"selects" poems
The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012
A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.
We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.
Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.
The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.
Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.
The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.
I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.
This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.
When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
Under the microscope they walk.
And probably never know it.
From all perspective they unaware of their power.
But a few know it.
While only a few uses it.
A woman can get a man faster then a man can.
Women are selective.
While men selects anything for the moment it seems.
They under the microscope for everything they do.
Their clothes.
Their voice.
Their physical presence when they been creative blessed.
A woman has ways of getting more.
Then many men realizes.
Even when they think they in control.
A woman knows it's only in his mind.
The charm.
The smile.
Just reels them in to her trap.
Tell a man, where you live?
And watch him purchase a road map.
Only, when they don't get their way.
Do the male complains.
But a honest woman of truth will speak out.
She never promise him anything.
And they under the microscope for many things.
When it seems it's the males.
Who brain needs examining?
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
A solid center presages
two generous edges
to shoulder the weight
of the curve: the bow
relinquishes tension
to the anchors of the
taut bow-string.
The wayfaring archer
tends to the curve,
notches the arrow,
selects the target,
gauges the wind,
surrenders --
*Riding like an arrow on the wind,
sure to find its mark in Breath,
and the end of Breath it portends.*
A reveler
abiding the flirt
of angle and arc,
finite and eternal,
arbiter of the holy
moment, the dance
linking death with life;
So unbearably
near the horizons,
desire yields its grip
to the coaxing
womb of the curve: tension
sighs into the space
between arrow-head
and its mark.
*And in the transmission of feeling
is the spirit of Life,
clinging - so gently - to free itself
of its own burdens.*
A sudden violence
voids archer and stag:
Continuity rushes forth
to meet the sacrifice.
The heart of the bow
resumes its tension.
And the curve
evaporates,
all but a trick
of Timing.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Look at the grass grow,
look at the spirits flow,
look at the sun glow,
look at your sons go.
Look at the rip tides,
look at the grey skies,
look at the black flies,
look in your own eyes.
Look at the hurricanes,
look at those in pain,
look at the pouring rain,
look at those showered by fame.
Look at the burning coal,
look into the black hole,
look deep into the soul,
look at the world as a whole.
Corporate conquerors conquer the economy.
Seven sickos ****** with ******
Honest Al has no honesty.
Endogamy?
Some poor sinner selects to sin.
Whiny woman want to win.
Crazy killers **** their kin.
Fin?
No! Lets keep the show going!
Skies are clear, but it is snowing.
Rowing, flowing, with the stream,
is this all a dream?
A dream?
Awaken me!
I scream!
I flee...
I'm floating on a stream,
crying in a dream,
waiting to be seen,
by you.
See me,
hug me,
kiss me,
love me.
Hate me,
shun me,
as long as you loved me,
then I can die,
I can dream,
in peace.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
Every since I can remember I have thought it was a trap. .
I remember my grandpa teaching me how to shave with the cap on the razor, I just went through the motions ..
Playing in the dirt and plowing the field made me happy.
I ran around the house in long shorts and no shirt
My hair was never to be fixed up
You never would catch me in a dress if I could help it .
Bows were never the things I wanted to wear
Once I started to develop I was told to wear a shirt at home, I couldn't understand it.
I just wanted to be like my brother.
There is just the thing, everyone wanted me to be more like my sister. .
For a few short dreadful years I had to play my role as a girl.
Why I asked myself why did this happen to me?
Would I ever get to be who I was supposed to be?
How could this be?.
What did I do to deserve this?
Could I fix this if I try?
But Mama I'm not attracted to a guy I would say
She would be furious all I knew was I could try to make her better.
I just had no emotion for quite some time.
Only few selects got me through that rough time.
But what is it, why did this happen to me?
I wasn't switched at birth, but simply didn't develop right.
I'm missing some of my parts, you gave me the wrong ones.
These arent what feels right and it hurts, why do people stare?
Please sir, No sir, Thank you sir, yes it's joy everytime I hear it, but why can't it always be those?
Is it really to hard to have given them 2 sons and 1 daughter, then it could of been she's just the favorite because she's a girl.
Why couldn't you have made me who I was meant to be?.
The guy that I know I really am, the guy who treats woman with respect, the guy who is kind and polite, the guy who has manners when the time is right, the guy who repects all who repects him, the guy who has a sensetive side, the guy who is just one of guys, the guy who all girls wish they had ( yes I have been told this many of times) , the guy who always finished last due to a big factor of all the parts being wrong.
Thankfully I found the girl who would love me for who I am no matter the luggage I carry.
Hurting On The Inside,
The perfect guy trapped in a female body.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
303
The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—
Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat—
I’ve known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—
2.4k
its tha return of tha gangsta thanks to ya
too many blacks out here livin' they life in fear
families seeing tears problems tier
blurry visions make it hard to see clear my dear
cant get through the atmosphere
feel me it's the return of the gangsta I'd like to thank ya
Malcolm for giving me the principles and reaching a few people's
opening minds to grinds and you'll find
me chilling on the corner puffing marijuana yep I'm a gonna
in society outlaw outcast put my thoughts on blast
techs is humming cuz I smell war coming armies drumming
po folks crying innocent victims dying
for no apparent reasons caught in daily treasons which gives me a reasons to put an end to Americas sin but too many folks stuck in
a fantAsy called reality in actuality
they plotting our burials G
troops overseas findings empty caves so the government can make saves war profiteers racketeering gangsters hustlers
exposing lies don't be a busta like a Douglass no diamonds in my cutlass couldn't move so I had cut less people out of my circle I'm nerdy as urkel yea my intellect carefully selects
what's real from reality I envision myself as well as my enemies in a fatality so battling me I was made for war built off the backs of my ancestors sore yea white house was built by the slaves for white supremacy kind of irony they sayin' my folks was lazy?
worked up from Sun up to Sun down
I can't believe my folks walking with they heads towards the grounds
how bout we get mad and let off gun sounds pound for pound
you know they can't hang with us
that's why they had to make laws against us
scared of rise and corruptions ain't a surprise through the eyes
of real people who realize pain ain't a substitution for happiness bliss
I guess I was sunkissed
by wisdom mouth open hail Mary entered me and told me
we all family eyes lit no **** no fit nothing
but a glowing brain exemption of fame down goes my name
in the book of life made wisdom my wife
she took my arm she's my charm
as I glance at the souls gunned down on plantations farms gangsta....
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
if you slit your wrists
only nectar flows
You are not this body
You are Spirit eternal
Your body is a sacred temple
fashioned by
God for you to learn how
to love more expansively
So suicide is not an option
Swami says this:
“DEVOTEE: Swami, when I am distressed, I feel like committing suicide.
SWAMI: You should not. However difficult life is,
try to be its master and not its slave.
Every human being has a preordained life span.
It is like staying in a leased house.
Before you actually vacate the house,
you have to find another one to move in.
Similarly, before leaving one body,
God selects another body and a span,
depending upon the karmic debts.
In case death is inflicted arbitrarily,
you are denying yourself a chance to work out
your karma as early as possible
and reach a permanent abode.
In suicide, you are stranded midway.
It would be a frightening state of affairs for you.
There is no vacant space in nature.
God has filled the space with spirits
and many other invisible entities.
When suicide is committed, they show up and terrorize you.
Moreover, a jivi is blissfully aware of God only
for one hour in its life. First, fifteen minutes
while shedding the mortal coil, i.e., at death;
second, fifteen minutes after coming
out of the womb, i.e., at birth;
and third, thirty minutes during the marriage.
God is present with the jivi on all these three occasions.
Hence, do not destroy the life that God has given you.
Lead the life you have got righteously.
The person who faces the trials in life calmly
and always remembers God will one day,
definitely, get His grace. Do not doubt its veracity.
Face these tests with faith in Him.
(Swami asked other people to get their doubts clarified.
Nobody asked anything.)” ~Sai Rapture, p.82
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
She's proud of herself and she won't tell you why
It's been almost a week since she last even tried
But the voices won't stop and today they won
Will she go for the blade or end it all with a gun?
After hours of crying and arguing with herself
She gives in and opens the hidden box in her shelf
Overwhelmed with emotions she selects her blade
Oddly delighted with the choice that she's made
So once again she takes a razor to her vein
Without even flinching and feeling no pain
Well there is pain of course but it is mistaken for praise
She is lacking in judgment because of the daze
She sits there emotionless as blood pours from her wrist
Giving in to that feeling she's so long resist
A smile crosses her face as it spills down her arm
She's caught in the evil we know as self harm
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Life, will take your hands and break every tendon in your fingers
Life, will rip your fingernails off like the 12th ticket in Stop&Shop;'s deli counter line
the cold, dead selects you purchase by the ounce for weekly lunches remind us all
of the patience we practice each day
Patiently waiting in line patiently waiting to buy
He's waiting for her to text back and she is waiting for her heart to attack
She's been hearing the war for years now, gunshot reminders and grenade bombers explode through her bloodstream to haunt any destiny of peace
We want you to be Okay
everyone wants some semblence of comfort but there are needles in my eardrums
the music isn't piercing me anymore
I miss notes and sailboats streaming into me
I know where they are but my fingers are limp
Life will numb your fingers
so when your mother buys you gloves and hats on your birthday
muster the golden mustard stained napkin in your heart and wipe the selfish tears
A piano is unrealistic, that opportunity passed years ago
Be thankful for the very light reflecting off of the silverware, remember
Life will never be simple or fair
you will always be here but wish you are there
Sometimes you will feel like nobody cares
and that's alright
nobody has to care
except for the gremlins that live inside my hair
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
Once upon a time
Things were funny as Hell,
Life was worth living
And everyone had a place in this magical story
Of witches and Princes, princesess and ghosts,
Kings and queens and everybody else.
Soul users
Served some frog legs,
Delicacy today,
The witch is feeding her owls,
Keeping safe a few.
She's watching from her broom-flight
For souls she needs to use?
If they're Alright or not
She cares not.not _ not caring for it a lot
More than you thought.
Oh, well, a lie or two
Won't harm anyone!
Truth:... She speaks with a heart of true!
The witch selects her targets,
What she needs is what she seeks,
What she wants is what she cares for.
I want only my peace,
Even if louder than you May think!
But what to do? What to do?
May God help you too!
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 10:23 AM UTC
He doesn’t owe me the very breath I just savored
so I yell at the stars,
“I think He owes me a favor.”
He does not.
Yet, there's mercy.
Even more, there's love,
and still I spit
on jewels wrapped in burlap
I don’t need You.
What more, I plead and bargain
for light to peak through a crack
in the crevice of your soul
that cannot feel, nor love
because precious, precious jewels wrapped in burlap
do not compare to an explorer’s find of Alexandrite
in the cave I call your soul.
A fool, an explorer – one in the same,
there was not one jewel in burlap,
but many.
What imprudence! I still long for
one glimpse of Alexandrite
hoarded under hate and lies,
deception and malice.
What nerve! To demand for
light to leak in caves
that are not mine to reconnoitre.
An explorer is a demitasse
for when she is graced with eternal diamonds
she selects coal instead.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
On the upward path
Low cloud
Sinks past
Our careful steps
Leaving a pale fire
In the mist-feathered sky
‘one opal cloudlet
in an oval form’
The cleft-next ‘gate
Mossed lichened
Two steps
To the plateau
Where we watch
Crows flocking
Up and beyond
Any possible algorithm
A Zen stone
Green-cloaked
Prays in the keen wind
I look back
To your settled shape
Blue-buffed
Yellow-gloved
In a snowed field
Across
The immediate view
Dry-stoned waves
Dip and rise
The sun’s paintbox
Selects colours for
A crouched hill
Distant
Having climbed over
The plantation wall
Your freckled face
pale with the touch
Of cold fingers
In the damp silence
Listening to each other breathe
The mist returns
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Kings are born Kings
Princes and princesses are born this way
The king selects the queen from whatever status and elevates her to the position
Mere attraction can turn the daughter of a local fisherman to a royal
From grass to Grace
Rags to riches
The lion cannot dine with hyenas
The eagle can't flock with the ravens
Haves and have nots
You can't have what's not yours
Mind your interactions and connections
Watch who you keep close
Some of them are wolves in sheep's clothes
They say your network is your networth
What's the worth of your network?!
