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Loose girls sell their souls to many men
don't they even realize the consequences
as they lie and wait lustfully at men
driving by in their posh little cars
they quickly open their car doors
to let these young women in.
Taking advantage for their prosperous
gain, "don't they even have a conscious,"
or what, stripping the body of  soul and spirit.
what has become of our society,?
We all stop and stare and watch while
our good and moral values are destroyed.
trafficking is a world epidermic were
men have enslaved not just women
but both sexes, and worst of all
young children are more vulnerable
to this barbaric  behavior  life's torn apart.
some one needs to make a moral stand
Our world has gone completely mad
thinking of there own selfish needs
and not caring about others
what on earth has happened to
our world.?  
A sick society
ruthless, men lie and wait for their
monstrous gain
stealing and robbing
a beautiful thing that God had
created for marriage.
turned love making into
a vile and *******.
children life's wrecked
their innocence stolen
what has on earth is happening
to our world ......                  


© 2012 ROSALIND
we have to stand up for what is right
"
Bo Tansky Sep 2018
To Choose or Not to Choose. is it a Choice?
For the love of o!

I learned not to choose when I realized the choice had already been made.
What do I mean by that and why am I telling you this?
I say choose to choose
with 2 os because choose with 2 os is not- choice with one.
Oh, no. (Both with one o) And I love os.
Now anybody who's anybody knows that os come in two varieties.
Single os and double os.
And then there are cheerios and xs and os.
Oh, and how, (both with one o), those were the days when things were simple.
An x was just an x and an o was just an o.
Now we have so many choices.
Do you see what I mean?
Kind of like the days when women were women and men were men.
And kids didn’t get to choose. (with two os.)
Yuk, we were so limited back then.
Do you remember the not so good old days?
Everyone knew who they were and they sure as hell knew- they weren’t you.
No choice back then; when men were men, women were women, kids didn’t get to choose and that was the end.
Duality was trending back then.
Now there are so many choices.
Like how many ways can you answer the question?
To choose or not to choose.
Well, any question really.  
It’s not that simple anymore.  
You do know, yes you do, know what I’m talking about.
Let’s get this straight, I’m quite alright, even endorse the choices, as long as we separate the single os from the double os.
That’s what really drives me crazy.
What about 007.
Why did he need to be double o.
Was there ever a single o that came before the double o.
Did he choose to choose with two os or was there a single o predecessor?
Can’t say.  These are questions everyone should ask..
Instead, they choose contrived, manipulated, untrue, fake, phony, falsified, bogus, doctored and utterly ridiculous theater and never concern themselves with the bigger issues in life. yuk
And it is, for this reason, the I take up the challenge and try to answer the more serious, fundamental, visceral, honest, ultimately and timely questions. huh.
Is choosing a choice?
Without hesitation I declare.
Of course, it is not.
Anyone can see that choosing has two os and choice only has one.
Now, some may find this explanation to be quite o literal, but I can assure you it is not.
At the risk of repeating myself.
A simple glance will let you know that choice is not in the choosing for it was- choice it would have two os and it does not.  
Not that there should be a preference of os over say xs.
Yet I really like the way it sounds. Xs and os, xs and os.
Cheerios. Happy os. Videos. Delirious. Serious. Not really os- but
That’s the way it rolls in my prose.
Corny, I know.  
A rose is never a rose in my prose.
It’s all about the xs and os.  
But, one shouldn’t get hung-up on os and neglect the xs.
Oh no.
Hey, what about the x ***?
What ***?
I thought there were only 2 sexes.
That was then, remember, and this is now.
Wow, I didn’t know you didn’t know.
Well, x ***.
Has a nice sound.
And since we're all moving in that direction anyway, seems the x *** just got there a little sooner.
So they just got tired of choosing (with 2 os) and when whoever does the asking, asked, ‘so what *** do you want to be in your next incarnation?’
After realizing the party was over they just shrugged.
I don’t know man. I haven’t had much success with either.
Oh (with one o) that’s too (with 2 os) bad.
Why don’t we put you down as an x.
Ok, I guess, if that’s what you suggest.
I’ll agree to an x for my next ***.
But, wait. What the **** that is an x?
An x explained, whoever the **** does the explaining, is a human that shares both sexes.
So, what do you say? Is it a go, (with one o), or is it a nay?
So, if you ask me, there really isn’t any choice at all because it’s already been chosen.
Who did the choosing? Who knows. (both with one o)
Me, I think it was 007 because he has two os and I love os and the hell with my xs.
The subject is so xhausting if you get my gist.
I’ll leave the rest for tomorrow. A wonderful word with three os. A subject yet to be discussed.
So now, I have to go and so I leave you with mucho xs and os.
** ** **.
If you don’t mind me saying so. (with one o)



.
The Oblivion May 2014
Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant

The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth

The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive

The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately

The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak

The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating

The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach

The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides

The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass

The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
        17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go **** yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
        need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
        the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
        it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
        joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
        somebody goes on trial for ******.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
        I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
        in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
        Max after he came over from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
        Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
        candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
        men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
        Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
        marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
        private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
        and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
        underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
        under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
        is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
        I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
        mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
        individual as his automobiles more so they're
        all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
        down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
        munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
        handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
        speeches were free everybody was angelic and
        sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
        cere you have no idea what a good thing the
        party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
        old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
        cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
        must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
        And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
        mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
        garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
        Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
        Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
        tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
        Him need ******* *******. Hah. Her make us
        all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
        the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
        in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
        psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

                                Berkeley, January 17, 1956
Y Rada Oct 2015
It is difficult to be a man,
For I am not a typical one.
It is hard for me to go on,
There’s a secret that pulls me.

I loathe when my memories strike,
They hit emotionally with might.
I struggle so much to survive,
In a world so deaf towards my cries.

I look at a He and my heart convulses,
For I recall a He who gave me kisses.
I was young, forced and naïve,
I fought but He was much stronger.

Society might tell that I’m gay,
For I let a man violated me in a way.
But I’m not a ***** and I’m sure,
I play a role for which others envy.

When I was a teen I met her,
I admired her even if she’s older.
I was then shy and very timid,
With mental and emotional scars.

I thought of her as a dear friend,
Then she turned to be my worst fiend.
One instance she forced herself on me,
And used things that hurt me so.

A girl’s tactics differ from the stronger ***,
Tears she used first and blackmail next.
She was cunning, sly and very clever,
She stole my pride and my dignity.

My fears now mixed with anger,
My determinations got bolder.
I still cry and sometimes get lonely,
Like any other victim I want to fight.

I can not shout to the whole nations,
For societies will scorn at my declamation.
Both sexes forgot that I have feelings too,
I am also made of flesh, bones and spirit.

I am not proud of what I become,
Within me clouding reasons try to calm.
My desire is to win this battle to the end,
I am capable of vulnerability like any human.

But where does my right begin?
This universe has compassion for women.
The likes of me are expected to be steel made,
Yet I have feelings too for I am just a man.
Dedicated to all abused males by other men and to the men abused by females. A simple shout out to the world that I care…that I have heard your cries… and that you are still loved.
Farah Hizoune Apr 2014
I had hoped to find on this trip to Morocco, like countless great ones before me, the scent of my youth, to create the volumes of my own tale. To find beauty in the colors of my heritage, to reinvent all that I am and all that I am destined to be. The joy of knowing that some of the greatest writers, artists, musicians, poets, have found solace, inspiration and true peace in the country I am blessed to call my home is unmatched. I wanted to be able to hold the sunshine in my soul, the world in my mind and the fateful nonchalance of destiny in my heart.

From what little I saw of Paris from the aisle seat on the relatively small Airbus 370 was magical. It was a glimmering and sparklingly beautiful city that filled me with a nostalgia that was not my own, but of the stories I'd read set in 1941 Paris. I pictured Henry Miller and Anais Nin meeting there in secret along le Rue de Provence. The fear that I held within when I stepped through customs into le Royaume du Maroc was smothering. There has to be a word for the fear of new beginnings, the fear of your heritage.. But as soon as I was out of the airport and in the back seat of my fathers rented Dansia, driving down the scenic coastal highway, I found my relief.

The relief came from the overbearingly-beautiful smell of honeysuckle and jasmine, with slight undertones of burning *******. It hit me and I no longer felt that overpowering fear. I started gulping for air, this time not because of a panic attack, but for memories sake. I never wanted to forget that smell. It smelled like my childhood, something long dormant, suddenly released. All of the places that I had ever tried to fit into and this was the closest to perfection. The beauty of the beggars, the commotion of the families of six packed tightly into the back of a speeding fruit truck, the droves of young punks taking over the sidewalks, they all brought me instant comfort.

The drive from Sale to Harhoura was, to put it lightly, riche. They were modernizing my roots with bypasses and tunnels built underneath of centuries-old, roman-built fortresses. New sidewalks and high dollar condominiums built on the edge of a brand new, man-made medina. The water was occupied by artesian fishing boats and the frail, brown men who powered them for measly pay or a days meal. My father was uncovering all of the wonders of his country in a booming, baritone voice. Showing me old stomping grounds and schools, and teaching me the history of everything we passed.

The vernal equinox, waning crescent moon on my first night was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever been privy to. Unable to be adequately described or properly photographed with the tools I possessed. It was the color of a blood-orange toadstool, hanging dubiously on the horizon. Barely visible but for the every-other peeks between the shantytown. It was enough to move me to tears and to fill me with a childlike wonder about the lunar beast and it's meaning relative to my being. She hung there, heavy and forbearing of the adventures I was about to partake in and the layer of my soul that was yet to be discovered. When I lost her I became frantic, craning my neck every which way just for one last glimpse at her celestial magnificence. When I lost her I gained realization - that although something was not with me, it was always there, watching over and hanging in time.

My first real day in Morocco was well spent, sleeping until 3pm, buying a SIM and minutes for my cell (of which I used all almost immediately on nonsense communication), and smoking hashish in the locale café. The hashish and the rolling techniques were very intriguing, I watched astutely for future reference. They used cigarette tobacco and white Moroccan hash and rolled it into a paper with the cigarette filter on the end. I wondered about what the people I was with and around me were talking about, due to my lack of fluency in either Arabic or French and their broken English that was too much effort to decipher.

What I really craved was a nap and to know where my father was since he had disappeared early in the day with my step mother, which was less of a surprise and more of an annoyance. The Marlboro cigarette smoke was extremely dense & bothersome and it became hard to breathe. I stood out there and everywhere like a token, sore thumb of an American, despite my demure outfit of boyfriend jeans, white tee shirt and Louis Vuitton scarf tied around my head á la Lou Lou de la Falaise in 1970.

On day three, I went to visit my potential 6 month employer. His vision was impressive. Khalid ran a small, local travel agency in Centre Temara, specializing in appealing to the nouveau-riche of America & Europe. His tours were of quality rather than quantity and consisted of showcasing the small co-ops of Morocco, argan oil production being one of the biggest. American sows will eat up any exotic cosmetic product that claims anti-aging benefits. They're all trying to fight time to keep the attention of their ******, manic-depressive spouses. My position in the company, if I stayed, would be to appeal and connect with the American market, to take my honed, Yankee accent and throw pretty words at the yuppie clientele. It wasn't a bad gig but it felt like I would be ******* my heritage. Aside from that I was dying to go on the tours myself.  

My father was still battling me on the never-ending war of my outfit choices. Again, despite jeans, leather sandals & my favorite mans' t-shirt. I think it may have been the heart-shaped sunglasses he disliked, or maybe it was just too early in the AM. For him it was all about "blending in", "not attracting attention", "sameness". It almost brought me to tears to hear him say those words. It wasn't in my nature to go with the masses. Twenty-three years of uniqueness and he was trying to strip it from me under the guise of "protection from harassment of any sort".

To me, it was natural to want to adorn myself with bright colors, sheer fabrics, intricately designed scarves not traditionally worn as head pieces. He dropped the topic but I knew it wasn't the end in the twenty-three year old argument. We were in the middle of life, I wanted my dress to reflect the elation and bustle around me. Everything was full of depth and ornate decoration. From the stones we walked upon, with their repetitive, diamond patterns, to the grand architecture  of what would be considered "the slums" in America.

I was trying to convince my father that I would be a great candidate for a moped or a motorcycle. He wasn't buying it, something about heart attacks and my lack of attention span. The beauty of the travel agency was that there was a small cosmetic tie-in via the argan oil and rose water co-ops. I was given the outlines for his guided tours and asked to edit them, which I was more than happy to do. Following a small me once back home, my cousin and I headed to La Plage de Temara.

The beach, how do I put this kindly, was less than spectacular, but the view was breathtaking. Once you got passed the scattering of soiled diapers and broken glass bottles from the vagrant winos, there was mile after mile of cerulean blue Mediterranean sea outlined by a coast made of porous volcanic rock. The hazy, white, almost-Grecian inspired homes that were stacked against the bank were technically dingy but beautiful still. I was praying for the sun to burn away my psoriasis and the brand new, but entirely expected, mosquito bite on my cheekbone.

The shoreline was terrifyingly littered with human detritus that almost ruined the picturesqueness of the scene. I waded in up to my kneecaps, saw a roll of toilet paper drifting like a jellyfish and ran out as fast as I could. After about an hour of sunbathing, we walked through the run-down, once beautiful coastal beach town, Casino. Our destination? The rooftop of one of the abandoned buildings to meet with a friend of my cousins. My first impression of the domicile, with its staccato flooring and the multicolored, crumbling walls, was trepidation.

The open plan of the rooftop, line with hand-strung bamboo walls & open wrought-iron roof was very Rabat. The view, an over-whelming 360 aerial, of the bounding city and the crystalline, raging sea. The cooing doves flapped about lackadaisically from roof to roof, landing near me on the branch of a blackened, dead rose tree. The high walls of the dilapidated homes were lined with broken glass bottles to thwart trespassers and graffiti artists. Although, it didn't stop them from defacing the outside walls with proclamations of "FAMINE OR FREEDOM", "BLACK ARMY 06" & "BEAUTIFUL DEATH" .

There was one, lonely grazing sheep tied to a frayed, red rope claiming him as a family meal. I could relate. Albeit, here the slavery was less pronounced. Everywhere I looked, I found inspiration, which is the closest thing to freedom we human animals can hope for.

As I prepared my bag the night before I was to head to Marrakech, my head was filled with visions of the spectacular. I had read stories and seen pieces on the fabled city and all of the magical things there was to be seen. It was a 4 hour, beautifully scenic drive down the auto route through hilly countryside and passed the city of Casablanca, covered in a dense brown haze. The difference in the quality of the air once you go out of the city was hard to believe. The one complaint I have to write about this 'god's country' is that the inhabitants have no respect for the land.

I don't mean that they don't appreciate the food that comes to fruition or the sea that supplies the freshest fish. I'm talking about their complete and total disregard for littering. When I drove passed the outskirts of Casa and saw a beautiful village with a backdrop of the famous Atlas Mountains, surrounded by a summit of garbage, I had to ask myself, "why?". Why do the people of a gracious and humble culture, not to mention an endemically CLEAN culture, throw their disgusting waste wherever they want? I'm straying off topic, but you understand my woe.

We arrived in Marrakech in brilliant time, around 1 PM, just in time to throw on my high-waist bikini & hit the pool. After sunbathing for a few hours, I readied myself to be astonished by the wonders of Djema el-Fna, the Mosque at the End of the World. In simple jeans and a tee-shirt once again, we headed out around 6 o'clock. The square was packed full of tourists from all over the world, of all ages, races, sexes.

When we entered into the square I was quite disturbed by the looks on the faces of the locals. They had the dejected look of what reminded me of the Chateaux Marmont, like 100 years lived in only 25. Like love lost and lack of options. There was nothing magical about the aggressive competition of the young and old men alike, vying for a bit of coin from some idiot tourists. The Barbary apes in captivity, dressed stupidly and piteously in women's clothing, the children of 4, 5 & 6 hustling those god ****** tissues, sickened me. The beauty of the place lay in the landscape, surrounded in the West by snow-capped cordillera.

There were charming things about the center, the smells of the many cooking tents, the sunset that left me gasping, and at night the stars shone and the moon was bright, but it all felt jaded. The old city was awash with men selling the exact same things for a higher price the farther in you walked, the jewelry was cheap and there were so many mopeds in the alleyways that it was dangerous to not pay attention for a moment. All in all, I saw the reason that UNESCO saved the location as an officially protected "cultural space", but I saw no magic, no story tellers, nothing  bewitching of the spirit. Sure, there were snake charmers, but half of them were fake. It was all smoke and mirrors.

The day following, my party and I took a guided tour into the High Atlas. Now this, this is where the enchantment laid, miles of blue-brown rock, stretched the length of as far as you could see all around. We had to travel into the mountains about an hour through deep country and the Marrakech of the locals, the real Marrakech. Through the towns that the government created when the foreigners started coming in, in droves of poisonous tour busses, and inflating the native infrastructure.

I had notions of grandiose to come and realizations of just what a small part I played in a large production. I had left selfishness on the air France flight into Rabat and quickly learned that peace is a relative thing here. People were not going to stop asking you questions but you realize that if they weren't questioning you it meant that they didn't give a ****. I felt loved undivided and genuinely, nothing comparable to the falsities I had thought were love previously. I learned of real beauty and to welcome, not fear it. That there were sad things in this world, yes, but I was a lucky one. I could not afford depression because I was taking it from the ones who had the right to own it. I still held my dark passenger inside but she's was lighter and quieter, she no longer bogged me down or spit vulgarity at all that I contacted. I still felt longing for my lost, lost lover as I would always but he no longer brought pangs at the thought of his eyes. I looked virginal in all white linens against a cerulean Mediterranean back drop, I felt virginal as I had taken no man in a month. I had been scrubbed and cleansed and covered to attain my rebirth and I had never felt the emotions that unearthed me. I clamored for more life, I hungered for it.

The way I used to be weak for him, I now craved strength with a sense of urgency for everything. I had new eyes for the world and the world, for me. I felt the pull and flow of the Andalusian and Berber blood that poured through my veins and nothing, not even not even the scorn from strangers calling me a daughter of the devil for my ensemble, could deter me from owning it. I had maddening notions that I was omnipresent, akin to a demi-goddess. I was earth, sun, ocean and blood - but unlike my peers and relations I was the only one who could find contentment in the peacefulness of silence. Still I would have liked so much to kiss you, with your full mouth and straight teeth, after a year of absence. For you to grab me by my neck and pull me into you hungrily, in the way only distance can make you sick for me. I fell asleep on the way back from Spain and I was awoken by me uncontrollably calling your name in my sleep. Yet how I longed to strike out on my own and meet a man of my future. I would not, like my dream, lie chaste and whole while in gods country and wait for you. No matter the poems I've writ nor the words I've scribed indicating so. I wanted something deeper and more deserving, though I will always love you, of my fullness and my crass, broken nature. My journeys were worth writing in diamond ink on golden pages and I needed someone who lived to review them at the peak of their worth.

I had mostly humdrum days in between which bled together until the day my father left for the states, sans me. It was an emotional scene and I was reminded about just how unprotected I really was without him. I took journey to Fes the following day with my Aunt and grandparents. It was a breathtaking drive through rough terrains from which masses of vegetation magically sprung forth to feed a nation. There were fields of wildflowers, all red peonies, brilliantly yellow buttercups, butter-colored daisies, intricate and massive wedding lace. Thousands upon thousands of sacred olive trees littered the landscape, it was perfectly picturesque. We journeyed into the 2,000 year old city and you could feel it's pulse. The stench was my only complaint, a mixture of ripe sea-water and rotten meat in some areas. It was a standard medina with hundreds bustling about, the most distinguishing difference being the beauty of the architecture. You had a feeling of heaviness from the age on the buildings and the locals looked as if they had been there since the beginning. I was in a pure state of wonder and vowed to look everything up about Fes that I could during my next peaceful wifi moment. We bartered and shopped and went as far into the twisting alleyways as we felt comfortable. For lunch we traveled into a small outer lying town in the hills and had the best kefta I
this is just the beginning
Brad Lambert Oct 2013
(I)

Whose coat is this? Sure as hell isn't my coat. I ain't got no coat with this parka ****, it's *******. I ain't no furry flamin' ******. I ain't no ****** chochy Molly-May-Ze-**** chokin' down chickens and nasalin' a'sniffin' snortin' nasty-*** choch; that ain't me. That ain't me. Look at this coat– I'm like an Eskimo *****. I'm like a butch-**** bull-**** crotch-lappin' a'swimmin' laps in that guy's swimmin' pool. Who's that guy? Who owns that guy? 'Ey, anyone here the owner of this guy– guy ain't got no owner? Whose coat is this? It's nice, real nice. Bet she said, "Does it come from France? Where do I buy one?" I want to buy one, I think I need to buy **** more. I sure as hell need to buy one of these. "And I need one these too and one of them too and I need a petticoat and a tipper-tapper and a whimpratic garfielder and one of them new bartlemores, I need more of them bartlemores. I need more, more, more, more, more, more..." That ain't enough. ****'s from France. ****'s from Paris, that's romantic. You think I'm romantic? I eat hearts for dinner, I chew down nails like nuts for my midnight snack. I smoke cigarettes and spit on concrete slabs, you think that's ****? I'll show you ****. I'll show you Paris, New York City, Rome, romance you in Rome. I'll get real ******' Roman. I'll take you to the desert and make love to you. That's how a free man does a woman, and I'm a real free man. Who's ownin' this guy? It ain't you, it ain't me. I don't own you, you don't own me. I'm a free man:

I said,
"Fire and wood, fire and wood, fire and wood. It is late, it is late, it is far, far too late."

I set
fire to wood, fire to wood; feel that fire fired fresh from that firewood.

I dug the pit,
he gathered the wood,
she started the fire.

She really does make that fire start.

O' how she makes that fire burn,
O' how the wood's wrapped in white hots,
O' how they smoke their smokestacked pipes,
O' tobacco teeming teenagers, tormented by and through youth,
O' adolescence, trending topics, and forget-me-not flowers,
O' old age, Floridan coffins, and coughing  cancers,
O' writers in the mountains writing to be,
O' painters and **** bodies in studies by the sea,
O' thinkers in their mindset, mindsetting the table for dinner,
O' tables set to bursting,
O' wallets so thick,
O' community,
O' society, our social games,
O' hope,
O' peace,
O' that I may be at peace,
O' that I may be content and pray only for peace,
O' how about them true believers,
O' how about that love at first sight,
O' sandstone. My sandstone. That guy sittin' on sandstone.

That's my guy. That's my guy. I own this ****.

Is a man breathing on a mirror the sum of his breaths?
Breaths foggin' a'mistin' my view,
my view of a body and that face,
you're a body.
You're a workin' day's bell,
you're my chill in an Icelandic draft,
you're my spare in a Middle Eastern draft,
you're my pawn in chest-to-chest chess.

You've got this. You've got this. You own this ****.

And it is ****, too. I'd be set, real ******' set, with someone like you. I'll make you a woman, check this parka ****. Coat's mine. I'm a classy igloo runner, runnin' a'ragin' a'czebelskiin' meriteratin', I'll be reiteratin' your points. Check the time, it's late! It's late! ***** was in the grassy knoll turnin' trap tunes on her turntable. Would you listen to that? She sounds late to me, does she sound late to you? I like the music; I like the music. What happened to Woodstock? Where's my watergate, Nixon? Where's my generation, Ginsberg? Where's the meaning? This music's too loud! We're so profound! O' profundity!

Tell me something I didn't know, I'm craving' the new.
Give me the new while I spit on the old,
while I spit on this fine art finely art'd by and for fine artists–
******' fine artists. ******* fine artists.

(You can realize radical-realist realism but you can't be real with me?)

O' fine art!
What fine art!
Which fine artists are dead?



(II)

Looks like they're dead.

Looks like them ******* choked out all them ghettos, choked out all them rednecks, chokin' a'stranglin' by-God-oh-God straddlin' the breeders. I sure did like them babes– babes with their laughin' a'lackin' o' cynicism. They don't know the word "****."

I sure am forgetful–
I forgot that smoke doesn't dissipate,
I forgot how to smell autumn leaves,
I forgot to check the heart against the fingertips,
I forgot why my fingertips went numb,
I forgot to cue in the meaning when the sentence was complete,
I forget to complete my sentences,
I forget who you were wanting when you said, "I want you."

I got as much depth as an in-depth discussion, high hats and electropercussion have got me going. I'm goin' downtown, uptown bourgeois tricked me out, johns and yellow Hummers laid me down and cussed me out. That's not a discussion. That's not my scent scenting my towel, this breath reeks of wintry air– my fingertips went numb.

"I want you."

"Oh would you look at that moon?
Take a look at that moon.
Look at that moon with the ******' mountains.
I love that moon.
That's my moon."

I love darin' a'dusty dareelin' derailin' your dreams, whose dreams are these? They ain't my dreams– ain't no dream derailin' a'nileerad radiatiatin' some hint of joy or Jamison Scotch Liqueur. Drink that ****. That's my ****, I own that ****.
I'm sittin' on this stoop like I own this ****, like this **** owns me; I owed me. I don't own me, you owe me:

Pay up man, feet off the stoop.
Pay up man, be real with me.
Pay up man, you ever thought of a man as a man?
Pay up man, give it in.
Pay up man, give in.
Pay up man, I need you to do me a solid. Do me solid from crown-to-toe, we're toe-to-toe let's do-si-do bro-to-** I'm ready go, **, jo, ko, lo, get low… Now I'm ramblin'. You say, "Ramble in to the stoop and tell me a story."

What's a stoop– who's a stoop? That **** ain't stoop– you ain't stoop. You're stupid. You're a joke, check out the joke. Hey ladies, you seen this joke– joke ain't been seen by them ladies? I'm a joke. We ain't laughin' with you, they're laughin' at you.

O' hilarity!
Such hilarity!
What hilarious histories have passed?



(III)*

"I said I loved him once. I only loved him once."
(
And how long once has been...)

I sure did like them hand-holdins,
them star-gazin' moments,
them moon phasin' nighttime nuances,
them fingertip feelin' a'findin',
them sessions o'meshin' limber legs unto steadfast *****,
heads cocked like guns toward the sky,
beyond the horizon
but well
below the belt.

Them star-gazing moments seeing stars seemin' small, I love how they gleam- gleamin' a'glarin' comparin' shine to shine, shimmerin' a glimmer shone stumblin' her way home from the bar. She's drunk. She's brilliant, brilliance of whit and wantin' a'wanderlustin' gypsy nomads- that ***** gyp'd me, no mad man would take a cerebral slam to the face lest them moving pictures are involved. Read a ******' book, it'll last longer. Kiss me on the collar bones, clavicles shone shining with slick saliva pining for my affections. You're clammerin' to feel me, clammin' up (Just feel me.) I want to run my hands through long hair and peg the nausea nervosa to the wall. The writing's on the wall:

The sun bent over so the moon could rise, chanting,
"Goodbye and good riddance,
I never wanted to shine down
on them seas o' tranquilities anyhow."*

O' what a day. What a day.

And the wind ruffles leaves and it ruffles feathers on birds eating worms in brown soil.

What a day. What a day.

And the men under the bridge gather in traitorous conversation of governments overthrown and border dissolution and poetry with meters bent out of tune.

What a day. What a day.

And the billboards are dry for all the consumers to consume, use, and review.

What a day. What a day.

And hearts break messiest when you're not looking.

What a day. What a day.

And the ego and the id and the redwood trees are talking. They're sitting **** in the marshes, bathing in the bogwater while fondling foreign fine wines and whisperin' a'veerin' conversations towards topics kept well out of hand, out of the game, nontobe racin' in races, rampant radical racists betting bets on bent, bald Bolshevik racists wagging Marxist manifestos in the bourgeois' faces, yes. Make it be. Nontobe sanity as the captain creases his pleats, pleasin' her creases and the dewdrops of sweat trailing down the small of her back– down the ridge of her spine forming solitary springs of saline saltwater in the small of her back. Aye-aye, guy's pleasin' a'makin' choices a'steerin'– government's a'veerin' a hard left into the ice.

'Berg! 'Berg!
Danger in the icy 'berg!
None too soon a 'berg!
Bound to bump a 'berg!
O' inevitably unnerving 'berg!
Authoritative 'berg!
Totalitarian 'berg!
Surveillance of *** and the sexes 'berg!
O' fatalist fetishist 'berg!
Benevolent big brother 'berg!
Homosocial socialization 'berg!
Romanticized Roman 'berg!
O' virginal mother 'berg!
City on a hill on a 'berg!
Subtly socialist 'berg!
Nongovernmental 'berg!
O' illustrious libertine 'berg!
Freedom of the people 'berg!
Water privatization 'berg!
Alcohol idolization 'berg!
O' corrupt and courageous 'berg!
Church and a stately 'berg!
Pray to your ceiling fan 'berg!
Biblically borne 'berg!
O' godly and gorgeous 'berg!
Ferocious freedom fighters launching lackluster demonstrations far too post-demonstration feeling liberty and love, la vie en rouge, revolving revolutionist ranting on revolution tangible as
an ice cold 'berg.

'Berg! 'Berg!
O' the 'berg, the ****** iceberg–
You'll be the death of me.
LifeBeauty13 Dec 2015
Man, why do you drive me crazy,
Decisions of your's are more than hazy,
In front of the tv again!
Dear God above... are you lazy?
I try so hard to figure you out,
No...no... not another bout.
Give me a map of your mind
and I promise in turn to be very kind.
Because I realize we are the smarter and better ***.
Please communicate for me to escape my vex.
Should I talk slower,use puppets or interpret dance,
Because in this battle of ours, you can never advance.
So I am Woman and hear me roar
I can nag and tell you the "What For"
With my mind I am a real "Know it All"
Have the answers and will never fall,
Why am I crying,I need chocolate,do you think I am fat?
Hormones? No there is nothing to that.
Battle of the Sexes, who will win,will we ever see?
At this point,don't care, Honey? Pay attention to me!
Being in a relationship is not easy.
"
Loose girls sell their souls to many men
don't they even realize the consequences
as they lie and wait lustfully at men
driving by in their posh little cars
they quickly open their car doors
to let these young women in.
Taking advantage for their prosperous
gain, "don't they even have a conscious,"
or what, stripping the body of soul and spirit.
what has become of our society,?
We all stop and stare and watch while
our good and moral values are destroyed.
trafficking is a world epidermic were
men have enslaved not just women
but both sexes, and worst of all
young children are more vulnerable
to this barbaric behavior life's torn apart.
some one needs to make a moral stand
Our world has gone completely mad
thinking of there own selfish needs
and not caring about others
what on earth has happened to
our world.?
A sick society
ruthless, men lie and wait for their
monstrous gain
stealing and robbing
a beautiful thing that God had
created for marriage.
turned love making into
a vile and *******.
children life's wrecked
their innocence stolen
what has on earth is happening
to our world ......
This greeting comes
Have a nice day
Easier said than done

Haven't had one in a while
Can name the reasons why
The list as long as the Nile

What to do or what not to do
The question I'm left to ponder solo
Feels familiar, always has, oh no!

What shall I do?
Rescue me!
Come to me on bended knee

It won't happen, we're not dating
I'd sabbatoge it if you did
I need pure raw emotions that you keep well hid

The sexes unstable in this world today
What connotations does it carry
When you say, "have a nice day"

February 10, 2014
Anonymous Jul 2014
People ask me what it’s like to find women sexually attractive
Often I’m an outcast for liking the same ***
But in the lesbian world I’m an outcast for liking men too
It’s confusing really
There is no way to explain the way women are
And why they are so appealing to me
Not only is their outside appearance alluring and beautiful
But their insides are vulnerable, broken, and insecure
I like that, seeing a women shattered because of society
I like the honesty that encloses them in a blanket of insecurity
Men on the other hand
Well, they are strong and handsome on the outside
And a bit more emotional than you’d expect on the inside
There really isn’t a reason why I’m attracted to both sexes
I just am, I was born this way I suppose
I say I suppose because I am not quite sure
how the whole human nature and sexuality thing works
Men and women are both appealing
Their minds differ so much that I crave both
Call me selfish;
Because I am
I crave to know human nature in any form it comes
Man or woman, I will not judge
Connor Jeffries Sep 2012
It is quite interesting
The way in which women can proceed through life,
In such a grossly hypocritical manner.
Scorning love,
And mocking their lovers openly,
As if to say, your feelings don't count,
Only to later on raise their voices in condemnation
Of their slighted partner,
Thereby proving that they are without a doubt
The far more dishonest
And petty, of the sexes.
Whate’er is Born of Mortal Birth,
Must be consumed with the Earth
To rise from Generation free:
Then what have I to do with thee?

The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride
Blowd in the morn; in evening died
But Mercy changed Death into Sleep;
The Sexes rose to work & weep.

Thou Mother of my Mortal part.
With cruelty didst mould my Heart.
And with false self-deceiving tears.
Didst blind my Nostrils Eyes & Ears

Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay
And me to Mortal Life betray:
The Death of Jesus set me free.
Then what have I to do with thee?
karin naude Nov 2013
mum's well intended tough upbringing ended in a two sided razor sharp sword
i am independent, intelligent, and successful
that same achievements cause me no shortage of frenemies
and a severe debilitating starvation for true friendship and love
men wont touch me with a 10 foot poll
both sexes make me out to be weird beyond the point of recognising there reflexion in me
imprisoned in a life i wanted, successful
with a incurable case of loneliness, i'm drowning out with food and bad poetry
this is my roaring twenties, hooray
cant wait for the next 80 years
going senile will be a blessing
no longer haunted by pain and unreached potential
Rachel Falkner Sep 2014
In my world,
we aren’t allowed to love men if we’re women,
In my world,
we aren’t allowed to love women if we’re men.

It used to be that it was wrong for men to love men,
or women to love women,
It used to be frowned upon for them to get married,
the way we do so often.

“God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,”
protestors used to claim.
But according to their beliefs,
God created everyone the same.

I couldn’t imagine waking up without the love of my life,
next to me every day,
Her warm arms wrapped around me;
our bodies lying in a tangled array.

My brother couldn’t imagine waking up without the love of his life,
next to him every morning,
Or going to sleep without him,
for without his husband he is nothing.

Plato said that Zeus struck the humans with four arms and four legs,
with two hearts and two faces,
For he feared their power and condemned them
to search for their soul mates embraces.

If Plato is right and we are split into two halves
why did they used to think it meant opposite sexes?
If in mitosis a cell produces an exact copy of itself
why didn’t they think it meant same sexes?

But perhaps it is wrong for us to conclude
that heterosexuality is so unacceptable,
If now we think it is so ridiculous
that homosexuality used to be considered terrible.

r.f.
The Angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear;
Then, as new waked, thus gratefully replied.
What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
This friendly condescension to relate
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glory attributed to the high
Creator!  Something yet of doubt remains,
Which only thy solution can resolve.
When I behold this goodly frame, this world,
Of Heaven and Earth consisting; and compute
Their magnitudes; this Earth, a spot, a grain,
An atom, with the firmament compared
And all her numbered stars, that seem to roll
Spaces incomprehensible, (for such
Their distance argues, and their swift return
Diurnal,) merely to officiate light
Round this opacous Earth, this punctual spot,
One day and night; in all her vast survey
Useless besides; reasoning I oft admire,
How Nature wise and frugal could commit
Such disproportions, with superfluous hand
So many nobler bodies to create,
Greater so manifold, to this one use,
For aught appears, and on their orbs impose
Such restless revolution day by day
Repeated; while the sedentary Earth,
That better might with far less compass move,
Served by more noble than herself, attains
Her end without least motion, and receives,
As tribute, such a sumless journey brought
Of incorporeal speed, her warmth and light;
Speed, to describe whose swiftness number fails.
So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed
Entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve
Perceiving, where she sat retired in sight,
With lowliness majestick from her seat,
And grace that won who saw to wish her stay,
Rose, and went forth among her fruits and flowers,
To visit how they prospered, bud and bloom,
Her nursery; they at her coming sprung,
And, touched by her fair tendance, gladlier grew.
Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
Delighted, or not capable her ear
Of what was high: such pleasure she reserved,
Adam relating, she sole auditress;
Her husband the relater she preferred
Before the Angel, and of him to ask
Chose rather; he, she knew, would intermix
Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses: from his lip
Not words alone pleased her.  O! when meet now
Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
With Goddess-like demeanour forth she went,
Not unattended; for on her, as Queen,
A pomp of winning Graces waited still,
And from about her shot darts of desire
Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight.
And Raphael now, to Adam’s doubt proposed,
Benevolent and facile thus replied.
To ask or search, I blame thee not; for Heaven
Is as the book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wonderous works, and learn
His seasons, hours, or days, or months, or years:
This to attain, whether Heaven move or Earth,
Imports not, if thou reckon right; the rest
From Man or Angel the great Architect
Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge
His secrets to be scanned by them who ought
Rather admire; or, if they list to try
Conjecture, he his fabrick of the Heavens
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move
His laughter at their quaint opinions wide
Hereafter; when they come to model Heaven
And calculate the stars, how they will wield
The mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive
To save appearances; how gird the sphere
With centrick and eccentrick scribbled o’er,
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb:
Already by thy reasoning this I guess,
Who art to lead thy offspring, and supposest
That bodies bright and greater should not serve
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journeys run,
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
The benefit:  Consider first, that great
Or bright infers not excellence: the Earth
Though, in comparison of Heaven, so small,
Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
More plenty than the sun that barren shines;
Whose virtue on itself works no effect,
But in the fruitful Earth; there first received,
His beams, unactive else, their vigour find.
Yet not to Earth are those bright luminaries
Officious; but to thee, Earth’s habitant.
And for the Heaven’s wide circuit, let it speak
The Maker’s high magnificence, who built
So spacious, and his line stretched out so far;
That Man may know he dwells not in his own;
An edifice too large for him to fill,
Lodged in a small partition; and the rest
Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.
The swiftness of those circles attribute,
Though numberless, to his Omnipotence,
That to corporeal substances could add
Speed almost spiritual:  Me thou thinkest not slow,
Who since the morning-hour set out from Heaven
Where God resides, and ere mid-day arrived
In Eden; distance inexpressible
By numbers that have name.  But this I urge,
Admitting motion in the Heavens, to show
Invalid that which thee to doubt it moved;
Not that I so affirm, though so it seem
To thee who hast thy dwelling here on Earth.
God, to remove his ways from human sense,
Placed Heaven from Earth so far, that earthly sight,
If it presume, might err in things too high,
And no advantage gain.  What if the sun
Be center to the world; and other stars,
By his attractive virtue and their own
Incited, dance about him various rounds?
Their wandering course now high, now low, then hid,
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still,
In six thou seest; and what if seventh to these
The planet earth, so stedfast though she seem,
Insensibly three different motions move?
Which else to several spheres thou must ascribe,
Moved contrary with thwart obliquities;
Or save the sun his labour, and that swift
Nocturnal and diurnal rhomb supposed,
Invisible else above all stars, the wheel
Of day and night; which needs not thy belief,
If earth, industrious of herself, fetch day
Travelling east, and with her part averse
From the sun’s beam meet night, her other part
Still luminous by his ray.  What if that light,
Sent from her through the wide transpicuous air,
To the terrestrial moon be as a star,
Enlightening her by day, as she by night
This earth? reciprocal, if land be there,
Fields and inhabitants:  Her spots thou seest
As clouds, and clouds may rain, and rain produce
Fruits in her softened soil for some to eat
Allotted there; and other suns perhaps,
With their attendant moons, thou wilt descry,
Communicating male and female light;
Which two great sexes animate the world,
Stored in each orb perhaps with some that live.
For such vast room in Nature unpossessed
By living soul, desart and desolate,
Only to shine, yet scarce to contribute
Each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far
Down to this habitable, which returns
Light back to them, is obvious to dispute.
But whether thus these things, or whether not;
But whether the sun, predominant in Heaven,
Rise on the earth; or earth rise on the sun;
He from the east his flaming road begin;
Or she from west her silent course advance,
With inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps
On her soft axle, while she paces even,
And bears thee soft with the smooth hair along;
Sollicit not thy thoughts with matters hid;
Leave them to God above; him serve, and fear!
Of other creatures, as him pleases best,
Wherever placed, let him dispose; joy thou
In what he gives to thee, this Paradise
And thy fair Eve; Heaven is for thee too high
To know what passes there; be lowly wise:
Think only what concerns thee, and thy being;
Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there
Live, in what state, condition, or degree;
Contented that thus far hath been revealed
Not of Earth only, but of highest Heaven.
To whom thus Adam, cleared of doubt, replied.
How fully hast thou satisfied me, pure
Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene!
And, freed from intricacies, taught to live
The easiest way; nor with perplexing thoughts
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares,
And not ****** us; unless we ourselves
Seek them with wandering thoughts, and notions vain.
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
Unchecked, and of her roving is no end;
Till warned, or by experience taught, she learn,
That, not to know at large of things remote
From use, obscure and subtle; but, to know
That which before us lies in daily life,
Is the prime wisdom:  What is more, is fume,
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence:
And renders us, in things that most concern,
Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek.
Therefore from this high pitch let us descend
A lower flight, and speak of things at hand
Useful; whence, haply, mention may arise
Of something not unseasonable to ask,
By sufferance, and thy wonted favour, deigned.
Thee I have heard relating what was done
Ere my remembrance: now, hear me relate
My story, which perhaps thou hast not heard;
And day is not yet spent; till then thou seest
How subtly to detain thee I devise;
Inviting thee to hear while I relate;
Fond! were it not in hope of thy reply:
For, while I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven;
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear
Than fruits of palm-tree pleasantest to thirst
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour
Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill,
Though pleasant; but thy words, with grace divine
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.
To whom thus Raphael answered heavenly meek.
Nor are thy lips ungraceful, Sire of men,
Nor tongue ineloquent; for God on thee
Abundantly his gifts hath also poured
Inward and outward both, his image fair:
Speaking, or mute, all comeliness and grace
Attends thee; and each word, each motion, forms;
Nor less think we in Heaven of thee on Earth
Than of our fellow-servant, and inquire
Gladly into the ways of God with Man:
For God, we see, hath honoured thee, and set
On Man his equal love:  Say therefore on;
For I that day was absent, as befel,
Bound on a voyage uncouth and obscure,
Far on excursion toward the gates of Hell;
Squared in full legion (such command we had)
To see that none thence issued forth a spy,
Or enemy, while God was in his work;
Lest he, incensed at such eruption bold,
Destruction with creation might have mixed.
Not that they durst without his leave attempt;
But us he sends upon his high behests
For state, as Sovran King; and to inure
Our prompt obedience.  Fast we found, fast shut,
The dismal gates, and barricadoed strong;
But long ere our approaching heard within
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song,
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
Glad we returned up to the coasts of light
Ere sabbath-evening: so we had in charge.
But thy relation now; for I attend,
Pleased with thy words no less than thou with mine.
So spake the Godlike Power, and thus our Sire.
For Man to tell how human life began
Is hard; for who himself beginning knew
Desire with thee still longer to converse
Induced me.  As new waked from soundest sleep,
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid,
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
Straight toward Heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
And gazed a while the ample sky; till, raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet: about me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
Creatures that lived and moved, and walked, or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o’erflowed.
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
With supple joints, as lively vigour led:
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
Whate’er I saw.  Thou Sun, said I, fair light,
And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay,
Ye Hills, and Dales, ye Rivers, Woods, and Plains,
And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell,
Tell, if ye saw, how I came thus, how here?—
Not of myself;—by some great Maker then,
In goodness and in power pre-eminent:
Tell me, how may I know him, how adore,
From whom I have that thus I move and live,
And feel that I am happier than I know.—
While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither,
From where I first drew air, and first beheld
This happy light; when, answer none returned,
On a green shady bank, profuse of flowers,
Pensive I sat me down:  There gentle sleep
First found me, and with soft oppression seised
My droused sense, untroubled, though I thought
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve:
When suddenly stood at my head a dream,
Whose inward apparition gently moved
My fancy to believe I yet had being,
And lived:  One came, methought, of shape divine,
And said, ‘Thy mansion wants thee, Adam; rise,
‘First Man, of men innumerable ordained
‘First Father! called by thee, I come thy guide
‘To the garden of bliss, thy seat prepared.’
So saying, by the hand he took me raised,
And over fields and waters, as in air
Smooth-sliding without step, last led me up
A woody mountain; whose high top was plain,
A circuit wide, enclosed, with goodliest trees
Planted, with walks, and bowers; that what I saw
Of Earth before scarce pleasant seemed.  Each tree,
Loaden with fairest fruit that hung to the eye
Tempting, stirred in me sudden appetite
To pluck and eat; whereat I waked, and found
Before mine eyes all real, as the dream
Had lively shadowed:  Here had new begun
My wandering, had not he, who was my guide
Up hither, from among the trees appeared,
Presence Divine.  Rejoicing, but with awe,
In adoration at his feet I fell
Submiss:  He reared me, and ‘Whom thou soughtest I am,’
Said mildly, ‘Author of all this thou seest
‘Above, or round about thee, or beneath.
‘This Paradise I give thee, count it thine
‘To till and keep, and of the fruit to eat:
‘Of every tree that in the garden grows
‘Eat freely with glad heart; fear here no dearth:
‘But of the tree whose operation brings
‘Knowledge of good and ill, which I have set
‘The pledge of thy obedience and thy faith,
‘Amid the garden by the tree of life,
‘Remember what I warn thee, shun to taste,
‘And shun the bitter consequence: for know,
‘The day thou eatest thereof, my sole command
‘Transgressed, inevitably thou shalt die,
‘From that day mortal; and this happy state
‘Shalt lose, expelled from hence into a world
‘Of woe and sorrow.’  Sternly he pronounced
The rigid interdiction, which resounds
Yet dreadful in mine ear, though in my choice
Not to incur; but soon his clear aspect
Returned, and gracious purpose thus renewed.
‘Not only these fair bounds, but all the Earth
‘To thee and to thy race I give; as lords
‘Possess it, and all things that therein live,
‘Or live in sea, or air; beast, fish, and fowl.
‘In sign whereof, each bird and beast behold
‘After their kinds; I bring them to receive
‘From thee their names, and pay thee fealty
‘With low subjection; understand the same
‘Of fish within their watery residence,
‘Not hither summoned, since they cannot change
‘Their element, to draw the thinner air.’
As thus he spake, each bird and beast behold
Approaching two and two; these cowering low
With blandishment; each bird stooped on his wing.
I named them, as they passed, and understood
Their nature, with such knowledge God endued
My sudden apprehension:  But in these
I found not what methought I wanted still;
And to the heavenly Vision thus presumed.
O, by what name, for thou above all these,
Above mankind, or aught than mankind higher,
Surpassest far my naming; how may I
Adore thee, Author of this universe,
And all this good to man? for whose well being
So amply, and with hands so liberal,
Thou hast provided all things:  But with me
I see not who partakes.  In solitude
What happiness, who can enjoy alone,
Or, all enjoying, what contentment f
4 seasons/
yearly clearly/
Affirmations/
when you hear that i am "i" /
the seed of the joker and liar/
behold these laws are sown onto to me /
a bow with the strings of relief/
the corporate me
I seize to believe /
For they've monetized belief/
take advantage of the weak
meek with hair streaks/
They want my juice to leak/
trying to copy my technique/
when I get lost when I look into me/
So why take advantage of your grief?/
I express release/
144,000 puzzle pieces/
They struggle with deepness /
my keen turns those obsequious/
I challenge my steepness/

The Apex
gets pushed by my flex/
my brain contains both sexes/
galaxy nexus connect this/
extra terrestrials bargain for my friendship/
in-comprehensive to your demonic presence/
Endless ego/
call me evil I'll smile at your people/
consider it lethal/
laughter is legal/
Comedic strategic spiritual kilo/
drugged by your equal/
  zero plus zero
forms the hero /
messiah hunter
their styles under
and above/
i remain at the center protected by shields of lust/
The cusp
I'm psychic too much/
RKM Jul 2011
The Torn Cartwheelers

“In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;- and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents.”  -- The symposium, Plato

- Back when we were cart-wheelers;
we rolled in unison with braided spines.
A woven chain of muscular fibre;
our interlaced vertebrae
assembled a duality of one.
- Made of moon, we lived as stars.
Invincible wholes, we felt like Gods
Free-wheeling on our myriad limbs,
tumbling through clutching forests,
Basking in our lack of direction.

- We grew arrogant,
Toes tight in our four shoes.
We hungered for dominion, impregnable,
Never conceived of life apart;
how we might be broken.
So we were reckless; scorned Gods.
Bulging with trepidation, they conspired
to put us in place.
- Ripped down the middle, we bled
until roughly stitched with forlorn seams.
Our unfurled marrow now two in place of one;
Female, male, we were earth-scattered.
- Jumbled and lost, we torn cart-wheelers
Were compelled to walk.

- Inconsolable, we wilted,
Unable to function as halves,
we combed the earth for our whole;
Calling vainly on spindle limbs.
- A handful triumphed and united,
Only to drown in euphoria when
their entwined locked bodies, starved,
Yearning only for fusion.

- Now we are accustomed to solitude;
dissipated stitches left tougher skin.
- Until we meet a silhouette of our half
Imperfect but concurring
our jarring zips catch often;
some irreparably,
But we feel again the semblance of solitude,
Crave to be two halves of the moon.
Aaron LaLux Jun 2018
When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,

and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,

I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,

See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,

she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,

this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,

she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,

she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,

no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,

she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…

∆aron L∆ Lux ∆

#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
Craig Harrison May 2014
Common arguments like which decade is better
the 90's, 80's, 70's or the 60's
each had its advantages and each had its disadvantages
good things and bad things
the same can be said for the 00's and the 10's
I'm a 90's the same decade that we got the TV show Friends

Common arguments like which football team is better
Arsenal, United, City, Chelsea or Liverpool
each club had its chances, had their time
We stood by them through the good times and the bad
the same goes for every other team
I'm a Liverpool fan, the 2005 Champions League final was like a dream

Common arguments like which *** is better
Male or Female
Each are equal but have more sexes to compete with these days
we might hate our opposites at times but we love them really

Common arguments like which country is better
U.S.A, England, Russia, China or any other country
We all have our problems, we all have our good points
Leaders might argue and fight but social networks have connected us
Our leaders might not realise but we have more in common with each other than we ever knew
we are all united in our goals and our dreams
that is a statement that is true

Common arguments some times go to far
people get hurt
one word fixes most arguments
"SORRY"
Not my best poem but I hope you like it

If you would like to follow my on Twitter, search for
@Craigus987
Spanish

    –Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?
Se dirían crisálidas de piedra
De yo no sé qué formidable raza
En una eterna espera inenarrable.
Los cráteres dormidos de sus bocas
Dan la ceniza negra del Silencio,
Mana de las columnas de sus hombros
La mortaja copiosa de la Calma
Y fluye de sus órbitas la noche;
Victimas del Futuro o del Misterio,
En capullos terribles y magníficos
Esperan a la Vida o a la Muerte.
Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?–
    Piedad para las vidas
Que no doran a fuego tus bonanzas
Ni riegan o desgajan tus tormentas;
Piedad para los cuerpos revestidos
Del armiño solemne de la Calma,
Y las frentes en luz que sobrellevan
Grandes lirios marmóreos de pureza,
Pesados y glaciales como témpanos;
Piedad para las manos enguantadas
De hielo, que no arrancan
Los frutos deleitosos de la Carne
Ni las flores fantásticas del alma;
Piedad para los ojos que aletean
Espirituales párpados:
Escamas de misterio,
Negros telones de visiones rosas…
Nunca ven nada por mirar tan lejos!
    Piedad para las pulcras cabelleras
–Misticas aureolas–
Peinadas como lagos
Que nunca airea el abanico *****,
***** y enorme de la tempestad;
Piedad para los ínclitos espiritus
Tallados en diamante,
Altos, claros, extáticos
Pararrayos de cúpulas morales;
Piedad para los labios como engarces
Celestes donde fulge
Invisible la perla de la Hostia;
–Labios que nunca fueron,
Que no apresaron nunca
Un vampiro de fuego
Con más sed y más hambre que un abismo.–
Piedad para los sexos sacrosantos
Que acoraza de una
Hoja de viña astral la Castidad;
Piedad para las plantas imantadas
De eternidad que arrastran
Por el eterno azur
Las sandalias quemantes de sus llagas;
Piedad, piedad, piedad
Para todas las vidas que defiende
De tus maravillosas intemperies
El mirador enhiesto del Orgullo;

Apuntales tus soles o tus rayos!

Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?…

              English

    –Eros: have you never felt
Piety for the statues?
These chrysalides of stone,
Some formidable race
In an eternal, unutterable hope.
The sleeping craters of their mouths
Utter the black ash of silence;
A copious shroud of Calm
Falls from the columns of their arms,
And night flows from their eyesockets;
Victims of Destiny or Mystery,
In magnificent and terrible cocoons,
They wait for Life or Death.
Eros: have you never perhaps felt
Piety for the statues?
    Piety for the lives
That will not strew nor rend your battles
Nor gild your fiery truces;
Piety for the bodies clothed
In the solemn ermine of Calm,
The luminous foreheads that endure
Their marble wreaths, grand and pure,
Weighty and glacial as icebergs;
Piety for the gloved hands of ice
That cannot uproot
The delicious fruits of the Flesh,
The fantastic flowers of the soul;
Piety for the eyes that flutter
Their spiritual eyelids:
Mysterious fish scales,
Dark curtains on rose visions…
For looking so far, they never see!
    Piety for the tidy heads of hair
–Mystical haloes–
Gently combed like lakes
Which the storm’s black fan,
Black and enormous, never thrashes;
Piety for the spirits, illustrious,
Carved of diamonds,
High, clear, ecstatic
Lightning rods on pious domes;
Piety for the lips like celestial settings
Where the invisible pearls of the Host gleam;
–Lips that never existed,
Never seized anything,
A fiery vampire
With more thirst and hunger than an abyss.
Piety for the sacrosanct sexes
That armor themselves with sheaths
From the astral vineyards of Chastity;
Piety for the magnetized footsoles
Who eternally drag
Sandals burning with sores
Through the eternal azure;
Piety, piety, pity
For all the lives defended
By the lighthouse of Pride
From your marvelous raw weathers:

Aim your suns and rays at them!

Eros: have you never perhaps felt
Pity for the statues?
nivek Apr 2014
calm is my maleness
I hope to mixit
with femaleness
And now... The coming of the Pleaidian
order. Some call it call it the Second
Coming. The rapture or ascent to
heaven. It is said that in the
constellation called the Seven Sisters,
the planets are highly advanced. There is no money, pain, suffering, division or
confusion. They use tubes to travel
much like railways. The influence of the
Pleaidians on Earthlings has been long
imposed, from the Yahweh
Consciousness (The Deluge times) to the Messiah Projects. On Earth the public receives the picture
spread by the holders of the Media. In
truth there is a psychic war that has
been going on for millenia. From the
time of the gods down to present
human idols, be it Kings, presidents, athletes, celebrities or politicians and
vicars of religious institutions. With the Matriarchy uprising, men have
been have faced with a destructive
challenge. It can be said that men have
done women a lot of harm and it is
now their chance to hurt men. But then
that is vengeance and not justice. Which brings us to factions
representing Councils positioned in the
Galactic Federation of Councils. There
are forces of Light and there are forces
of Darkness. Which would be apparent
with the way things are on Earth. You have the Dragon Queen network and
you have Daughters Of MA and time-
travelling agents. There is a chaos
manipulated from above. There is a
divine connective power of ******
*******. This power creates a third energy which can be used for good or
evil. Which is important for dark
magicians to increase their power and
effect psychic manipulation. This power is encouraged to be kept at
a low-vibrational frequency, hence
have we lust. With lust the bond of love
and its frequency is affected. And
hence we have meaningless
relationships, heartbreaks and separations. This is because ******
******* at high positive-vibrational
frequencies will create an energy that
will uplift the consciousness of the
planet Earth. This is only half the story. That's the
metaphysical perspective. With
Capitalism on a high and matriarchy-
vengeful rising men have been feeling
the pinch. This is because the point is to
keep us apart. Money makes relationships very complex. This is why
nowadays there are more women who
love money rather than love itself. You
can imagine how it must have been
done behind the curtains; you put
members of influence on the forefront and you dress them up, teach them
how to think, behave and carry
themselves; these members become
prototypes for multiple avatars. Yes
brainwashing techniques, put women
under sync mode and simulate behaviour and then this builds a
consciousness. It is said that when the
human hybrids were made by the star
people; genetic engineers, they were
implanted with crystal chips,
programmed to make us intolerant of each other. Back to the consciousness,
with women already wearing a deep
hollow wound of being mistreated and
dehumanized by those called men;
different forms of zeitgeist can be used
by the powers with a promise to heal those wounds. So woman would now become the
new enemy of the two sexes. In the
future men would have a *** change
just to have the benefits and the right
to feel human. Now, these avatars
would be recruits of The Association, unknowingly, they called them
working girls. The order was basic,
wear the suit; make-up, loud colours
and tight clothes and market yourself
through the various social portals.
Every weekend a working girl would get free drinks, drunken *** (if she
wanted), she'd have a bf just for
security, and then stand in's for basic
expenses; food, cosmetics, hair-do,
and clothes). At the last levels of her
missions, she would choose a tamable guy who can afford her, this guy
would be too submerged in his ego to
what's coming. To secure the deal, the
objective is to have the guy impregnate
you. Then it's pretty much inevitable
from there. She plays good wife for a number of years, brings children, not
too many though, then when she is fed
up comes the divorce and alimony.
Done and dusted; game won. The game was fair in the beginning for
it was intended for bad and abusive
men but then it got corrupt and it
spread from world capitals to citcies
down to towns and even developing
rural areas. To make matters worse, the recruits were now found in girls who
were only in high school. The vision
was to tame girls from an early age to
use men as *** slaves and money
outlets. This was the order of The
Association. Vengeance or Justice? Or just plain manipulation. The
Association...
Lucy Tonic Jun 2012
Inside…
Preachers, teachers, sleepers
Ponies, cronies, phonies
Murders, murmurs, lurkers, tearjerkers
Sexes, hexes, Pseudo T-Rex’s
Splices, spices, identity crises
Chasms, spasms, *******
Tongues, songs sung, smoke-filled lungs, décor hung
Confessions, obsessions, strange blessings
Gargoyles, rich spoils, no mortal coil
Rose windows, ruddy elbows, emperor’s clothes-
A place of chaos and a place of hope

Outside…
Inspired by “Tropic of Cancer”
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
*********** *****
1. I do call to witness the Resurrection Day;
2. And I do call to witness the self-reproaching spirit: (Eschew Evil) .
3. Does man think that We cannot assemble his bones?
4. Nay, We are able to put together in perfect order the very tips of his fingers.
5. But man wishes to do wrong (even) in the time in front of him.
6. He questions: 'When is the Day of Resurrection? '
7. At length, when the sight is dazed,
8. And the moon is buried in darkness.
9. And the sun and moon are joined together, -
10. That Day will Man say: 'Where is the refuge? '
11. By no means! No place of safety!
12. Before thy Lord (alone) , that Day will be the place of rest.
13. That Day will Man be told (all) that he put forward, and all that he put back.
14. Nay, man will be evidence against himself,
15. Even though he were to put up his excuses.
16. Move not thy tongue concerning the (Qur'an) to make haste therewith.
17. It is for Us to collect it and to promulgate it:
18. But when We have promulgated it, follow thou its recital (as promulgated) :
19. Nay more, it is for Us to explain it (and make it clear) :
20. Nay, (ye men!) but ye love the fleeting life,
21. And leave alone the Hereafter.
22. Some faces, that Day, will beam (in brightness and beauty) : -
23. Looking towards their Lord;
24. And some faces, that Day, will be sad and dismal,
25. In the thought that some back-breaking calamity was about to be inflicted on them;
26. Yea, when (the soul) reaches to the collar-bone (in its exit) ,
27. And there will be a cry, 'Who is a magician (to restore him) ? '
28. And he will conclude that it was (the Time) of Parting;
29. And one leg will be joined with another:
30. That Day the Drive will be (all) to thy Lord!
31. So he gave nothing in charity, nor did he pray! -
32. But on the contrary, he rejected Truth and turned away!
33. Then did he stalk to his family in full conceit!
34. Woe to thee, (O men!) , yea, woe!
35. Again, Woe to thee, (O men!) , yea, woe!
36. Does man think that he will be left uncontrolled, (without purpose) ?
37. Was he not a drop of ***** emitted (in lowly form) ?
38. Then did he become a leech-like clot; then did ((Allah)) make and fashion (him) in due proportion.
39. And of him He made two sexes, male and female.
40. Has not He, (the same) , the power to give life to the dead?
Quran
Zak Krug Jan 2013
Circle Circle
Dot Dot
This dream of mine has been shot.
This nursery rhyme is no longer
a good time.
The lights are dimming.
The sexes are mixing,
exposed to the epidemic.
Everything is becoming a work of
spin art.
No medicine can provide a vaccine
for this lifestyle.
Circle Circle.
Dot Dot.
Endless cycles of not.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
how strange to read some of the last chances, or commiserations
without a death, the moment a woman or man begins to divide,
so many encouragements arise from nowhere, hence the theatre of
theoretical manoeuvring, way beyond the concept of narrator,
the death of narration is the birth of psychology,
they say, and it must be, treading into this forest of thought without
a compass will soon leave you disorientated, let alone keeping
a narrative continuum - once the narrator dies,
once the narrator dies in you, you either see a psychologist
or begin to write poetry, poetry, the entire cast of Chekov's
the seagull chipping in for the pauper, once famous for
chopping wood or digging for coal on the page
with such flamboyance as to reveal the true spectacle
of the Royal fireworks on the Thames provided
for by Charles II and accompanied by Handel's
composition - everyone is chipping in into
the narrator's porcelain cup - from irina nikolayevna,
through ilya afanasyevich and the personae quasi gratae
like the watchman, the cook... only Yakov having
acquired a name, the rest, mechanised extension
of the salon boors - where real existential debate takes
place due to the serious concerns of the universe
and our place in it. they like Yakov because he was hired,
and could clearly move on elsewhere, a traveller,
not the permanent occupant of the daily dealings of
the estate; but indeed it's not about that -
after they split up she started dreading having his
name tattooed on her, she felt a burning sensation to
burn the ink off her skin - to my surprise she tattooed
his name onto her skin rather than having tattooed
his entirety onto a piece of paper - a poem can be scrapped,
can be cherished or anything, 'write a poem prior to
the tattoo' someone should have said - but the tattoo
came first, and the poem came second - other allegiances
are passed down in ink, as i have never understood
the mentality of tears at a sporting event, notably football,
the tears of your forefathers, elsewhere reasoning gives
crowd like anonymity, soloist sports, cool headed -
no religious-like attachment - first the poem, then the tattoo.
poetry is just another word for juxtaposition -
but what are the two things necessary to contrast?
well... here's one half decent example, of all written text,
an E.U. cucumber,
                                     (a) is it reasonably shaped?
(b) is it practically straight?
                                                       ­ if it isn't coinciding with
points (a) and (b) being satisfactorily met, then this
cucumber is a culprit, being a non-compliant member
of the fruit & veg stand, according to the E.E.C.
1677 / 88
regulation, meaning it can't be a class 1 cucumber,
but a boomerang.                                       and you wonder,
with all those great movies concerning heroism,
the sacrifice to create democracy where tyranny strikes,
to overthrow absolute sovereign power,
all those wars, and all we get in the end, is a vote,
made quiet clearly ineffective because of the by-product
of democracy: bureaucracy - as every it can be said:
an over-simplified observation,
                                                        well, championing the idea
of democracy where the majority of people were
illiterate still, apparently, resonates in how people vote,
make your mark
                                                           ­      X               so you see,
a man made literate when once he would be illiterate
seems offensive to still pretend like i am illiterate -
but what a strange illiteracy this is, i still vote like the first
people voted, instead of ably signing my name,
i am told to write X... which is why, subconsciously,
people seem to be put off voting - it's such a symbolic
event in the mind - i vote by singing my approval with
an X... the little things matter in the end -
no one dying for an ideal could have envisioned
the bureaucratic escapade of counting where the wind
blows in what favourable choice of opinion at the time,
in post-Marxist terminology, we're no longer dealing
with the bourgeoisie types, we're dealing with the bureaucratic
type - there are so many laws on this earth, that few
are known and even fewer are kept -
i know the ten commandments are a joke, given the outdated
phrasing, but aren't the modern laws even more of a joke?
why, i can count to 10... counting to how many there
are is quiet staggering - you might have broken about
a thousand without knowing you had, like eating a
curved cucumber... but then, are picked cucumbers always
bent? i've never seen a straight pickle, i mean theoretically
that's breaking the law - the war of the sexes is what
gave us this ******* - this wasn't a war for Crimea,
not so much a war for independence, once those classical
wars ended, the war of the sexes began -
if Marx was alive, he'd be far from writing a critique of
the bourgeoisie class, after all, urbanity killed off
the etymological root of bourgeoisie - old french, walled
city - given that, or should i say, working from that,
no, if Marx were alive today, it would be the bureaucrat
who'd be attacked.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Heavy Metal Lovers


A rolling stone gathers no moss the only time I was good at something all it took was four wheels
And you could be a Genius I guess the wheels gives it away this isn’t about bad boy bands heavy
That broke many a levees of the mind but it is inextricably wound together with music and how apropos
To write about it today when the music of all heaven was called to silence and then a whole lot of
Shaking began When **** Clark walked through the gate don’t waist it just taste it it’s all right to be
Burly and squirrely “Get lost in the rock and roll” amp it up Bob Seeger everything comes with rules
There was time before Elvis but it still applied cool cats had one command be cool don’t break the
Jackson rule of Cool Square is not the fit you want to project oh the sixties the place the strip in
Hollywood the car an Austin Healy convertible if they even had hard tops which I doubt reading Michael
Canes auto biography he spoke of him being there I didn’t see him but he got swallowed up by the
Great beast it flowed out of those clubs into the street the sidewalks full of hot babes and cool dudes
We were so low it was like you were on the payment it even got into the act there was a raw energy
That electrified every ounce of your being it rose out of the payment and cruised those Hollywood
Streets plus every street in America felt its heat and heard it s roar red cherry glass pack mufflers
Then songs took up the anthem I had fun fun until my daddy took my T bird away shutem down GTO Jan
and Dean’s Drag City, Dead Man’s Curve, The little old lady from Pasadena and many more but the king
of cars that held the title was held by no other than the Cobra we were a couple of brazen GIs with a
Seventy two hour pass we met the enemy at a stop light the Austin Healy sounded so throaty in that
Southern California night air and we lived the song do you know the way to San Jose LA isn’t nothing but
A bunch of old freeways we would roar up the entrance to the ten the Malibu highway the Five to Dego
The 710 to long beach and the Queen Mary this southern California kid from Compton a suburb of LA
Was giving me the grand tour Disney and Knox berry later in the day the big sad Walt had just died
And then there was this monster next to us it was towering before we felt so continental a slight British
Smugness as we drove this fine European sports car but when the lion roars your purring becomes a
Little puckish it was bulging in comparison we were like a joke your mother won’t let you have a real car
What did they paint the light red how many shades of red did we turn as we set in this shadow of green
Paint and death for any idiot that tossed out a challenge when he took off it was like our car was
Wearing a smug British suit and the force he generated when he accelerated tore every stitch off down
To just underwear praying the smog would quickly envelop us the rest of the way didn’t happen so you
Do what anyone does you choose the less of two evils and rattle on about how they put Porches engines
Into VW bugs like who cares why is one of those suckers behind us well they are cool and this is about
Cool cars you could always tell them by the tail pipe instead of a round rifle barrel it had a wide round
Funnel at the end like the old blunder bust guns of the colonists then an era and times needs a voice
The male was a mix of Lou Rawls and Berry white doing the singing but also any time introduction was
Needed Aretha took care of the female side Jimmy Hendrix took care of the instrument on his
Supernatural guitar Hugh Masicali African Jazz drummer follow the beat every teen Idol was making
The girls swoon then you add in the mix the American auto chrome and steel dreams see the heat rising
Flashes that were blurs running wide open filled with teens and thrill filled screams and then there was
The exit and the entrance there was a royal distinction that rubbed off on its occupants the cool look
And clothes and hair for both sexes dreamy stars in all places not just the bright lights of movie magic
For girls it was they rode well but if they took the wheel this sealed the deal how can you add curves to
Curves they had the saying your blowing my mind man it in toned them as perfect inter changeable the
Womanly softness the interior the lines outside truly defined you are in the presence of qualities that
Run deeper than just the surface you see so much more how blessed when both car and women
Continually amaze you think you discovered everything oh foolish one you just stepped into another
Power zone that was built in at creation somehow the car was somewhat accidental but the woman’s
Was on purpose cheating would cease to a great extent if the truth was only known you got more
Excitement than you will ever know and for the man let him step out rise to his full height there is
Something sweeping and grand about it how could it be any different muscle and brawn distinction
Used as in art subtle but by being so it is so telling appeal runs no stronger and it effects effortlessly
Adds maximum benefit and joy girls find it unmercifully enjoyable packaged like fine wine in a wooden
Box with straw in other words perfected delivery of romance simply a soothe that washes over you
With lasting ramification the golden straw has glistening particles as well as star dust that make other
World tastefulness abide in two lives equally shared so drive into the setting sun in your own heavy
Metal dream that we love so well
Jason James Dec 2018
An ancient race of Sumerian lizard/serpentine people still rule the world by telepathy from underground catacombs littered by 33rd degree masons.
Humans taste like chicken
Not beef...

The illuminati control the media and divy out wealth based on standardized testing and a strong genetic proclivity for attractive and intelligent breeding because they're building a starship ark in the event the planet is destroyed by an asteroid,
And everyone has an assigned number but there's not a lot of occupancy...
Some will stay in shelters and try to reclaim the planet after the anarchy ends
And rebuild civilization...

Saul
Who became Paul
Was a killer of disciples and early Christians, who first decided if you can't beat them
Join them
And destroyed the true spirit of Christianity from within and was the founder of the catholic church which is hell bent on decieving the masses and turning people away from God and his covenant because they hate the Jews and wish to live as Kings without divine rights.

They know the planet is doomed and they use misinformation, lies, and patriotism and traditions to keep society in line and prevent complete chaos until the known eventual end,
Hanging on as long as they can
Afraid to lose complete control
( which is only an illusion )...

There once was a battle of the sexes between men and women that resulted in deviant behavior from both sides, but the men serving women won the war and that is why male homosexuality is looked down upon ( not that there's anything wrong with that)

You ( if you read ) know me better than my friends or family.
Over 560 poems published all more revealing in relative anonymity than anything I'd say to friends or my family save for the closest of them...

I Am that I say I Am,
And I would love to have some random fantasy poetess to message and talk to through the security of a smartphone's screen because I scare flesh and bone woman away because I am baTshit crazy with a capital T, but I get lonely too, and texting me leaves an inkling of hope and is not a bad way to spend an evening.

I believe love is a shared delusion that we all eventually wake from.

I believe attractiveness is divided by three catagories
Beautiful
Pretty
And
Ugly...

I am an educated financially independent *** who talks and writes,
I would love to get a message from you sometime
Just to help pass it.

I am a lost cause, a ***** old man, a genious, a preacher, and a prophet,
I am interesting at the very least.
More of a man than a beast
But very *******,
And divine.

Never
Ever
Ever
A waste of your time.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.
Kristen Mar 2015
My body
Is not obscene.
It is not something
That needs to be hidden,
Brought out only in the dark of bedrooms,
And showers,
And alleyways,
And incognito mode.

My body
Is not for sale,
Not a commodity, though if I chose to sell it for money you'd ridicule me--
Deep down you love it, don't you?
The fine you pay for fine curves and no promises.
Those desperate nights you need something to come into.
Is that what we are?--
Somethings?

And no sooner exchange the dollar for a dance than sweettalk for ***.
And I could do the same to you, too-- I am not excused.
Not that you know that. We all pretend I can't...

Just a prize to be won?
I'm not anyone!
Come on, try to take me...
And when you do, oh-oh-oh!
Congratulations!
Lucky you!
You got me.

Success

Sweet success.

I have desires too,
But they don't matter--
If I want to **** him, he's the one who won
Because females don't desire.
And being trans?
Genderqueer?
Androgyne?
Hell, that doesn't exist!
What a load of ****!
And I smile now, because I don't remember how to cry.

I am not allowed to desire,
And if I do, and I reach what I want,
Then I am a ****.
Worthless.
Trash.
But were I a "real" man,
I would be a winner for it.

Anger has lived in me.
Jealousy has made my bones its home.
I am not allowed to exist.
I am not allowed to want.
I am not allowed to sin.
I am not allowed to be.
I am a second, a lower form.
Collateral--
And I'm yours.

Why do you worship my body and yet disrespect it?
And disrespect me?
I cannot exist.
Kiss me just to shut me up----
I'm tired of pretending to be human in a world that won't let me be.
I quit.

You complain that I complain.
But sexism pervades every moment of my life:
I am constantly fighting it;
Each kiss, every ****,
My schooling, my career,
Everyday conversations,
All of my relations to other people, no matter which kind,
Each time I shower,
Get dressed,
Exercise,
Turn on the TV,
Go out to the pool or a hotel or on a walk,
Sexism is there to hold my hand.
It is with me.
I've never had an ally so loyal.
It wouldn't dare leave my side.

Would I dare?
To leave it behind?
Would you?
Could we join hands,
Across genders,
Across sexes,
Form a new alliance?
One that helps me feel safe in my own body,
My own mind,
My own home?

That gives other women and other afabs a chance to be seen as more than just bodies?
Will there be a day when I can stand beside an amab, both our chests bare, and be seen as equal?
Will there be a day when you will see me as my gender?
And will there be a day that you will finally see a trans woman as more of a woman than me?
We may be females.
Biologically or mentally--
But that does not define us.
We define us.

This is My Body.
It is not me, but it is mine.
It will never belong to anyone else.

My Body.
afab= assigned female at birth
amab= assigned male at birth

I don't know if this is finished yet. It's really just about how I feel in this world because I was born female.
Melody Jennings Aug 2014
I'm sick and I'm tired of these men always tellin me
I gotta be round, *****, curvy and sultry

To be down with the boys I must want all the novelties
They fantasize about in their minds, sprinkled with misogyny 

Lookin up and down, undressin me with droolin eyes
Can't walk across busy streets without feelin victimized

Violated in public, creeps sneakin peaks up my skirt
All cause I wore tight clothes with a lower cut shirt 

Is this all I am, some delectable tasty treat?
Just cause you think I'm delicious don't mean I want your meat
I'm vegetarian now, keep your distance please 
Only hungry for life and creativity 

Yearnin to grow and continue to educate
Myself even if that means makin mistakes

Already have media fillin my brain with these lies
Don't need to be feelin your hands up my thighs

No I'm not your girl, don't even wanna look at you
Cuz you'll misunderstand my glance for bein into you 

So what if you call me a ***** or a ****?
Don't care-I won't be the chick bustin your nuts

Just want my mothers and daughters and sisters to know
We're not created to give men any type of show
We're human beings capable of thinking and feeling
As well as making decisions, we have a purpose, a meaning
Other than getting all **** and appealing 

Silenced and bogged down by society 
Women ***** and murdered, blamed for their femininity

It's a shame men don't realize without us they would never be
We're the only *** on this earth capable of maternity 

As breeders of life we nurture and care
Yet our voices seldom heard, like we're not even there

It's time women put a stop to this ****** up ideology
That we matter far less than our male counterparts  - what equality?
Hating on feminism just because they don’t see
This world overflowing with double standards and ongoing dichotomy
Between the two sexes- sure it’s not how it used to be
But sexism runs rampant and will for eternity
Unless we all - men and women - fight against it globally.
Long over due. Inspired by a time when I caught a guy trying to look up my dress with his phone.
Watch me recite it here http://youtu.be/FQvD1D_V30U
Trevor Gates Jun 2013
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia

In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky

The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia

The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls

A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air

Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes

Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs

From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside

Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw

Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows

Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God

Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.

Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe

Like so many humans do
Terry Collett Jun 2016
We camped down
the first night
in some old

caravan
sleeping bags
everywhere

outside Bruges
next morning
we wake up

all cramped up
and annoyed
where are our

tents meant to
be set up?
Dalya asks

the guide says
got held up
just rang them

be here soon
he tells her
have breakfast

in the bar
and wait there
so we do

8 of us
4 young males
and females

have coffee
and pancakes
and a smoke

what a joke
Dalya says
we walk out

together
walk about
the camp site

you're Benny?
She asks me
yes that's right

what a crowd
for camping
a mother

and daughter
some teacher
from Southend

some Yorkshire
girl loud mouth
and Aussie

and the guide
Dalya says
do we share

two a tent?
I ask her
same sexes

she replies
so I'm with
Yorkshire lass

I suppose
Aussie's yours
she tells me

the teacher's
with the guide
at the next

base camp place
I like her
her spirit

her tight curls
and dark hair
and small bust

we walk back
to the old
caravan

for our bags
and our stuff
keep with me

Dalya says
and we'll see
how it goes

at the next
camping site
and maybe

she whispers
we can share
a whole night.
A BOY AND GIRL CAMPING TRIP IN BELGIUM 1974
SøułSurvivør Mar 2017
A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection

WONDERLAND: THE FLATTENED APPLE

Someone told me once Los Angeles was the Flattened Apple. You take New York City and squish it down like a pancake and you've got Los Angeles. Someone else told me that the Big Apple is full of worms. Well. If Los Angeles is any indication, that statement goes well beyond *truth.


There are parts of LA that are quite beautiful. The parts the wealthy live in. But that was sure not the part I was living in. My first station in the Sea Organization was on Hollywood Boulevard.

My first real memory of Hollywood was viewing the nightcrawlers. The tacky, ****** prostitutes of both sexes on the corners. The Street Preachers looking only a half step above the subjects of their ardent sermons. I had never had any real encounters with homeless people where I was from. Hollywood was a magnet for them it seemed. Their hair askew, and shopping carts with stuttering wheels de rigueur. The touristas. Japanese with their ubiquitous cameras. The Midwestern jons seeking the hookers (of both sexes). The stars on the Hollywood sidewalks seemed to have fallen from the smoggy sky, to lie tarnished amongst the refuse, inanimate and human. It was like a sledge to the chest... and broke my HEART.

I was given some worn, old-smelling sheets, and the address of the place I was to be sleeping for the next few weeks. It turned out to be a flop-house. At first I thought there had been a mistake. But I was not the only SO member to be entering. I went to my room... so small you had to go out into the hall to change your mind. The toilets were communal and up the hallway. My sleeping arrangement? A twin-style matress on the floor. No other "furniture" graced the room....

... **WELCOME TO *"CHURCH".
This is a warning to all who would become part of Scientology. Please read all these writings of mine. I KNOW SCIENTOLOGY. I'VE STUDIED IT. I'VE BEEN THERE.

*IT IS A LIE FROM THE PIT O' HELL!!!*

♡ Catherine

— The End —