning aaaaaa….oooooo….. I don’t know if Krishna went back to her husband for after a few days she wasn’t seen again. Only the winds howled in the forlorn noon and the little shepherd girls who came after her whispered she had at the in-laws hung herself from a tree.
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Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Krishna
I'm not fooled, though you've my attention time you were schooled given detention you're dropping each line... fumbling each word but that's fine you're running scared-- give it up hand back the crown cause queenie this jester put you DOWN chucks my boy I've got his back you've been derailed =========== you're way off track here's a tissue wipe your eyes cause these words like Embers never Dies
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Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
Gangsta Rappers Rapped
my cousin liked to have breakfast at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays the owner knew she loved French breads, having been schooled at the Sorbonne   the bakery made them at his behest     he would tell his staff to keep one for her and to bring a bag when served; she always saved half for later   rush hour was madder than usual   that night, until the bombs blasted and brought the synovial silence that comes in the wake of wondering, what has happened?     the sirens screamed soon enough and my cousin smelled the smoke   cordite, yes, but burnt baklava, Maamoul as well   his fiancée came to him that night   watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew   was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow, in the languid hush after the city slowed to its mournful rest   the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise, and they went to the café, where the owner apologized for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes after the bakery died
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Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Baguettes in Beirut
How it felt about when she smiled Her roses were red wine Teeth were an iceberg in a cold sea I didn't know she knew me more than by name I walked head up to her in a confident laze She always willed to lay a hand in a steamy time Whenever she called me by my pet name I would light up a grin How I couldn't help her spell How much I belied of having a way out The more she drew close, the more I sank in How she made seduction a white collar trade The lavish eyes, the lazy talk, the pure feminine mien She pat on my shoulder and turned to catch a glance Asked what made her hands a soft pleasure Whispered that she was schooled in pottery and making dough I couldn't stop but ask about the flawless curves She pushed out her lips and said  I used to spin a ring at nine I asked her out for a movie She said tragedies make her cry One day I went to look down through my office windowpane My sight met hers taking down a secret gang With a fierce nine millimeter gun I was left speechless in awe We needed to rethink our revolution On her mission in Damascus a plane crashed I still cried a pail.
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Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Ms. Sira
He's found himself in the closet After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe And tied his lobster bib tightly Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come It's curtains for her She let the cat out of the bag And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with Right in the birth canal Then we'll auction off the ****** We'll pass them off as European defibrillators Maybe some extremist will want them If we spew out enough mindless dribble The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin We have The Chronic Masturbater The Hypochondriac And The Pathological Liar It was either sometime yesterday Or sometime tomorrow Or was it sometime today? That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat? Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb I can tell he was the runt of the litter Who always bites off more than he can chew I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema   He rattles off all his symptoms Inordinate filibustering   Now there's the Chronic Masturbater He looks like he's over the hill He's only twenty one But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers My billfold his happily filled So I must go do some reconnaissance Spy on those who have quit their day jobs The fish out of water You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it ****** ******* ******* ******* No... Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool Indentured servants we're just an after thought
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Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Smitten
He's found himself in the closet After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe And tied his lobster bib tightly Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come It's curtains for her She let the cat out of the bag And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with Right in the birth canal Then we'll auction off the ****** We'll pass them off as European defibrillators Maybe some extremist will want them If we spew out enough mindless dribble The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin We have The Chronic Masturbater The Hypochondriac And The Pathological Liar It was either sometime yesterday Or sometime tomorrow Or was it sometime today? That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat? Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb I can tell he was the runt of the litter Who always bites off more than he can chew I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema   He rattles off all his symptoms Inordinate filibustering   Now there's the Chronic Masturbater He looks like he's over the hill He's only twenty one But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers My billfold his happily filled So I must go do some reconnaissance Spy on those who have quit their day jobs The fish out of water You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it ****** ******* ******* ******* No... Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool Indentured servants we're just an after thought
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45
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. Little's known of Nellie's early years; Da died before she knew grieving tears, They'd turn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her look is distant, Her face is blurred, But recognizable In an instant. She was schooled six years To last a life, Some math, the Irish, To read and write. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God and Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie, Relieved their worry. War flared, men were few, There was work in Coventry. Ireland's thistles were left to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed, When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, And brought the mill to life again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself A generator, Providing power To lights and wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Daddy's angel. Is this what turns A father strange? Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no borders For brothers and sisters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
0
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Her Many Names
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. Little's known of Nellie's early years; Da died before she knew grieving tears, They'd turn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her look is distant, Her face is blurred, But recognizable In an instant. She was schooled six years To last a life, Some math, the Irish, To read and write. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God and Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie, Relieved their worry. War flared, men were few, There was work in Coventry. Ireland's thistles were left to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed, When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, And brought the mill to life again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself A generator, Providing power To lights and wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Daddy's angel. Is this what turns A father strange? Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no borders For brothers and sisters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
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Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!
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Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
Polysyllables vs Exclamation Marks and Bellowing All-Caps and Ball-Caps
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT [In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.] We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast. Front row. Second row. Back row. Digging in for the big push. The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended. The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together. The pray-ers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.  The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt! But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward. This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown. - Now back to the action.
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Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Prayer #9
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT [In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.] We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast. Front row. Second row. Back row. Digging in for the big push. The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended. The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together. The pray-ers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.  The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt! But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward. This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown. - Now back to the action.
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14
Count-entious . . . Five-Seven-Five, or Is it Seven-Five-Seven? Dyslexic Haiku! High Coo-Coo . . . Words like scrambled eggs Malapropos slip off the tongs Lysdexics UNTIE! In Swummary . . . I never flip turned I zagged; everyone else zigged Oh, how I was schooled
0
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Living Dyslexia
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
0
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
"confirmation" of a "catholic" in a russian orthodox church
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
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60
That day I met her at the Shelter She said, “My name is Dora", While hanging upside down, off kilter, “I’m Dora the Explorer!” Balanced on the armoire door Beckoning me to help her retrieve Hanging high above the floor A ballet that I couldn’t believe... Up on one toe she dangled As she demanded I help her reach Some toys she longed to wrangle Until we heard a commanding screech! “Get down from there!  Wash your hands! Asia, it’s almost time for dinner!" Dora leapt-trusting- she lands Her high-flying act a sure winner! Oh, Dora, who is Asia? She said, “I don’t like that name-sorry! Later let's play a new game? After dinner my name is Laurie!” Since she answered to that name I schooled her in her name’s history But Dora just wouldn’t be tamed “Not a CONTINENT-I’m a MYSTERY!” Asia, alias Laurie Dora After supper, brushed and scrubbed Gave the best, my airy explorer- Dora's monumental hug! She sprang to my arms without warning Like a monkey from a vine I wasn’t aware until morning It was the best hug of all time!
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Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Dora the Explorer
You're an anomaly. Your frizzy hair And strange birthmarks Give off a less than fantastic impression To the shallow. You are soft spoken You are obsessed with fan fiction. I hear that you write... I know that you are A home schooled super-christian. Maybe that's part of the reason For my lack of understanding. You are an alien In my socially awkward agnostic world.
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May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
roommate number two
They tried to replace The teachers With robots And computer Programs only The human teacher Had been deemed Inefficient And ineffective They were replaced By robots who Had been downloaded With all necessary information Well what do you think Now that your child Is being taught By a robot These robots Are not kind Nor will they console Your child if he fails Some people are pulling Their children out Of public schools Because they want them To be home schooled By human beings Well, I have to say I don't blame them
0
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
Robots As Teachers
Who's always taking pictures Who's always on the scene Snaps the Stars at their worst Bikini thunder thighs with cottage cheese He catches Stars out jogging When they are a sweaty slimy mess That is when this Paparazzi Is at his photogenic best He finds them out to dinner Makes sure their forks are full So he can catch them stuffing face Halle Berry...you've just been schooled The Stars have no idea how much It is that they need him To keep their names in the press And their butts down at the gym He loves the feeling that he gets Adrenalin rush that keeps him high Never is a job complete Till he can make a Big Star cry There's not a project that he won't take on The one in which he is most proud The pic of the President having lunch with the aliens That photo shop was his brain child So give it up for the Paparazzi Who entertains in the grocery isle every day Giving us all the latest scoop On who is and isn't gay Yes, without the Paparazzi We would never be in the know And now knowing all that Hollywood does We can be thankful for a life that's dull!
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May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
*Paparazzi*
You do not seem to mean any real harm but in fact you have such a deadly charm. Someone who’s not aware of your guile is approached by you wearing a smile. Many are the ones that you have fooled who have been all but wrongly schooled in the serious business of love and devotion perishing without you showing any emotion. You turn your back quickly at the sign of any disunity as if you’ve been waiting for just such an opportunity. You also don’t really care about anything else except to be praised and will brook no compromise if any issues of disloyalty are raised. You think and make out as if you’re always right regardless of the truth becoming evident to sight. You’re not to be blamed if anything goes wrong and will challenge any suspicion before too long. If anyone happens to open up their heart to you they run the big risk of having it broken in two. A deceiving love full of pain is the thing you give as this is the way by which you know how to live.
0
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
A False Lover
I leaned on the rail, stared through my mental zoom and wondered. Were ther footprints in the sand of that island to the windward? No sign of man. Startled cliff caves gaped at us, seagulls dived at us, while whales schooled us and led us away. We passed by and the North Channel sighed. Now it's just a floater in my eye, a landscape's distant daub of grey-green, a mystery mote that still returns, but I pass by praising Gaia.
0
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
A Distant Daub
start with a bucket of dusted gravel tip into a cold pan, a wriggling jungle of alphabet gasps. drown. rock the pan of words in arms agitating the line-breaks the twisting plait of water spurts the lightweight sediment over the edge to a scrap pool of dog-tailed idioms the rest charges, a collage of schooled fish the pulse in the rubble sinks like a dictionary to the base. ransack the salt-swamp of dazed stanzas as a malnourished mole catch a lump, grasp between digits it twinkles under caked mud. free it from parasite-adjectives strain from the crocodile water a chiseled torso of words in the rock all along.
0
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 7:06 AM UTC
Gold panning
cigarettes $ pysilocibin my silhouette is like a lion feeling high like lifted horizons soak me in like negative ions trust your gut, trust your instinct life is in sync, but change happens every instant haters have their opinions my styles they still mimic im a discordian magician, ill have your mind tricked have you question is your reality fact or fiction? master chef still rules the kitchen im a bad boy ladies love the villain cross me once no forgiveness nova fills all voids thats empty max pizzazz raps has plenty im living carefree like heart of a young star,,, in elementary but i cant be schooled, bejeweled, or lose my cool most cannot comprehend the magnitude of nova flames my path cannot be retraced, you'll be sent on figure eights aka familiar ways, blinded by intense ultraviolet rays aka a violent blaze i was married to the game cuhz i accidentally caught the bouquet on my life's wedding day now i ride the electric wave aka majestic whales the super nova tares the scales now i must rebuild my crystal castle with one pail bucket once i reach the summit i can enjoy the fruits of my labor at the all you can eat buffet, and live in my abundance, never ever hungry...
0
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
36.63
To be alone Is to be complete They say No man is an island, But isn't everyone? We're all stranded on islands of self-interest Connected to others Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances Mutual interests and gain The more connected we are The more isolated we become Pictures and blog posts Nothing more than facades Anomie is the word of the decade The individualistic The self-sufficient Is reviled For refusing to play the game To participate In the masquerade To jump through the hoops Of social niceties Somehow To sit and squirm Through ******* contests and gossip To flap and flutter In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter Is preferred over Sitting alone Revelations and epiphanies Splayed out before oneself Playing solitaire with one's reflections In peace Baby showers and mixers Celebrated The impenetrable silence Of one's hermitage Eschewed The people-pleaser Preferred Over the lone wolf The team player Over the independent agent I suppose In an age of open doors A locked one Raises a few eyebrows They'd knock and rattle Then bang and kick and shout Before leaving in a huff Authenticity is now the rarest commodity Valued over saffron and platinum So people settle instead For knockoffs Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing A China-made Rolex still looks better -- Flashier, if nothing else -- Than a Timex No man is an island, They say, Smirking Frowning Clucking with disapproval Peering behind perfectly schooled masks Nary a hair out of place Looking at me In all my artless imperfection Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company Well Which of us here Is truly alone?
0
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Juche: Meditations on Solitude
To be alone Is to be complete They say No man is an island, But isn't everyone? We're all stranded on islands of self-interest Connected to others Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances Mutual interests and gain The more connected we are The more isolated we become Pictures and blog posts Nothing more than facades Anomie is the word of the decade The individualistic The self-sufficient Is reviled For refusing to play the game To participate In the masquerade To jump through the hoops Of social niceties Somehow To sit and squirm Through ******* contests and gossip To flap and flutter In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter Is preferred over Sitting alone Revelations and epiphanies Splayed out before oneself Playing solitaire with one's reflections In peace Baby showers and mixers Celebrated The impenetrable silence Of one's hermitage Eschewed The people-pleaser Preferred Over the lone wolf The team player Over the independent agent I suppose In an age of open doors A locked one Raises a few eyebrows They'd knock and rattle Then bang and kick and shout Before leaving in a huff Authenticity is now the rarest commodity Valued over saffron and platinum So people settle instead For knockoffs Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing A China-made Rolex still looks better -- Flashier, if nothing else -- Than a Timex No man is an island, They say, Smirking Frowning Clucking with disapproval Peering behind perfectly schooled masks Nary a hair out of place Looking at me In all my artless imperfection Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company Well Which of us here Is truly alone?
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71
Twisted around your finger tightly Master, schooled in the art of manipulation Do they had out degrees for that? Many victims fell before me How many will follow? You play the wounded soul so well Drawing the adulation of hapless idiots Professing empathy and compassion With a heart void of any sincerity Emotional vampire, leaching attention Savoring the taste of ultimate control Puppeteer, yanking fragile life strings Of a frantically dancing marrionette Its face contorted in a rictus of pain Till you tire of the pathetic show And drop it like a bag of old bones Thus satisfied, Walk away looking for the next dummy
0
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
Puppet Master