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Seán Mac Falls Jun 2012
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2013
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Chloe K Mar 2013
We are all reverberating shrapnel of an explosive kaleidoscope of organized chaos
We’re scurrying ants piggybacking bread crumbs that press too-heavily on our abdomens
We’d scratch our way up to the constellations on the ceiling if we could just be weightless; if we could just find the right handgrips and footholds
But shoelaces get tangled, palms get sweaty, knuckles get scratched, bodies get heavy
So instead we settle for ducking into tunnels, seeking out the empty train-cars and avoiding eye contact with strangers
Seated alone in tattered pleather seats, we wish we could dissolve the stained grimy window-glass that stands between us and everything that could matter
We’ll force smile-lines into our cheeks when we reach our destinations while quietly scrabbling at the semiprecious dream of a place that we can’t articulate: the unattainable, inexplicable else else elsewhere
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
In it's semiprecious form whatever the stakes
hurting and so wanting for the final curtain call
the substances it pours into it's life's body
it knows will eventually **** songs of imprisonment

Where the seven sister's, their heads to the skies
will watch in anticipation knowing soon the recharge
soon is the day of Mercury's sweet messenger
the hurting and the wanting will then not continue

It will not release the speech it was given
for it's silence and faith will pull it though
and when it fads from view
know now that it loved you

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2016
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2014
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...

Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.

Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.

Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.

Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).

Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.

A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.

That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.

Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.

He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.

Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious ******* initials.

Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting ******* skyscrapers.

This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.

I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ***, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
Ron Sanders Jan 2020
SAGA OF THE SNAIL

I dreamed I was in your dream.

Your lids were drawn, my blood was all but steaming.
Your glass was fogged, your censers veiled,
but were you really dreaming.
If motes could scream!
—Had the moon betrayed your slivered eyes with gleaming!
My wings were moored, my panes opaque,
but was I truly dreaming.

As moonlight ran from chalk to bone, and shadows ash to coal,
I prayed my pulse would soften lest the silence read my soul.

But I swear…if I touch you there…
if I peel down the sheet, as gently as I can,
would you comprehend the lash, in your web so soft and sweet—
how could you understand—what it means to be a man.

Dream never end! Dream never die!
Propriety be ******. A brute in pain am I.

I’ve sullied thee! Forgive me, sweet, gentle Frances.
Share the warmth you radiate, the glow that it enhances.
We can take our chances.

How fully you have blossomed, how lovely you have grown.
With grains of sand the gods have cast a semiprecious stone,
secretly. They whisper you were made for me; sweetly, gently—
then boot me out of bed to spend another day alone.

O mea! A feebly pacing castaway, I watch your lines drift by.
My body howls the night away, succumbing with a sigh.
My mind retreats in slumber, pursuing you and I.
But my dream is one day older, and Frances, so am I.

I have lived this dream, have loved this lie,
was born that you might see
that Frances, when I die,
your love a cradle be.

— The End —