"sermons" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
Kashmir Delirium
Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.
Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.
To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.
The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?
What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.
But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.
The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.
Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.
For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.
Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.
Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.
This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I am Christian. I believe in the
Trinity of the Holy God, The Son, and The Spirit,
I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the savior of mankind
I own more than three Bibles
I teach Sunday School every week and
I pray every night.
I am Christian,
And as such I
Hate queer....
Phobia. I can not stand intolerance
And I cry at hatred,
Blood running in the streets,
Fear running in veins,
Running away from the truth.
I am Christian, yet
There are bloodstains in my Bible
And the prayers on my lips
Are for forgiveness for who I am.
The entire story of ***** is
Crossed out, blacked out angrily
In the dead of night
In all 4 versions,
Leviticus is blurred,
Wrinkled with my tears,
Soaked with my pain.
I am Christian
And I am not homophobic.
I know my church won't recognize
Non cis-het marriages,
Leaving entire worlds of rainbows in the dark
The higher-ups insist
Weddings are white, shiny, husband-and-wife, happily-ever-after affairs
That shove me and my friends, my family, my lovers,
Into closets of heavenly wrath and
Fire and brimstone sermons,
Locked into personal hells of shame
And confusion.
I am Christian
And I am not straight.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He loves me because I try not to hate.
So to the homophobic Christians, I ask:
Who is your God?
Who is your God that supposedly condemns people He has created in his own image?
Your rainbow picket signs are nothing but a cruel mockery of a covenant
Not truly shared by you.
Your tongues are no better than the viper's who called Adam and Eve to sin,
You are the vipers of my world.
Do you think you avoid judgement
When trans teens are killed
By the bullets you spit with your words?
Who is your God,
That tells you to picket the funerals
Of those you hate?
Who is your God,
That refuses to let you open your heart to differentness?
I am Christian,
And I don't need your permission to
Love my God.
Take my scars and tear-stained Bibles,
Listen to my fervent prayers,
Watch my lips tremble when
I listen to my pastor.
I don't need your permission
To love who I want,
In fact I don't want it.
Take my midnight screaming and fear of coming out,
Listen to my frantic pleading for a hand to hold,
Watch my eyes linger on her chest.
I am Christian.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He hates you who refuse to love
While you carry His name, if
Not his blessing.
So I ask again
Who is your God?
Because mine loves all of me,
All 5'6" of queer pride.
Who is your God?
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
My my, what a special little snowflake.
Why did you choose to be this way?
You chose to be different, you chose to rebel.
No binary for me!
You chose the grief, the pain.
You chose this abuse, bruised by
the verbal ferociousness, forged by physical fallacies
To be thrown out of bathrooms
because doing your business in the bathroom is abysmal.
You chose to be derided by decisive discrimination.
You chose to be murdered by misconceptions,
***** by ridiculous requirements.
You chose to be beaten, assaulted.
You chose the words I weave to weaken your will.
You chose the sacred sermons I spit at you.
You chose to be
What I find disgusting, despicable
because you chose to be what you aren't,
but I realize what I really regard you to be.
My my, what a special little bigot.
You think I chose to be this way?
You think
I chose the injuring, injustice,
the jester, the joke
the target, tortured,
This pain, my poison,
the prey, praying,
the sinner of sins so bittersweet,
So I could be "special"?
Special isn't a sacrifice of physical self
Nor the gunshots and gruesome grief
Nor even the crass comfort of a half-assed comrade.
You think I CHOSE this,
and you didn't choose
to spit and spew your sour speeches
to disperse your disgust in discrimination
to integrate your ignorance into my existence.
Or did you not choose
to deal the abuse
by your hand
yourself?
My special little bigot,
You live as you are.
So be it, if I am so "special", the special little snowflake.
Yes, we are the little snowflakes that your palm's presence melts away,
And you're that burning persistence of life
Blocking with your own self our slow, wistful descent,
As if it were futility and not of your own will.
If I am the snowflake, you are the fire.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Those good old days of youth.
Teachers were to be respected.
Not to be attacked.
One ounce of disrespect to them.
You soon was facing your parents.
Yes, those were the good old days.
The church wasn't truly a choice.
Well, maybe for daddy it was.
But under mama rules.
You owed respect to the one that created you.
The good old days.
Respect was cherished art.
It was something those good parents taught.
Even if the adults were wrong.
And you best not try to talk back.
Because you had to be re-taught respect.
Parents weren't trying to be your friends.
You were educated on where friendship ends.
And the role of parents begins.
And with them.
You weren't going to always get your way.
Well, maybe when you sick.
Because parents become carings kids.
You get cake and ice cream when ill.
While if healthy.
You had to eat your dinner.
And hope they don't forget this offering deal.
Oh, the good old days.
You had a time limit to be in.
The street lights bet not come on.
And you're not in the yard.
This when parents went hard.
Lectures and sermons to last for days.
Punishments, I won't begin to say.
Remember, these the parents of the good old days.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
Check back soon to resume and consume
every tight-lipped, slack-jawed fool in the room.
See, it's all what you know
as the fires start to grow
and the future burns slow.
Keep your eyes on the ceiling,
and your antenna feelers feelin',
for when your senses stop reeling,
you will finally start believing.
Kick-back to the basics,
not too far from the basement,
and close enough to show
that **** really isn't basic.
It's another mid-west, ******
******** freak show.
Another evening drinking whiskey
with the seedling's peep-show.
So, it's time to relax and relapse
into acidified broken synapse.
The lights keep flickering
and the couples keep bickering:
***** I am not above homicidal snickering.”
I steer clear of these diversions,
and wander past the sermons,
just to chew up all the crooked talk
and spittle out inversions.
I shovel mockery to hypocrisy,
pin-prick the empty *****
whose passions lack predicates,
and in the background, I'll be complexifying my medic-kit:
ketamine, morphine, ecstasy;
marijuana, mushrooms, LSD.
Watch those ******* jitter-bug college *****
procreate while sloppy drunk,
but keep an honest eye
on the flies that will rise above –
then fall back down in existential angst, like:
“Dear God, why must I be free?
Oh, God! Why is every universal eye on me?
I'm just another acid war veteran,
sneakin' through these gutters
with pestilence and bitter sin.
When they reach the promised land
of golden clouds and holding hands,
I'll be underground with the slugs and the spider band.”
Yet here I sit, sick of sippin' poisons with illiterates.
So, let the skies fall and the buildings crash,
as you stand on the wall with a fist full of cash.
I'll be on the front lawn,
picketing for dawn,
while the night around me slowly ambles on.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
A moon beam glides along the soft covers of my skin.
Let the moon make me mad, I thought,
For there is no fear in what is known.
I beckon the sermons of wild men
To settle in among the cracks of my skull.
Spirals and stars may rest on my hands
For a mind barren and lonely
Holds not a life worth living.
Let darkness flood my life and dampen empty
Hopes with beauty and love.
I shall not stray from what is destined for me,
For I will play neither God nor Satan in this farce
Of innocent freedom and dizzying thought.
I do not fear madness, I fear the emptiness
Of logic and rationality.
For how can there be joy in knowing
How it'll end?
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry
He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense
--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--
The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers
With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace
Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door
Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door
When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door
When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
What ever happened
to the Idea of Freedom of Religion?
What ever happened to religious equality?
I want it back? I'm begging for it to come back.
I sometimes get strange looks
when I admit that I accept all religions EQUALLY
that I would let a Jehovah witness into my home
just so I could learn about their faith.
That I find Catholic sermons tearfully beautiful
That One of my pen pals is Mormon.
People find me strange, they find me fake.
"How can you love them all equally?"
"how can you accept them all?"
It's quite simple really. This is my answer.
What right do I have to Bash what others think?
What right do I have to say
"No your god doesn't exist"?
I wouldn't want people to do that to me and my faith
so Why should I go out and do it to theirs?
There's this thing call FREEDOM of RELIGION
and I stand firm and believe it whole heartily
We all have the right to believe in what we believe in
And no one i mean
NO ONE
has the right to take that away!
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions
Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******
And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies
Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside
And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.
Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia
Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny
Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.
Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.
Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
The sun hung low,
sliding down below
the trees,
whose leaves had turned a golden yellow
from autumn's adoring
kiss.
The clouds looked gray,
seeming to bring in
thunderstorms
that weren't to come,
at least not today.
We spoke of
mysteries,
created poetry in our
realizations,
harmony fostered with the gentle
breeze
as we laughed.
The aha's and uhuh's,
the self-discovery and
conceptualization,
they were the sermons,
the creed,
the metanoia.
The rooftop sunset was
the sanctuary,
the gust of wind the hymns,
the moments of silence were
moments of reverence,
our spirituality
birthed in the
gravel
under
our feet.
The world is
our religion.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Preacher gone wrong
A christian boy
the young age of sixteen
finds his destiny
he loves boys
now he see’s
goes to his mom
a joy full look on his face
thinking
Wow I finally found my place
he says
hey mom I’m gay
the awful woman
slaps his face tears runnin down her face
come on boy get in the car
she takes him to the preacher
for a treatment in religion
preacher says
boy start runnin straight get your head out of the clouds
tells him that he’s going to hell
that is an example of a preacher gone wrong
if you preach hate at the service
if you can’t accept someone
because they can love the same gender
those holy words you have been singing are poison
your sermons are disrespecting god
we are all gods children
he loves us all
it doesn’t matter
so don’t listen to that preacher gone wrong
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
End,
The True Tip of my Tongue,
(Enchanted Bronchial Tree),
holding out the
Cavern of Soft Sultry Silhouettes
that hug the walls.
Clinging to their influence able nature,
tendency to allow pink purity
to fall
to the black blistering blasphemy
of dirty-watered bongs.
Inhaling the Damnation of god
And Magic Meal of
Those residing in Gehenna,
Limbo,
And those scouring the pearly whites of
heaven for their 72 ******
***** Calls.
The desperate stench
Of religion
crawling down
my needy trachea
to attach its
sticky suction cup sermons,
trying to trick
My larynx into
Hallelujah’s
And
Hail Mary’s.
Hoping repetition
will etch it into
our subconscious
like a gravestone
set in stone.
So repent,
saunter back into your pen little sheep.
False Anarchic Prophet,
Pretend Goat.
Throw your brain back into the box,
The Individuality Dishwasher,
They built for your mind from the
Start.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
I sought Him in temples where anthems swell
Stained glass windows and polished sermons suave;
Yet here I knew He did not dwell,
While poor child of dust creeps to his grave.
I sought Him in churches rustic and plain
Eager to drown my heartfelt sorrow,
These mockery so futile and vain
As I searched for a brighter morrow.
In meadow alone, a breeze touched my face
Whispering of days bygone, yet still dear
When life flowed at a leisurely pace
And I felt His presence - O! so near!
Bittersweet weeping of the mourning dove
Awakens me to sad pleading eyes
Shattering my heart with vials of love.
Forsaken man and beast hold God's disguise.
I see Him in each rippling blade of grass
When dew of morn glistens with His tears.
In moaning of wind I hear Him pass
Through aromatic pines and lose all fears.
God does not dwell in temples made with hand,
But speaks to us through each soughing pine.
Proud wealthiest mansions o'er all the land
Mocked by His majestic Hand divine.
~Hilda~
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
every morning at nine o'clock
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyes
looking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.
Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whose
husband was killed in a tunnel explosion through
the negligence of a fellow-servant,
Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onions
for Jasper on the Bowmanville road.
She takes a street car at half-past five in the morning,
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti does,
And gets back from Jasper's with cash for her day's
work, between nine and ten o'clock at night.
Last week she got eight cents a box, Mrs. Pietro
Giovannitti, picking onions for Jasper,
But this week Jasper dropped the pay to six cents a
box because so many women and girls were answering
the ads in the Daily News.
Jasper belongs to an Episcopal church in Ravenswood
and on certain Sundays
He enjoys chanting the Nicene creed with his daughters
on each side of him joining their voices with his.
If the preacher repeats old sermons of a Sunday, Jasper's
mind wanders to his 700-acre farm and how he
can make it produce more efficiently
And sometimes he speculates on whether he could word
an ad in the Daily News so it would bring more
women and girls out to his farm and reduce operating
costs.
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti is far from desperate about life;
her joy is in a child she knows will arrive to her in
three months.
And now while these are the pictures for today there are
other pictures of the Giovannitti people I could give
you for to-morrow,
And how some of them go to the county agent on winter
mornings with their baskets for beans and cornmeal
and molasses.
I listen to fellows saying here's good stuff for a novel or
it might be worked up into a good play.
I say there's no dramatist living can put old Mrs.
Gabrielle Giovannitti into a play with that kindling
wood piled on top of her head coming along Peoria
Street nine o'clock in the morning.
2.9k
I can't help but notice
How much harder
The rain hits my face
After I've sinned.
And if there's a God,
He hates me.
No prayer can acquit this hatred.
There's no hymn to heal my wounds.
I'm surprised I haven't burst
Into flames yet.
They'd probably dump water on me
And call it a baptism.
Reborn, renewed, refreshed, my child.
Who made that water so pure?
Who died and put you in charge?
Go ahead,
Recite your verses and preach your sermons,
But the "Body of Christ"
Is just a piece of bread.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Uncle Bruce writes sermons and gives grace at the Christmas table
his family bowed their heads
and listened to what they thought of as
"quaint"
"old time-y"
Most of them there were atheists
or maybe Catholics
(it depended on the side of the table)
and even Uncle Bruce was not sure what he believed in, not yet, not yet
after 53 years, he wasn't sure
(he had always been a smart man)
even after debating how many angels could dance on the head of a pin
and preaching for years behind the pulpit
What Uncle Bruce does know, he does
He gives us all faith
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Surrender if you can't do
or
render if you want to
there is no place
for a defeatist, a flaccid mace.
Cry if you feel so
or
try if you can take the blow
no one remembers the grey
the ashes are forgotten in the tray...
Lie if you feel insecure
or
die in the quest to procure
the wind gratifies the soul
who walks against it with a hunger for galore
Defy if you can't take the heat
else
Comply if you expected the beat
don't sulk and forfeit the game
stand steady and take all the blame
Unite if you dare to share
else
Divide if you can't be fair
The trophies just shine for a while
Later, they gather dust in the exile
Believe if it invades your sleep
else
Relieve if it's beyond your keep
Don't make promises, you cannot tend
Don't demean the hopes, you cannot transcend
Walk the road for the sake of the journey
And
Talk if your words quench their yearnings
There is no pride in yelling the sermons to the mass
the words will finally bounce back and hit you at last....
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
born in 1975
40 odd beat
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink
cold drink
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
recommended algorithm
algorithm
recommended
for your ears only
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
come band
funk funkier,
summon Brown
back from the dead.
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,
seek me the vodoooo advice
quick turn to 23/16
(3+3+3+3+3+3+3+2)
probably overhearing
overhearing what is truly not there
it's my juju baby
over the speed limit
sound so slow
150 BPM
we’ve gone over the speed limit
billion BPM
and a
beat
direct line to NASA
monitored funk levels
from outer space
audio crackcocaine
legal be it \
this
speed deep beat
band come
come come
now
funkier,
Brown sermons
back from the dead.
James loves
brown brow
tall dark seregeti
beat
Mandingo beat
Khoudia Diop Repeats
If they got any funkier,
they'd summon James Brown
back from the dead
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,
Warning: Do not turn the speed up to two.
YOU WILL BE OUT FUNKED.
double WITCHED
If speed is increased, wash eyes
Khoudia Diop Repeats
wash your eyes
ice cold
water
speed of sound
quicken your pace
release your soul
seek me
the vodoooo advice.
levels of funkiness been
theoretized
never imagined
achieved
born in 1975
Dumisaning
40 odd years ago.
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink.
drink
seek me
thee vodoooo advice.
I have beaten about
this beat before.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC