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Emily Marie Aug 2014
Society sells beautiful lies,
Emphasis on the beautiful,
They sell you the definition of beauty in
small pictures,
small ads,
small sizes.
Spinning the world on a string,
They've got us all fooled.
Telling teens they don't need to eat,
"Skip the food today,
be beautiful tomorrow".
Selling the idea that beauty can replace sorrows.
Society sells the idea that beauty is empowerment.
Society sells the idea that if you are beautiful,
then you could have the world on a string.
These lies lead our leaders of tomorrow into disarray.
Sell us the idea that if we are beautiful
today will be better than yesterday.
But the empty promises lead us all astray,
Abandoned on street corners begging for scraps,
because we didn't think we felt empowerment.

Society sells small,
Society sells beauty,
Society sells small.
Small models,
Small manikins,
Small sizes.
Spinning the world on a string,
Society sells the idea that the size of your waist,
defines how beautiful you are.
Society sells the idea that beauty
is empowerment.
Society sells small.
Society sells the idea that if you are not small,
you are not empowered,
waste of space.

Society sells small.
Society says beauty is empowerment.
These lies lead our leaders of tomorrow into disarray,
Too many teens today are to prone to facings their problems with razor blades,
Because today was not better than yesterday.
Then tomorrow won't be either.

Society sells small,
small pictures,
small ads,
small manikins.
Society sells protruding plastic ribs,
ribs sharp enough to cut paper.
Society sells the figures of the sick and dying.

Society sells small.
Small enough to be drop dead gorgeous,
Emphasis on the drop dead,
Society sells women who are severely underfed.
Society sells women suffering from malnutrition.
Since when did this become tradition?
Since when was fragile stature empowering?
Society sells skin and bones.
Society sells so small,
**women are literally dying to feel beautiful.
Society has given the world un-realistic proportions to try and shape our bodies into, and it *****.
From the BBC today,


Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?

"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.

Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG

Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."

That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.

But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.


Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."


Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.


Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.

Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.

One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.

It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.

If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.

If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.

You are not an artist.

You are an employee.

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ

                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
                                         HOW BAD
or employee?
BBC article conclusion.
judy smith Nov 2016
While Walmart and Best Buy attract Black Friday shoppers nationwide, Fayetteville’s local businesses offer unique deals throughout the week on boutique clothing, gift-worthy items, outdoor accessories and Razorback apparel.

Southern Trend

Sale rack prices will range $5-15, and customers whose total reaches $50 or more will receive a free tote bag. Southern Trend clothing company offers Razorback apparel for men and women and other casual clothing that depicts Southern living. Their headquarters and closest retail location is at 614 W. Sycamore St.

The Mustache Goods & Wears

Saturday following Thanksgiving, The Mustache Goods & Wears will participate in Small Business Day with special deals throughout the store. The Mustache sells gift and novelty items and clothing, striving “to carry products you don’t normally find in Northwest Arkansas,” according to their website. The store is located on the Downtown Square at 15 S. Block Ave.

Lauren James

All regularly-priced items will be 25 percent off, and planners will be given to customers with a purchase of $65 or more. The Lauren James brand includes fashionable dresses, a line of women’s collegiate clothing, and other clothing and accessories with a Southern flare. One of three corporate locations in the country, the Fayetteville Lauren James shop is located just off campus at 623 W. Dickson St.

Houndstooth Clothing Company

Now until Thanksgiving day, all long sleeve and short sleeve tops are buy two, get one free with Black Friday deals to follow. The brand includes Razorback apparel and other casual clothing with outdoorsy designs. Houndstooth Clothing Company began in Fayetteville and now sells merchandise online and in stores across the state. The closest location to campus is just off the Downtown Square at 29 N. Block Ave.

Pack Rat Outdoor Center

Pack Rat Outdoor Center will sell featured Black Friday merchandise from The North Face brand. Saturday, Nov. 26, shoppers may enjoy food and drink at Customer Appreciation Day. Pack Rat sells clothing and accessories fit for an active and outdoor lifestyle, with products such as hammocks and hiking boots sold at their 209 West Sunbridge store.


All merchandise, except nine specially marked-down items, will be priced 30 percent off the original price tag during Black Friday, 8 a.m. until 1 p.m. Just off the Downtown Square at 19 S. Block Ave., Riffraff boutique sells women’s clothes fit for everyday life to holiday parties, as well as gift and novelty items.

Campus Bookstore

The Campus Bookstore sells new and used textbooks, school supplies, Razorback gear and clothing. The store is located just outside of campus at 624 W. Dickson St.

Alumni Hall

Alumni Hall, located at 3417 N. College Ave., sells various brands of Razorback apparel as well as Razorback accessories and gifts.


Established in 2007 in Fayetteville, the racks of Maude boutique feature women’s clothing from sweaters to skirts with shoes and accessories also for sale. Maude in Fayetteville is located at 706 N. College Ave.


A boutique local to Fayetteville at 1 E. Center St., Savoir-Faire offers casual and dressy clothing and accessories, including holiday fashions sold online and in-store.

Gatsby’s Boutique

Boasting a ‘20s fashion influence, Gatsby’s Boutique sells clothes and accessories at their shop located at 609 W. Dickson St.Read more at: |
Giving joy, getting joy, never coy,
Often pretty, always called a toy,
She sells all that there is to deploy.

And there is she who is demure;
A teacher whose job is secure.
Some say that all teachers are pure.

And there is he who is a professor;
He is his father’s successor;
Just like his father’s predecessor.

The first one we call a *****;
She prostitutes her body more and more;
But the other ones we adore.

The professor prostitutes his knowledge.
He also sells his precious time.
And the teacher too makes the same pledge;
Especially while she is in her prime.

We all ******* something every day;
Yet only the first one’s a *******; yay!
Hossein Mohammadzade
Robin Carretti Apr 2018
What a face
Abruptly she yells
Matte burning dry
Just try
Too moisten her lips
She's the Red devil
From hell why does her
orange face peel sell?
The right color
a psychic won't tell

Wishing well drenched
He touched my orange juice
"All Frenched"
She loves to slice and
he peels what appeal
orange saffron sauce
One last juicy squirt

It's time for fresh squeeze
Too frozen concentrate

The happy hour "Orange" feel
  no other place like fate
Ten times real
"One" face peel has been
love absorbed
Like lemon meringue

Bitter grind soft butter glove
Do you mind orange flame
(The Spa) sells to be loved
Tra la so kind all Grunge
Going "Wawa" coffee cruel
Other colors haha
Movie set Orange payroll
lounge tease squirt

But destroyed by the evil
spell curse
Summoned on sunburst
But we need the Orange
before the sun comes

Like clones orange, you glad
we have "Green Apple"
One step beyond orange
I don't want to burst your
orange sauce
Grand Marnier starry twist
of orange
Two timing orange yogurt
Taste to tangy it hurt
Hey Yo Orange peel Spa
Still sticks Orange Julius

O outrageous P pick
What turns us on and gets us sick
Plan your work and work your plan
Never offend her
Let's see the chef make you love her
Creamified dreamlike Whip free
The orange mousse pie
Let me hear it yummy to lie
I was in an orange mood since the weather is getting nicer it is orange juice wake up call
Leah Rae May 2012
Its When Inspiration Hits You Like A Storm, & Like That Wet, Hot, Eye Of Perfection. You Stand, Knowing That Your God Had Never Truly Been Awake Before This Moment. But He Has Risen From His Bed For You. With Eyes Wide, And Eyes Raw, And He Gives You This Moment. Its A Gift, Or A Lovely Curse With A Bow Around It, Witch Is Either, We Don't Know. But He Sells You A Vacancy In The Empty Hotel That Is Your Body.

The Hollow Eyes, And Empty Hips, The Molar Explosions, And The Swallowed Bruises, He Knows Where Your Flaws Are. He Knows The Room Number, And The Skylit Shade Of Remorse You Painted The Bedroom Walls, When You Tried To Forget. He Knows That You Decorated The Bathroom With Starfish, Because Deep Down, You Knew You Came From The Sea. He Knows The Broken Mirrors, And Nailed Now Monet Paintings. He Knows You're Afraid That They'll Leave You. He Knows The Carpet By Heart, The Sew And Stitch Of The Thread. He Memorized What It, So He Could Call To Memory Just Exactly How Your Tears Tasted When You Found Solstice On His Ground.

He Sells You A Truth, An Infamous Beauty That Paints A Story Of A Girl, In Room 214 Of That Empty Hotel. A Girl With Eyes The Size Of Baby Worlds. A Girl Who Strips Off The Story Of A Broken Family, And 9-5 Worth Ethic That Bruises Her Knees.

He Sells You A Story of A Boy, In Room 121, Who Tattooed “Forgive Me” On The Insides Of His Wrists, Basks In The Glow Of The Television Screen, And Takes A Syringe In His Hand, And Smiles At The Reflection Of What He Sees In The Mirror. Some Sweet Sadistic Part Of Him, Likes To Know Hes Killing Himself, And Likes To Watch Him Do It.

He Sells You A Moment Of A Man Who Wasted His Years On Lies, Who Painted Stories In His Mind, But Wears His Father's Legacy Like An Oversized Coat, Never Quiet Filling It Out, Always Knowing His Father Wore It Better, But Now He Takes It Off For The First Time In Years, And Dances. He Dances To The Music He Wished He Had Written, And Dances For The Girls He Wished He Had Met.

He Sells You An Honesty, Of A Tale Of A Thousand Bad Goodbyes. He Tells You That Sparks Meet Inside You, That Stars Died To Become You, And To Let Your Heart Get Blood Drunk Enough To Convince Itself It Is Your Brain, Because That Is Where Real Beauty Is Born, Inside The Hollow Rooms Of Yourself, That You Have Yet To Rent Out To All The Strangers You Will Become.
louis rams Jan 2013

the human trafficker sells your body , sells your soul
they keep you under their control.
to them you are just a piece of meat
for humanity to sit and eat.

the younger the victim the easier to control
by the time they're teens- their spirit is cold.
no longer do they have the will to fight
it's become their way of life.

they never had a childhood or a family to love
or to even know what love's about
for their hearts and minds have been turned inside out.
fear is the only thing they know
and in their face it will show.

many are bought and put on the streets
if they don't meet their  quota - they don't eat.
then there are those who are sold privatly
those are the ones that you never see.

most are girls - but there are boys
and they're all used as ****** toys.
we have to let all countries know
human trafficking has got to go.

(C) L . RAMS
Äŧül Aug 2014
As I move on the streets of Mangalore city on the west seafront,
It is an afternoon and the sun is starkly overhead,
Burning, roasting in the hot-dry sky of May.

While en route the beach I passed from a really silent street,
Then I pass from the side of the Rosario Cathedral,
The only person I notice was a young vendor.

The vendor is a little girl who looked determined to empty her stock,
I peered into her basket and was pleased to see in it,
Even today I believe she sits there by the street.

Sitting in the rain or in the harsh, merciless sun she prays to the God,
Just back to her the church apparently has some priority line to Him,
She bribes Him a beautiful sea shell or two if He sends some buyers...

Though I do not need any sea shells, but I still go and spare a look,
I choose a pair of green sea shells and pay her for it,
Because she sells the sea shells by the street side.
I have been to Mangalore, but this poem is partly a product of imagination.
Mangalore city is a port on the western coast of India in the southern state of Karnataka.

My HP Poem #663
©Atul Kaushal
Jeffrey Robin Jun 2016


Broken circumstance


Sells her ... FLOWER


But not her righteousness




hippie boy

What do you say

Are you gonna keep your honor

And preserve the purity ?

Flower child !

Earth mother

To be


Nurturer and healer

For all to see

David Hall Sep 2014
*** isn't the only thing that sells
death sells too
think about it a minute
and admit that its true

war correspondent reporting live
from the middle of the war zone
another thousand people die
from the hole in the ozone

ebola outbreaks are trending
getting millions of views
while little girl abductions
top the evening news

we demonize *** on t.v.
like were ashamed of creation
while at least one prime time show
will feature de-capitation

the next time you buy a ticket
to the mass media fair
just stop and think a minute
buyer beware
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right

A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay

He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown

Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound

A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives

He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes

He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw

He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
judy smith Feb 2016
On World Hijab Day, which was on February 1, you didn’t have to be a Muslim to wear one. The designated day was first announced in 2013. Founded by activist Nazma Khan, the story behind World Hijab Day is an emotional one which speaks of the bullying, prejudice, physical and racial abuse Khan endured as a young child who migrated to the US from Bangladesh. These unkind imputations were all because she wore a hijab.

Since launching an online store in 2010 to sell hijabs, Khan has received an outpouring of support from hijab-wearing women across the globe who have shared with her their own terrifying stories because of their headscarves.

Today, World Hijab Day is celebrated in 116 countries around the world. Although the declaration received negative criticisms from some who saw it as a “well-financed effort by conservative Muslims to dominate modern Muslim societies,” others respect the day. One such person was New York Assemblyman David Weprin, who in his feature address on World Hijab Day, said: “As the prime Assembly sponsor of the Religious Garb bill in New York State, A2049, I stand with all Americans of faith, regardless of their choice, to wear a hijab, kippah, turban, or cross. All Americans of all faiths should be allowed to freely exercise and display their religious choice without the fear of violence and bigotry.”

Here at home, women’s rights activist and model Naballah Chi has not been quiet about her love and honour for the true meaning of the hijab. In an interview with the T&T; Guardian, Chi explained the meaning of the hijab and why it’s worn.

“The literal meaning of hijab is to veil, to cover, or to screen. Islam is known as a religion concerned with community cohesion and moral boundaries, and therefore the hijab is a way of ensuring that the moral boundaries between unrelated men and women are respected,” said Chi.

She added, “In this sense, the term hijab encompasses more than a scarf and more than a dress code. It is a term that denotes modest dressing and modest behaviour. Wearing the hijab is a commandment from Allah. The majority of Muslim women wear hijab to obey God, and to be known as respectable women.

“The basic requirement of the hijab is that a Muslim woman should cover her head and ***** (chest) and her body. So in the last 30 years, hijab has emerged as a sign of Islamic consciousness and women’s assertion to obey their lord. A woman wearing hijab becomes a very visible sign of Islam.

“The aura of privacy created by hijab is indicative of the great value Islam places upon women. Therefore, hijab is not a symbol of oppression. The hijab does not prevent a woman from acquiring knowledge or from contributing to the betterment of human society. While those who seek to ban hijab refer to it as a symbol of gender-based repression, the women who choose to don a scarf, or to wear hijab, in the broadest sense of the word, view it as a right and not a burden,” she explained.

She said wearing the hijab has given her the freedom from constant attention to her physical self.

“My appearance is not subjected to scrutiny, my beauty, or perhaps lack of. Instead it has been removed from the realm of what can legitimately be discussed,” she said.

Chi comes from a world of beauty pageants where she once felt pressured to put down her hijab in exchange for a crown.

After understanding the true meaning behind the hijab, and why she wore a hijab as a Muslim woman, she decided to design a fashionable collection called Classic Woman—not the conventional headscarf, but rather, beautifully coloured pieces which bear intricate artwork. They can range from embroidery to sequins or even tie-dye. The sky is the limit when she puts her fashionable sense into motion.

Chi said the collection was inspired by both The Great Gatsby and the Renaissance eras of power dressing.

“My collection features designs showcasing the powerful but elegant and well-tailored woman.

Chi Collection’s trademark fabrics are soft, beautiful silks, chiffon, sequins, embroidery and bridal laces. Distinctive attributes are the colours scarlet red, white and black, in keeping with the classic fashion palette and to pay homage to my country as a Trinbagonian designer,” said Chi.

Her collection was launched in November 2015 at the Red Runway Fashion Gala held in Port-of-Spain. The collection will be available for purchase via Chi’s upcoming website.Read more |
O'Reily Jul 2015
Drastic words taken from a manic world,
Have you heard that what they print is labelled on you.
Its over now,
As the sun begins to rise,
Tomorrows world,
Always forgets the man that dies.

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they don't care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

Celebrity taker,
Paparazzi will follow you everywhere,
So you want to be in the paper?
Fame and fortune has its price that will tear.
Sold out now,
This world exclusive news,
Read all about it now,
Aliens land on chrismas eve!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there,
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

They deserve it now,
All of those printed lies,
War of words,
From the media moguls!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Its all a bit of a joke laugh the press so swindled in you.

Tabloid Mess!

Rob Urban Jun 2012
Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
before the cloud curtain closes
obscuring the mountain.
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
Joe Wilson Apr 2014
The Victoria plum-tree that we planted this year
Is now full of blossom that looks lovely from here
The creamy white flowers and the brightest green leaves
Makes beautiful colour as Springtime relieves.

The garden of Winter, this year so wet
Does blossom herald a ‘best Summer yet.’

It’s quite true of course that village life so snug
Can have a tendency to make one feel smug
But for years our’s has struggled, it now has no shops
And a pub that’s near closure though it still sells the ‘hops.’

We don’t take it lightly the community here
For we know we could lose it which would cost us all dear.

It’s not really the money though the costs would be great
But there’d be no Village Hall and no Summer Fete
No chats with our friends over stiles by the field
Nor any more eggs from the local chicks yield.

We don’t take it lightly the community here
And we will fight to keep it which will cost us all dear.

Villages struggle much more nowadays, ours does.
mannley collins Jul 2014
Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
There Ive said it.
i found you in the ocean
                                                                                   your eyes treading water
                                                                                       your hair lost gold
swimming out to sea
                                                                                        turning back once
                                                                                        to beckon me onward
i swam until my arms were too tired to move and
when i looked back i could no longer see the shore
                                                                                         you were waiting
and you broke me apart with your words
i nodded
breathless from the wound and exhaustion
my head turning toward the sky
and slipping below the waves
i watched the creatures of the deep glide by
seeing clearer than ever before
you put me together with your lips
and met me at the ocean floor
Robert Ronnow Apr 2018
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.

On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”

It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.

--Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, The Inferno, Canto VIII, Italian, trans. Robert Hollander & Jean Hollander, Anchor Books, 2000.
--Ferlinghetti, Lawrence, Poetry Flash, November 1998
--Havel, Vaclav, Disturbing the Peace: A Conversation with Karel Huizdala, Vintage Books, 1991.
--Iyer, Pico, The Man Within My Head, Vintage Books, 2013
--Sophocles, Antigone, Greek, trans. Dudley Fitts & Robert Fitzgerald from The Oedipus Cycle: An English Version, Harcourt Brace & Co., 1939.
Fah Aug 2013
Birthed from the realms of finite
Exist the twilight purple hue
Bruised , sociocultural views
Elevations of the so called unholy mundane , the evocative refrains of the woman's vally
Inexplicably shaped by the hands of men who can know no more what to be a woman feels and it is for a woman to feel what a man is

*** sells . *** sells. What condensed canned factory excuse is this ? *** sells , ah then we must continue to **** eah others minds - yes. That seems apt. Seems reasonable.
Oh , it makes money ? Right - quick up on the double put *** on everything ! WAIt! What is *** ? Make it taboo first , then sell it ... Openly ... Wonderful .. Wonderful.. Oh also whilst your at it ... Make sure you coin the word love ... Yes that should bring humanity to their knees... Oh no wait , haha , wait... Also coin the word God, take their faith and take thier hearts and yes make money , oh ... Oh .. No wait , one more thing ... Coin the terms right and wrong ... Stifle their imaginations with doctors notes ordering the consumption of scientific make believe ... Haha I deplore you one last thing .... Take thier children , and dictate exactly how a child enters this world... Cut open the mothers womb , tear it to shreds , call it medicine , call it anything as long as *** sells and money is made...

Do you see what I see ?

I see that this smog , this veil is very , very , very , thin .

And I've seen beyond the ingrained Pre-programmed neuron pathways that exist in sub ether relms ,these rely on the capacity for one not to notice..... Not to notice the infinite joy and beauty in the so called mundane - in the simple observation
Of the one doing the observing .

And beyond that.... Well it all crumbles away... Revealing ( at least for me) the Eden we never left....
Written in a spontaneous moment of distaste .. I haven't lost my fiery Kali essence .. Hahah.. Who wants to fight ? Only words are the weapons of choice and music is my shield , the paintbrush my arrow , my photographs form armor - and my kisses and lovers light lead the way , keep me strong keep me sane , make sure I don't devour all
Nick Moser Apr 2016
I’ve been told I need to be a bit more confident in my life.

And boy, ain’t that the gospel ******* truth?

My whole life I’ve been afraid of pretty much everything.

Doctor’s offices, monsters, the dark, strangers, death, sickness, spiders,
Basically everything.

But, alas, I’ve been told I need to be more confident.

Is it really that easy?

Is it really that easy to look at myself in the mirror and not hate the image looking back?
Is it really easy to live a healthy life and not be afraid of diseases or death?
Is it really easy to tell the girl I like that I like her and not be afraid of her response?

Of course it is.

But all I need is a little more confidence.
Because in my life, I have none.

I’m overweight.
I don’t particularly like the way I look.
And I’ve never had a girl.
But why am I writing about all of this instead of saying it to everyone’s faces?

Well, because I always feel most confident when I am writing.
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
She is on the street in her little kiosk ,
at the break of the dawn ,
When many are still on a lucid dream.

Selling the most delicious of grapes
Sourced straight from the vineyards

Assembling  the previous  day's discards all in a tray
Discards For humans it maybe ,
for her birds its a treat to relish .
down  for it ,day after day..

Mostly bought by the morning walkers ,
Many in numbers are they
old patrons , as they say.

Every day she sells her wares
Holding the loveliest of smile
That I have seen in years,
All Knowing , the pain that  she hides behind .

Never misses a day nor business,
And back home she is before sundown.

Only to return the following day,
With a new stock ,at the break of the dawn.
Have been seeing this woman, fruit seller for a few years now.
She has had a difficult life. Her husband committed suicide for being indebted, not able to repay, son going wayward.
Yet she holds on to her grit and has been able to piece  her life together and  her Family.
Never lost her determination .
So, a little tribute to her .
The platforms are full of passengers

The fruits, coffees and tea stalls

The train runs on the track with heels

Like the whops of horses

Passengers enter the train in a hurry

And leave without any worry

Someone sleeps in the berth and snores

Some other sits and reads the news

The gluttonous eater eats the eats

The vendor sells nuts and peas

and cries like the buzzing bees

the T.C comes, wakes up and asks

for the ticket and bribes for berths

the beggar begs for alms singing hymns

some play cards making unbearable noises

the child weeps ,cries and moans

the thief enters the coaches

and tries to steal the bags

the passengers make friends with ease

but it will very soon cease

life like railway travel is a passing shower

it doesn’t last forever

It lasts only till the destination comes

The passenger takes the bag and leaves
Tell me, Extended Mum, please, tell me now
That Final Instruction I must Obey
Whether Left or Right, whose Decision bow
Will leash the Harness of my Wilding Fray
What Science or Faith could explain this Cause
Given this Great Gap by Geography
Culture and Taste - alone such Values pause
Make alien with Enduring Blasphemy
Of such Tragedy the Comfort House bells,
That Door engraved: "Un-Welcome those Un-Known."
The Answer - to Solve which Society sells
And serve Gold-Friendship with True Facts beknown.
Still, that Tradition of Solitude aspect
Should never be Knived; Must always Respect.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
High Priest Paul stalks them in the night
He promises forgiveness by the edge of his knife
He never stops to question or hesitates to bite
Believe in him and he will make it right  

Scar-Faced Jake doesn't like to wait
He murders Myan time and claws the hands of fate
He bullies his way to the top of the state
He wears a velvet hat and sells you ****** bait

Senator Chris keeps his lovers on a list
A check for every thrill and a line for every kiss
Somewhere, out there, far beyond the bliss
There's kids wondering where their daddy is

Groovy Jungle Jim buries his guitars
Played them like a fiddle in middle country bars
Slept with the lowlifes and wannabe a stars
His voice is the air and his clothes are in the yard

Ali of the Valley sees the starry sky is clear
Reflecting in her eyes like a cosmic mirror
Wondering if the universe looks at us and sneers
While the people on the earth scoff and call her weird

Mr. Priestess Slim puts the bottle on the floor
It's full of whiskey eyes but just a moment more
Someone is rapping on his chamber door
But when he opens it up, he starts a holy war
mark john junor Apr 2017
traffic in dreams
the deeper the love
the longer it will be to pay it off
deeper the diamond to carve from your heart
the darker the desire
the more cold cash
the harsher the wind in the lonely night

take sandpaper to your luxurious soul
but you keep its stain from your pretty eyes
pretty face barter for fish n chips
pretty words barter your bed and breakfast
dress it all in fashion from magazines
the strange combination of gloss and paper thin disguise
the strange combination of truth and lies

the greasy haired stranger
peers with all his might into the mirror
trying to find the man hidden within
he traffics in dreams
will sell you a plot of land
and the rainbow that comes with
ten by ten souls wide
ten by ten deep
sell em to you for a taste of the pretty
sell em to you for a touch of the tender
so rancidly reflected in his greasy smile

you thought the weight was easy to bear
thought that the lie you tell yourself suffices
but dreams are brittle thin walls you hide behind
watch the cracks spread across the pretty picture
it is painted with
watch the colors fade like sweet summer sunshine
the sweet wine turned bitter like tears
he sells you a dream that must be forever replaced
with an ever darker version
he sells you a lie that you will come to see vividly
it won't taste so sweet for so long
it will taste like dust
it will taste like loss

you seek him out once again in the dark city passage
his greasy hair fallen long ago
skin gone gray
he found the man in the mirror
he found his answer in all the chaos
tastes like dust
tastes like bitterness
seek him out to find he is gone
only a shell remains
a brittle shell

no-one gets cheap seats
without paying the price
She sells herself to the highest bidder,
This is the auction for her body.
Flaunting curves of heavenly perfection,
Both her business and her hobby.

She likes to tease the boys,
But loves to torture the men.
Something mysterious, dark, sublime,
It never fails to draw them in.


She reads both tabloids and the classics,
This the debate for her mind.
Lost within the gossip but,
Desiring substance of greater kind.

She dreams of high society,
Found in her ancient texts,
But gets off to photos of celebrities,
And the rumors of who ***** next.


She sifts through knights and thieves,
This is the courtship of her heart.
She loves to play with the suitors,
Tearing them each apart.

They come in droves to ask her hand,
She toys with all kinds alike.
Bending knee or savage romance,
Unable to decide which she likes.


She lies awake unable to sleep,
This is the battle for her soul.
Which is it that she will be?
Her actions take their toll.

She dreams of fields bathed in white,
Innocence pure and plain.
But she loves the dark and dangerous,
Longing to surrender herself again.
Social commentary on the conflicted, from physical to spiritual.
Monica Abigail Jul 2015
The religious fanatics in my town
replaced the *** toy store
with a business that sells headstones.
No longer will you find
things that vibrate
or 12 inch purple dongs.
No more double sided ******
or crotchless *******.
Instead you'll find big slabs
of granite and marble
engraved with birds kissing
inside of grey hearts.
It seems appropriate
that religion would come in
and wipe out curiosity and *******
with death.
Kyle Esplin May 2018
Title #1: Dear Hi-Chews (Morinaga & Co.),

Laughy-Taffy’s Fun
Always incorporate a pun
Yours need a haiku

Title #2: Hi-Chew 2.0

Our sells would just sore
But the brandings a bore, solved:
Include a haiku

Title #3: Mango Flavor

Hi-chews are yummy
But the mango is nasty
Discontinue Please

Title #4: Sales

Hi-chew sells are down
When Laughy-taffy’s around
Add a fun Haiku
Alan S Bailey Oct 2015
Religious discrimination sells, it's all the rage!
If a Muslim wants office, we automatically get
Suspicious, some pandering to the public's fear,
Deny our own constitutional laws and values,
And never elect a Muslim whether far or near.
A Whisky Darkly May 2015
the old man sits
every Sunday
in a fold up chair
under the blue sky
on the corner of 40th street
by the gas station
he sells the sun
from the back of his van
of oxidized white
and teal pin stripes
and rust under the wheel hubs
while cars buzz around him
and addicts shuffle past
he sits alone
chair and ice chest
on concrete sidewalks
weeds stealing upward
between the cracks
I remember when
a man was murdered
down the street
in broad daylight
on electric avenue
two blocks from where the old man sits
he sells the sun
but nobody seems to stop by
except me
I drive up
every Sunday
he greets me with a smile
he knows my face
he cheerfully walks toward me
paper in hand
keep the change I always say
and he bows, grateful
he sells the sun
and I imagine I'm the only one
judy smith May 2016
Don’t take them at face value. Several leading actresses in Mollywood have shown themselves to be keen businesswomen too. So, if Poornima Indrajith, a fashionista in her own right and designer-in-chief of fashion store Pranaah, was the lone name in the list till recently, Kavya Madhavan, Lena, Kaniha, Shwetha Menon, Rima Kallingal and the like too have joined the fray to establish their credentials as entrepreneurs.

While Kavya owns Laksyah, an online fashion store, Rima runs Mamangam, a dance school in Kochi. Lena is busy with Aakruti, her weight-loss centre. Kaniha’s focus is on health care, as a franchise partner of Medall Diagnostics in Chennai. Shwetha, meanwhile, has opened a restaurant, Shwe’s Delight, in Dubai. Mallika Sukumaran owns Spice Boat, a restaurant in Doha, Qatar… The actresses talk at length to MetroPlus about why and how they went about it, the lessons they learnt and what lies ahead.

For Kavya it was the realisation of a long-cherished dream; of starting a business venture while she is at the peak of her career. “I zeroed in on a fashion boutique from several other options, such as dance school, beauty parlour, restaurant…,” says Kavya. “It was the safest and best choice because my father had been in the textile business back home in Neeleeswaram for nearly four decades. My brother, Midhun is a graduate in fashion technology and my mother and my sister-in-law too share the same passion. Laksyah is really a family-run enterprise,” she adds. Laksyah, which sells a range of one-off designer saris and daily wear and based out of Kochi, will be celebrating its first anniversary next month.

It was a photoshoot that lead Lena to open Aakruti. She had to lose a few kilos to get in shape for the shoot and her childhood friend, Louisa David, a physiotherapist, helped her achieve that goal. “I was happy with my weight loss and so we decided to launch a physiotherapy-based slimming centre. Louisa has been running her centre at Thrissur for five years and she helped me start Aakruti, in Chevayur, Kozhikode, in September last year,” Lena says.

Kaniha, always a multi-tasker, has a solid reason for taking the health care route too. It was the closest she could get to her childhood ambition to pursue medicine! “After coming back to India from the United States, my husband, Shyam Radhakrishnan and I wanted to start something. Since I couldn’t fulfil my dream of becoming a doctor and had to study engineering instead, I thought I should do something related to healthcare and that’s how Medall happened,” says the actress.

In Shwetha’s case, her restaurant was a venture waiting to happen. “In fact, those who know me for long are not surprised with my decision to open a restaurant. I am an absolute foodie. I am so very careful about what I eat that my cook always travels with me on my shoots. I also love hosting family and friends and often hold pyjama parties at home. That’s why a restaurant was the obvious choice when I thought about starting a venture,” says Shwetha. Shwe’s Delight [“I was called Shwe by my friends in modelling circuit”], which opened its doors last month, is a North Indian fine dining restaurant. “I wanted to give expatriate Malayalis in Dubai a different taste from the usual fare. We dish up a bit of Chinese food too,” she adds.

Being a celebrity helps, most of the time, especially to get publicity, say the leading ladies. For instance, Kaniha says she could bank upon her celebrity status to get corporate tie-ups. They also talk of brand value going up when a known face opens a venture. “There is a certain level of trust with potential customers because you are a known face,” explain Shwetha and Lena. “On the flipside, you are always under scrutiny. At times, I feel acting is much easier,” adds Shwetha. Kavya says it is not easy being the face of Laksyah. “I can’t go wrong with what I wear!” she adds, with a laugh.

Celeb status and a pretty face, though, is no guarantee for a successful business. All the actresses say that they put in a lot of hard work to get their businesses up and running. “The execution part was not easy, be it finding the right location, getting the interiors done, purchasing the machinery, appointing qualified staff, training them and even finalising the colour of the uniform. But I have become more confident now that we are opening a new branch in Kochi,” explains Lena. Kaniha, meanwhile, admits that she has learnt to be “more patient and be diplomatic.” Well played.Read more |****-formal-dresses
I'm the morning whisper that punches you in the gut
the winning lottery ticket that you didn't buy
an inconvenience with impeccable timing
the drinks you spill on nameless lovers
i'm the giggle when a dog sniffs your hand
i'm a naked water fight in January for no reason
i'm cold pillows shaped like a former lover
your favorite t-shirt when it's lost
and found
the drip drip in the sink when you wanna sleep
the creepy crawlers you can't shake
the colorful wrapper with nothing inside
a no vacancy sign at the end of the road
your vulnerability when you're most tender
i'll call you names when you're not looking
look at you funny when you're not listening
i'm the sense that doesn't make,
the only sense there is
i'm your senses when you want to shut me out
the wrong L-word at just the right time
i'm your second chance when you need a third
the maybe, when you really wanted a yes
i'm what feels your pain
the broken promise that brings you more-
what turns the tide when you're not looking
i'm a moonlit midnight swim
i'm sometimes ****-naked
your favorite shade of lipstick
i am your guardian angel
the absence you hold
i'm the scenic route after a bump in the road
the sunset drive that saves your soul
i'm the texture of wet sand between your toes
the burn in every tear you've cried
i'm the vintage dresser you found on a rainy day
the song you hate, stuck on repeat
i count the palm trees when you're not looking
i forget lovers lost and found
i am the one who messes up your hair,
just to dry your tears
i am the vault of all your deepest darkest secrets
always inconvenient and never around
i'm laughter when you least expect it
the 4 am call you don't wanna take
i'm the mirror that sells you lies
the denim shorts that makes your **** look really cute
i'm the cherry (on your wedding dress)
a joyride and a swing-set all in one
i'm what turns you on
what turns you away
i'm your throne
your downfall
your ecstatic,
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.

Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.

Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.

The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.

The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.

Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.

Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.

People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.

They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.

And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.

That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.

Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.

Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
**And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way

There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd

Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a  match

Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there

Chico  plays piano and
Harpo  with his  harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie

You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've  met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and  friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
reflectionzero Jan 2016
word travels & *** sells
             /stomping gravel lest I dwell/
fires burn & hearts ache
           /a dream yearned and willed awake/
a ponds ripple & a banshees scream
           /it looked simple, reality is obscene/
flesh twists & seasons change
          /a list of reasons to rearrange/    

flowers wilt & the sun sets
         /baby lullabies and cold sweats/
wood knocks & doors close
        /deadbolts lock and war grows/
secrets whisper & snow falls
        /dark drifters and phone calls/
chapters start & stories end
        /laughter, death and grow again/
just ******* around with the beat of writing, nothing serious.
Tex Dermott Jun 2015
For someone
Often gold is found
In piles and piles of old clutter
Open your eyes,
now close them again.
There is nothing to see here,
except the rain,
that falls so rarely.
Lashing at the earth,
like tiny wet bombs.
There are some kids there,
riding their bikes,
up to no good.
And the lady at the corner,
who sells chips and cigarettes,
and ice cream for nickels and dimes,
Speaking of nickels and dimes,
there are those brothers,
who sell something else,
and it always smells there,
like skunk, and herbs.
Their dad was deported,
but they continue his path,
living with their grandma,
also up to no good.
Then there's that girl,
with all the make up,
that comes home,
in very strange cars,
with big rims,
and off colored doors.
Yeah, that girl is lost,
those bruised eyes will not heal,
those lips will always be whispering,
things that she's too young to say,
but those legs will not shut.
And no one's been shot,
at least since I can remember,
but I hear the guns on new years.
The dogs run wild in the thrashed alleys.
And the cops,
they roam the streets,
always with the windows down,
but that happens almost never,
and no one comes here anyways.
Just welfare queens,
Food-stamp families,
Illegals who work jobs,
that no one will do.
And even though,
everyone is poor,
the fajita is always on the grill,
the accordion bangs on speakers,
the ladies dance with their husbands,
the kids walk to the park,
the teens find a spot,
steal a beer,
smoke a stogie,
inhale the product of those brothers.
There is nothing to do,
everyone knows everyone,
dates everyone.
By the time you date,
it's second, third, fourth handed.
It's either the mall or the beach,
with its humidity and stickiness.
And all the restaurants are Mexican,
serving the same **** thing.
and the same **** thing
is what you eat at home.
And the houses are wooden,
falling apart, rotten and weary,
Creaking with the wind,
disappearing in a hurricane.
There is never enough money,
and the parents never laugh,
just work and work,
until you work and work,
for what?
So don't come here.
but if you must,
then open your eyes,
just to see the poverty,
the neglect and mosquitoes,
the border with all it's immigrants,
the river with all it's pollutants.
And just when you can't handle it,
when you miss your bed,
and wonder how it got this bad,
then close those eyes again,
There is nothing to see here.
There never was.

— The End —