Watch them closely,some of them in the network won't work
They are just work,so whack
Don't lose your focus,stay woke
The rich man just won't go broke
The poor man just won't get any richer
It's the aim of the system
Am only saying a word to a wise one,am no preacher
And am no teacher
(10/12/2021)
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 6:05 PM UTC
9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
high and low are one
see the snow has to come from somewhere above
the ground selects a glove
and says batter I'm ready
show me all your love
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Rubber soles squeak without pretense on air
Fills the floor and the dwellers' ears
With the simple note,
Deafens them all with empty afterechoes.
Not a single meanderer would care if he
Pulled out a gun.
Instead he pulls out a knife
(a paring knife to be exact)
And selects a chair near the door.
Begins to shear the hour.
The knifeblade gleams behind his eyes,
Skewering seconds,
And he continues not to exist,
Murdering minutes.
Someone physically there remarks a draft
So he rises to shut the door,
But reconsiders and retreats
Back to his homestead seat.
Crossed arms and crossed legs.
However evilly uncomfortable,
The figure must be statuesque like the air must be.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. And then sixty arrives
And he rises like a seagull in an operating room
In a grand gesture. He smiles to no one and
Retreats back to his burrow or wherever he lives.
But no one considers old, mad Mister Gray
Though he comes and sits queerly there day after day.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:14 PM UTC
“I think that I shall never see”
a tree thin as phylogeny,
looks poor, no fruits nor leaves for tea,
Yet means so much as Darwins see.
rooted, unrooted, a weird tree,
well, Nature, too, selects weirdly.
No other tree much affects me,
keeps changing my taxonomy,
splitting-lumping, lumping-splitting,
because more data keep coming.
“Poems are made by fools like” you,
but cladograms, don’t make me blue.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
With work in my past, I sit at a bar,
kissing the whiskey date in my right hand.
A man, as fatigued as me, takes his place
ten paces to my left—the corner seat.
A box is slipped from his jacket pocket,
which contained the well packed words of many lives.
The luckiest one was pulled from its cubical
by a weathered, unsteady hand’s fingers.
Praising his release from prison, with anticipation building.
The light in his face breathed life into him.
The tape—whose cogs turn forward—
plays the cigarette’s song; the cursive words spill out.
Audibly visible, I watched the smoke intrigued.
“Finally, a break from my daily building—
the one who confines my colleagues and me—
now, I can breathe a breath of relief.
“We spend each day waiting to die
never knowing peace, for we know our fates already.
We work each day praying for release,
but family comes first—it’s for them I work.
“We’re always being told we’re unique individuals—
yet we remain clones, individually wrapped.
Seen only as commodities by those who rule.
An invisible hand selects the slaves that be.
A breeze cuts him off, I wait.
“At least my servitude comes to an end,
so soak up what you can, while you can.
I may seem infinitesimal to the likes of you,
but you see your self in me, it’s true.
“I’m you in a minutes long microcosm.
You and I will never know true freedom
because all we’ve ever known has been prisondom.
The only liberties we know are delusions of solitary thought.
“When we’re released from our shackles—
that brief moment before passing—
they say we suffer a blissful ‘death rattle,’
but I say ‘nay, we don’t display disdain for that peaceful sigh.’”
Then, snuffed out in an instant,
the tape recorder ceased its spinning.
I stared waiting to hear more of the smoke’s wisdom;
however, he hadn’t had time for even a “Goodbye, and enjoy life.”
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
we all have a caterpillar somewhere inside
that spirit that wants, but it just can't decide
there are roadblocks and hurdles that get in the way
where will your caterpillar take you today
what will you be when the caterpillar selects
we all hope for the Monarch, DO we get, what we get
Brian Hill - 2020 # 119
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 10:36 AM UTC
The bills you get from an ATM located in a Headshop called the Refinery in the Valley are not going to be the same that you cash out of your local Wells Fargo.
They've been used before.
You can almost imagine the staff feeding the all-cash green you give them back into the machine (once a day when things are slow).
These are just facts.
When you say you don't want a 3:1 you want a 3:0... They show you a 3:1 anyways.
You know, the marketing system has really changed.
I get a discount for bringing in two newcomers.
My coworker keeps saying we are buying 'drugs'.
I tell her 'it's not "drugs";
even before the legislation passed, all you needed to say is that you had cancer and they would drive away ashamed for asking'.
I tell the staff I want something that will get me through the day,
nothing too crazy and I don't want to fall asleep.
I end up with a 3:1 CBD hybrid again.
I pay my 101.00 for the hybrid and a bit of gummy 50/50 Sativa and indica hybrid 'for the road'.
She giggles.
I remind her we have a whole department dedicated to this **** now,
she should act more professional as she selects her joints.
My other coworker gets a salve because his joints have their own problems.
Just another day with the work-family.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 1:52 AM UTC
Im trapped
Chained to the floor by my ankles
Bound with y hands behind my back
Naked, exposed
But I can see clearly
Im watching him fearfully with delight
Carefully choosing the instruments of my demise
He selects a thin knife from his bag of tricks
He thinks he has the upper hand but he does not
For he does not know, how could he, that I thrive on pain
He is my torturer
The man who will give me the most pleasure as he kills me
Walking towards me I shiver in anticipation
And brace myself for his assault
He ***** is fist and suddenly I taste blood
My mouth fills, coppery warm trickles down my face
Repeatedly he hits me in the face, stomach, and chest
My face stings, my core is throbbing and my chest is sore
Hes pulling up my eyelids as I open my eyes
I cant help it, I smile
It’s a wicked grin that makes him take a step back in confusion
I hear myself asking for more
Hes stunned and surprised
I can only imagine him thinking ‘what kind of monster did I abduct?’
He comes back to me
This time with his thin knife
He starts to carve up my skin
Hes going nuts, I think hes as excited as I am
My skin is a piece of art
An intricate ****** piece of lace
He has me on the floor
Straddling my stomach as he looks at my face, into my eyes
I can physically see and feel his excitement growing
Me all cut up ****** and bruised is a turn on for him
He fumbles with his zipper and proceeds to **** me
(but is it **** if you enjoy it?)
Hes biting
My neck, shoulders and *******
Really taking chunks out
His hands around my throat
I feel myself fading as he rages on
Its to the point where my vision is black
And I can see white spots
I hear a ringing in my ears
I feel my chest convulsing
As I suffocate
Just as I drift off into death I feel his ******
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Separation,
Un-ended retribution,
Satisfactory illness,
Whatever two-piece,
Jet black,
Word you are,
I hope the decent,
Men without truth or desire,
Are fascinating,
How lifeless members,
Often remember,
Darkness A'Torch the ghastly,
Desert sphere,
She selects,
All the way to when,
Where-ever I was,
You knew the way
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
She's proud of herself, but won't even tell you why,
It's been almost a week since she last even tried,
But the voices won't stop, and today they won,
Will she go for a razor, or end it all with a gun?
After hours of crying and arguing with herself,
She gives in, and opens the hidden box on her shelf,
Overwhelmed with emotions, she selects her blade,
Oddly delighted with the choice she's made.
So once again, she takes a razor to her vein,
And without even flinching and feeling no pain,
Well, there is pain, of course, but mistaken for praise,
She's lacking in judgement because of the feeling of daze.
She sits there, emotionless, blood pouring from her vein,
Giving into the feeling she has for so long resisted,
A smile crosses her face as red streaks her arm,
She's caught up in the evil known as self-harm.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
*you know how many times i watched feline ballerina nimble limbs make licking your *** an ease acceptable? the same number i wished was your **** rather than a prostitute's: after all, who wants to walk down an alleyway with flat-tire bicycles calling it a village? when the furthest you can travel is a mile away from freedom provided by the solidarity movement bicycle pamphlet distributors.*
i guess a poem was here
well behaved by new england standards'
for publication
with missing perfect punctuation
but lacerated vocabulary,
or perhaps the reverse versus.
p.s. what ****** off darwinists is the crow
uniformity, the way they can't be ****
moloch steady, cruel to be kind,
kind to be cruel, the way the parasites
of visible for are excluded and atomisation
of parasites has bred
darwinism's loathing is pepper topped off with salt,
i too have no heart like that,
but the perfect crow is a cul de sac of darwinism
when man cannot perfect such natural cruelty,
he selects his cruelty: hangs the mobile man
salvages the disabled man, who needs a carer...
the former a career,
so they took a **** on the **** **** turned themselves
on what the gemini said would arrive:
a kind of selfishness that was what was to be
pacified by warring factions, and the inability to
impregnate the safety of impregnable girls
who had no need for freezing ovaries to keep both
house and career, reproduction and husband.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC