"settlements" poems
I.
I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.
II.
You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.
III.
I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.
IV.
Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.
V.
I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.
VI.
Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.
VII.
I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.
VIII.
The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******** you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.
IX.
Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.
X.
Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
It is incumbent upon us to interpret various environments in this multi-dimensional tapestry of holistic landscapes, where celestial ecosystems abound with pulsating organisms of diversity.
So, let us translate our literary concepts in silence, as we traverse cross-cultural vistas of universality.
As indigenous beings reach beyond the sparse and pompous settlements of our ******* city towers; there is something incomprehensible which transcends our ambling walk through this urban pasture, as the train departs from the classical platform of El Chorro.
I am mesmerised by linguistic creativity, as she echoes throughout distant galaxies of enriched and unspoken mystical vocabularies.
As empirical verification is not possible, I must beseech thee: Where are the connoisseurs of this poetic dimension?
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
We go to Ikea having taken
the road through the allotments
& the Park which dates back
to Victorian times.
Inside the store
we grab at rugs & bowls
lie on the beds
until someone frowns
at us & we leave to
sit in the restaurant
with Swedish apple cake
& coffee, reminiscing
of the road we used to take
on the M48 bus to the store
which was near Spandau
one of the earliest settlements of Berlin
where the first Slavs
settled & lived
& how we had
back then a family card
to give us free coffee
before it all fell apart
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
In some cases,we live like animals
We share water sources with cows and goats
Even accommodation in other instances
The schools our children attend are the worst
They hardly achieve any form of formal education
While theirs attain world-class best
We toil the hardest
But still,earn the least
It is said that East or West,home is best...
But how can I appreciate this,yet in my home,I feel lost?!
From the world,we are outcast
Many refugees in our land are enjoying better conditions
In a land we call home,
Our own,our motherland...!!!
We,the marginalized are treated like trash
Old and rusty beds,and empty medicine shelves in our hospitals
They only remember us in times of election,for to them,our faces look like votes
What's the appearance of a vote...?!!
When they see us,they see different images of votes
In their favour,they see ticked ballots
Shacks and scanty settlements
Haunted slums and ghettos
Homelessness too...
This is where we thrive
With our families,this is where we live
The marginalized
Their claims of our good welfare are baseless
We the marginalized are voiceless
No matter how loud,our voices are still unheard
After all,our words make no sense
Many a time,in our homes,we sleep on empty stomachs
But because of constant and steady good feeding,their exotic dogs are bulging
Many of us think they are cursed
We live to die
Alcohol and drugs are our source of assured liberty
With these,we gain our momentary empowerment
Yes,in life,only death is certain but in our lives,going through the day alive is a big achievement
We live in abandonment
Child-headed homes and families
Single-mothers that are unemployed
And single fathers that are disconnected
And this is who we are...The Marginalized.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
I would argue that what is happening here isn’t the crushing of creativity but the addition of knowledge. As people get more knowledgeable they are better able to evaluate their ideas and sift out the ones that won’t work. Looking at the quantity of ideas for the use of a paperclip tells you nothing about creativity but the quality of the ideas might.
If we want pupils to be good at problem solving we need to give them a lot of knowledge with which to solve problems. There is no generic problem solving short cut we can use. The problem solving skills of “I need to put up a bookcase but have lost the instructions” is very different from the problem solving skills of “We need to resolve the conflict in the Middle East.” I we spent less time trying to find these short cuts we might have a lot fewer wonky bookcases and a little more chance of peace.
I can’t speak for all subjects and contexts but in secondary school geography we are constantly problem solving. It is what Geographers do but each problem needs a wide body of very specific knowledge. We look at how they would solve the problem of the UK’s energy mix, how they would improve housing in informal settlements and yes, even how to solve the problems in the Middle East (if someone without a knowledge of catchment hydrology tries to pontificate on the issue I wouldn’t give them the time of day).
The same applies to “creativity”. The ability to create is an important and wonderful thing. Music, art and drama should play a full and important part in the curriculum but they aren’t about teaching something as generic as “creativity”. They are about teaching the skills to allow you to be creative in that particular domain. Learning to express your creativity in art is unlikely to help you pick up the trombone and learning how to write is unlikely to make your interpretive dance any less awkward.
If you think that these things can be taught as stand alone generic skills (I assume you there is a 54% chance you are) then please do send me a lesson plan because I would love to see how it is done.
Conclusion
I think the term “21st century skills” is a nonsense. The generic skills that people will need in this century will be the same as they have needed in all of them because they are the things that make us human. I don’t think they can be taught in isolation. I don’t think we get better at “problem solving” by solving problems in different domains or better at “creativity” in one domain by practicing another.
Schools play a role in preparing children for the future and that role is to ensure they leave us as knowledgeable and well informed adults.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
There is an old homonym used in this poem e.g. “habit”. Its usage in the opening lines is something I wrote on a napkin decades ago. It creates a pleasant ambiguity in the mix. Homonyms are words that are spelled and sound the same but have different meanings. The question is, it a nun’s habit or just a good/bad habit?
“The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.” Albert Camus
Take a look at this old habit
I know it’s worn, I’ve had it for years
It’s tattered and torn in all the right places
Cost me a dime and a lifetime of tears
Transforming my soul it is worn with respect
Counting the memories it passes the test
Round the corner off the end of the bend
My shivering tears contend with the rain
Mentions of settlements wrought in pain
Never will I ever be here again
Deliver me now to the dragon’s lair
I don’t even care if it’s not really there
Made a hat to match from a well weathered mat
I tossed it aside to the place where it’s at
Never again will I tread on this time
“Buyer beware” of this train of thought
It could cost you a page
From your own weathered book so
Never forget when you came on this chance
And never believe you can get it all back
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Obsession
Watching you from distant, is an edgy feast
As you crawl in, like a feisty beast
I am forced to ignore all that’s around me
While the spirits wither and whisper
Tell me that you could set me free
Your tales from the battles
Your victories and conquests
Fascinate me all the more
You aren’t trustable, to myself I swore
Then comes out your witty compassion
That’s when I accommodate you in a whole new fashion
Try to make settlements with my mind
To my surprise, you are one of a kind
So blindfolded I become, wander alone in the woods
Trying to solve these perplexing feuds
You miss no opportunity to haul my attention
You compress all of my growing suspicion
The blend of truth and lie
I want to peek in and pry
Engrossed into the evil within your heart
Now, only death could do us apart
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
Merely a silhouette with its head cocked to the side, arms reaching out, stretching through the majesty in knives, and stabbing spots into my eyes.
I rise to burn
Feel to learn
For the better of my vendettas
Steady hands
On humbled umbrellas
Of sedatives
And other derivatives
Of my dissatisfaction
In lacking patience , I repaint the pavement, and face it after lacing spaceships with the enslavement of my basements, and place it in my heart.
Spiraling in slimy things
In lucid dreams
I'm asleep
Walking amongst the dead
My demon brings
The corpse of kings
In sheets
From battered beds
I am said
To have slithered
With the best of men
Drained and bested
In the molested
Ingesting of entire
Settlements
Not to mourn
As i warned
In subtle hints
Most would whimper
As i rinsed my hands
Of this
Varmint ****
And moved on with it
I get what i got coming
As im drumming
The anthem
And humming
With phantoms
Tandem
To alchemical
Dreams
Singing
In romantic strings
Scrutinizing
My advertising
Of fiends
Leaning in
To scream
I awake unclean
Seeing
Differently
Than before
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Social networking for internet love.
Has created adultery amongst many of us.
Facebook, My Space and various dating sites.
Make you wonder.
What happen to the simplicity of love?
Private eyes, investigators too.
Trying to pin point exactly what's going on.
When you can achieve the same affect with a phone.
Divorce, settlements.
And on the site once more.
Still, makes you wonder what's going on?
Whatever happen to meeting and greeting in person?
On those social sites.
You not sure what you're chasing after.
So, we see why people aren't happy forever.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Unfortunately blessed
with bleeding hips and pink lips.
Nothing but gravity to
break our fall.
Even the ground we walk on
split apart to show us,
that our hearts are mended
to love but one.
An eternity of courts and palaces,
cannot prove that we are wrong,
yet their stained glasses say,
that we will never happen.
I wish with every part of me,
that we could race and find ourselves
untouched by the society's settlements.
But they brought us up.
And now we have chosen
never to let our rays touch,
we only watch each others light from afar,
hoping that we'd be recognized as a constellation.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
The little towns near Egmont
That nestle on the plains
To gather close the winding roads
The homing trails and lanes,
The little towns near Egmont
That sleep the whole night long
Cooled by the scent of mountain breeze
Lulled by the sea wind’s song.
The little towns near Egmont
Will ever seem to me
Like stars that deck the evening sky
Or isles that dot the sea,
Like beads that sprinkle here and there
On Taranaki’s gown
Like figures in a rich brocade
Of yellow, green and brown.
The little towns near Egmont
Seen through a summer haze
How fair and fresh and free they lie
Beneath the golden days,
Not crowded in deep valley’s,
Not buried in tall trees
But open to the sun, the rain
The starlight and the breeze.
The little towns near Egmont
What busy lives they hold
With happiness and health to keep
Secure from heat and cold,
The comfortable homesteads,
The park like lands so fair
God keep them restful, clean and pure
As Egmont’s snow peak there.
Hanna Hair
Dawson Falls Lodge
Mount Egmont, Taranaki.
January 1926
This poem, hand written and forgotten, was written by a guest of the house, in a thick, ancient tome of comments and articles, secreted in a dusty corner of the beautiful and quaint Dawson Falls Alpine Lodge, nestled comfortably in the dense, high podocarp forest, far up the snow clad slopes of volcanic Mt. Egmont in Taranaki, New Zealand.
From its high vantage point on the mountain looking out toward the curving coastline of the vast Tasman sea, the lodge affords magnificent views of the sparse settlements and farmlands spread widely on the lowland plains before it. By day the smoke rises from farm house chimneys, by night the warm honeyed glow from scattered windows dot like an expanse of fire-flies amidst the velvet blackness extending out to the luminosity of the line of breakers pounding the distant coast.
This delicate work captures the sparse beauty of this magnificent rural place, it further affords a snapshot of that particular era and of the pioneer spirit and rugged endurance of the settlers who made this isolated land home.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
26 October 2015
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
The cold dissonance formed like the frost on a leaf of late October - It's the way it crumbled.
They believed in what they were subject to
like not conveying feelings is in fashion
I tell you its a flawless fall
Thus closes the locket shaped like love that held it all side by side, a thousand words less.
And you flash your teeth as a smile unzips across your face, gaze at your reflection and all you see is an endless maze.
We have reached the point of no return, you have no choice but to embrace the gathering dark.
The currency is forgiveness but our pockets are empty.
You think that dying alone is inevitable and the "antihero" of our hearts never gets the girl.
But it doesn't have to be that way just for the sake of poetry. Drop the broken sword.
Indelible feelings brought us to the table, a setting of conjecture and dying settlements. The question is "Who deserves peace?"
Pick up the pen and write your name.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
head kept low
Axe fell disrupting years of Earth's work
pulling uh'way the weeds
flattening and conforming the dirt 'round
man's grape vine
Order n' Control
Rocks, grass, and bugs removed
all in place for man's green grapes
alone in the yards
there be peace in the Order
The Order of the Man's Vines
Blow for blow the ground gave through
plants grew - none but I knew
that besides grapes none but dust would pull through
Destruction gave Order
Order gave peace
peace gave tomorrow
tomorrow plants the seeds of opportunity
and the dust amongst the dew
Look'd to the sky above
head look'd 'round
settlements reminded I of the weeds
to the sky's yard
And the yards reminded I that we aren't but
dust among the dew
in Life's Order of the Vines
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Shadows move with my feet on the cobblestone
from the sunlight dancing on the picado banners
that stretch between buildings
And offer some reprieve
From the Texas sun.
The mouth-watering scent of pan dulce
Draws children to the glass fronts of the old bakery,
And they flit between sweet breads
And figurines of brilliant colors
Crowding stands run by elderly craftsmen and women with big smiles-
San Antonio,
There’s something in your streets.
Something binds me to your old, leaning buildings,
And the murals that decorate them,
San Antonio,
My first memories of reading
Reside on 600 Soledad Street
between the shelves of the Big Enchilada,
And dapple down through the glossy, colorful limbs
of its Chihuly spine.
You exist in the border between coastal plains and the hill country,
Mesquite trees and palm trees living side by side
Just as the German and Spanish settlements do,
The missions becoming as much a part of the land
As the Guadelupe.
With tequila on my tongue,
And boots on my feet,
I’m prepared to bask in the warmth absorbed by sandy loam
And breathe in the smell of elotas on a Sunday afternoon
To the sound of San Fernando’s bells,
Oh, San Antonio…
I’ve never wished for a better dwelling,
Even one with cooler summers
And smoother streets,
Oh, San Antonio…
I’d be a fool to leave you,
To call another home,
And I’ve never found myself foolish before,
So my dearest, sweetest, most proud San Antonio,
I am here to stay.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
What's new? Have you heard?
Bad statistics up a third
Someone said a naughty word
Candid shot with ******* blurred
Terrorists and pirate fleets
Politician/Mango tweets
Weather bombs, infernal heats
Docu-dramas and repeats
How to drop a size for spring
A kitten with a ball of string
Arguments from either wing
Adverts selling everything
Striking blows, legal highs
Diplomatic compromise
Close ups of the royal thighs
******* wins the nobel prize
A baby drinking anti-freeze
Retention fighting llama cheese
IMFs and IEDs
With overheads and hidden fees
Settlements and legal action
Kidnap by extremist faction
Cartoon dogs and brief distraction
Now, about your next transaction
Shorter cash and longer queues
Horoscopes and cryptic clues
Underpayment overdues
I wonder why they call it news?
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
The land white
sky purest of blue
settlements rising on distant hills
taking the form of the hill
the lines of slope
going all the way up to the hilltop
then suddenly bursting into a monastery
flags flying high
chants flowing along with wind
people humbled by nature
searching the meaning of life
yet life continues in the wretches of nature
no rain, no snow, a few lakes and desolation
a cold desert, with a few specks of life
hard mountains, soft valleys
a few passes here and there
here nature is unforgiving
it will eat you alive if you stray
no help for thousands of miles
and yet people want to live
no conveniences of a sprawling metropolis
no rapid transport systems
a lonely walk down the hill to fill water
a steep climb uphill to the destination
life slowed down to enable sustenance
life slowed down to a breathtaking reverie
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 3:56 AM UTC
Thinking of my closest relationships
makes me marvel at what a fool I am.
A map of the streams of my loves
would show small settlements
tiny villages where I’ve rested
from my frantic search for meaning -
spaces made by nights of talking and sharing -
spaces of kisses, cries,
shouts and whispers that kept together
the threads we coiled into a chord
of memories.
Memories of foolish leaps we both made
into a friendship, a kinship, a marriage
a co-creation.
What faith abides in me that causes
me to abandon logic for love?
It is a mystery to me
how I can stay in this embrace
despite our divergencies?
But it is a splendid mystery
I celebrate.
Dec 28, 2021
Dec 28, 2021 at 4:48 PM UTC
So sits it in the darker settlements;
In the glade,
In the long grass,
My whimsy hides, or is hidden.
With the turning trees still visible,
And the near waters just audible,
I remain graspy-greedy,
And long for lightheartedness
Of sunlight,
Of those connection warms.
And so, with steps imperceptible,
Leaving muddled footprints,
I walk on...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 1:54 PM UTC
Encroaching on my personal space
I am Bombarded by these images
Children with hopes Dashed
No links to the outside world
Always under constant threat
Rubber bullets flying,
Tears running from the gassed air
Vision blurred
A memory of what they never had
Forces keep creeping in
The boarders keep retreating inwards
No longer settled, should they settle for less
The settlements all around them
Rapidly they are moving but who is to stop them
He who dare risks the draconian approach of Goliath
Little David with his sling and stone
Wont Match the might and force wielded upon him
There is no escape from the eagle eye of Goliath forces
Peace is only considered achievable by constant aggression
Dissent calls for harsher treatments
They have essentially been brought as slaves within their tuff
The walls surrounding them,
Locking them in
They have to settle for less
Constant harassment and humiliation is the order of the day
The bus stops
They've got to set down
Awaiting verification
No pass means no pass!
Those deemed unsuitable have to settle for a return to the human cage
Senselessly caged like hens
Not to be set loose and free
For them freedom is an illusion
The desired but unattainable
Shall we sit idle?
Their hopes and dreams rest on our shoulders
We must challenge the status quo.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
*A blue opening in the world as the rain was ending , gregarious Pigeons scramble atop store front perches in the drying western wind
Tired pedestrians labor wetted city sidewalks , late morning
silhouettes appear against post World War II row settlements
Saturday clerks prepare street displays , elderly couples window
shop for bargains with disdain , people and Freight trains trudge along , in route to unknown places* ....
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
Babbling Cup Of Tea
offers a leisure vacation
way it was intended. Whether
you're looking for oasis,
romantic retreat,
or even a border war, these
settlements are perfect. Just
eight miles north of you, you
can enjoy the void,
a beautiful nostalgic
with wide array of deadbeats,
scroungers, many unique tramps
and Holocaust museums. Advanced
reservations are preferred,
so please call for rate information.
We hope to see you soon at
Babbling Cup Of Tea.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
I-I-I want to put her head
on a robot's body;
I want to be w/ u @ midnight
maybe, the sentences white men
get is too slight; prisons should
be filled w/ them---
Bandy in negligee
quite a wide-eyed wonder---
Her eyeballs full of goldfish,
the neighbors who walks the hall
w/ no clothes on---
in the Pyongyang condo
she reads the NYT
delivered by the tall,
bearded boy who doesn't
want to draw attention
to his naturally
silver hair he wears in a pompadour
beneath an American baseball cap;
She sits in the stairwell
& smokes cigars &
he joins her when the lights go out
which is often---
Trump's self-sabotage
is rooted in his perceived sense of failure;
never enough, never good no matter how high,
enough---he's made of gold
& it's only a black hole---
He's a kook, crazy & mentally unfit 4 office;
when cross-dressing her bra can't be ****
but u never know---
She's calling outside my window
& complains my room is freezing
(364 - 58)
All the Jews want to move to Israel;
from my window
I can see the fortress-settlements
in the red hills---garrisons of Palestinian girls,
A loaded Palestinian girl
knocks on the door holding a bottle of gin;
I let her in, violating Sharia law
she lies down & pets the cat---
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC