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Ella Snyder Jul 2013
I take salt shakers to the water spicket and I make my own oceans.
Tide lines have eroded themselves into my waist.
I know all of the sea monsters by name.
I don’t want to submarine again.
I don’t want to grow sea **** in my lungs again.
There are cyclones I have made with my red and pruned toes because I make what I am.
I scratch at my skin.
Clammy and white.
I peel off layers.
I am only trying to baptize myself again.
I am only trying to baptize myself again.
Salty and stinging my eyes.
I am only trying to clean myself off again.
I am only trying to clean myself off again.
Sitting in my own oceans.
Simon Quperlier Jan 2014
we've been in a hot persuit with sorrow,
tempted death with playful beckons,
not fearing of tomorrow, as we instigated war between angels and demons,
then compared pumpkins with melons,
the art of a dedicated farmer,
who only begged for his seeds to grow,
day in day out during summer,
we scampered at the beach then ended in the dhow,
the consquence of a missing skill,
then some of us wept under the moonlight,
with brokenhearts that never heal,
i remember i was hounded by a fright,
as i read the 4th line of this poem,
something beyond my physical potential,
a performance you cant even mime,
then politics, business and anything commercial,
a mere embarassment, traders were mean,
and just to rest the case, 2013 is over,
we have mobilized better schemes for 2014,
we are the movers and shakers.
Antony Glaser Apr 2014
With bags on the trains spare seat
some have lost their decorum
the snobs have moved to Herne Hill
the way they think they are the movers and shakers
makes dopes of us to believe
that class leads by distinction
or Isas solves their children's trust,
their culpable  four by fours
shows impolite roadside manners
on  the Dulwich school run.
JM Sep 2013
It is only at night I truly feel alive.
When shadows are thick
and the true movers
and shakers start
their business of
cleaning up our mess.

How heavy is your shadow?

I walk alone through most
of the *******.
Every now and then someone
tags along and it's always a blast
but then they go away
or I go away
and always I end
up with me.

I loved them
and
they killed me


I dream now of crossing
time and space with
a silver haired
beauty with big
Indian eyes and
a brand new spine.

We hold each other
close and new galaxies
are born with each
touch of our tongues.

We are Now

You are wet
and
I am hard
and
one day
our shadows will touch
and
then we will know
why we were
waiting.

*Breathe, darling
Steve D'Beard Jun 2014
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
Come and let me tell you
Tales of distant wizards
In far off foreign lands.
The speak in words of poetry
And magic incantations
Even they don’t understand.

They tell of arcane stories
Of dragons and the caves
Of gemstones where they hid.
They tell of verve and derring-do
And swashbuckling heroism
In legendary acts they never did.

They chant, these ancient shamans
To deities and gods of ancient name
Who they know well are fakers.
They foretell and portend wonders
And riches for those who rule, and
Call themselves movers and shakers.

These magic-minded soothsayers
Drape themselves in auras of mystery
And tell the believers they can heal.
And if the congregation fails to look
Closely enough at their performances
They believe the mythological is real.

And time can coat the stores in paint
That looks like the patina of the ages
So it passes the inspection of he willing.
No true believer looks for cracks
In the walls around the real facts
Or questions the truth they are killing.
ravendave Sep 2016
I went into the kitchen the other day.
The salt and pepper shakers
were quarreling on the table.
The dish and the bowl
made a ruckus in the cupboard.
The bacon and the eggs
wrestled madly in the pan.
The toast leaped from the toaster,
crying, "You've burnt me again!"
I should have stayed in bed that day,
for no good will come from a breakfast of chaos.
Claire Waters Apr 2012
the sun is scorching through the parking lot in pillars or light, shivering on the pavement in waves of reality shaken by matter, it reveals the change in matter. so fluid. i see an old man walk up to the gas pumps by the mr. mikes. he walks past the car wash, past the little barrier between the road and the grass on the side. stands there, looks back and forth as if calculating speed and distance of passing vehicles. in shock i see that he is trying to figure when to jump.

he stops, turns, and begins to walk up the busy main street. as he goes, he take slips of paper out of his coat pocket, stares at the receipts and then surreptitiously drops them behind him. instead of children dropping crumbs in the woods, i see an old man shedding silent messages in his wake as he trudges through suburban forests of pavement and condos. how strange i think and pick myself up out of the car, running past the chain link fence rounding the edges of the hardware store parking lot. she won't even miss me i think fleetingly of the person inside who might come out soon.

the old man is walking at a parallel angle to i, as i was too hasty to know his story before changing the outcome of his journey. he sees me, and stops to face me on the opposite side of the street. we make eye contact, a car whips past, then an ambulance flooding the hues of the air red and blue. i remember there is an accident up the street. there were almost eight or ten cars pulled over near walmart. traffic was backed up and the **** in front of me had been rubbernecking like his middle name was bashful. somebody was probably dying a mile from here. he looks at me a second more and i feel the sadness wafting off of him, so strong it crosses air, barriers, vehicles, straight shotgun windshield shattering screeching into my chest. he turns and walks away. continuing to leave his trail even after knowing he had been observed.
i run across and bend down to retrieve the papers casually, clamped lips around the cigarette i had somehow managed to light, my body's natural response to everydamnthing. i do not look at the papers, just stick them in my plaid breast pocket and rush back to the car. a few hours later i am ready to read them, and i unfold the papers.

first
1: PRE COFFEE 2.00 F
2: SCALLOP POTATO .99 F
3: SHAKERS CHICKEN .79 F
4: POULTRY .79 F
5: POULTY .79 F

SUBTOTAL 5.57

CUSTOMER COPY
EBT APPROVED
EBT FOODSTAMPS

and then
DISTRICT COURT
CASE NUMBER 1161CR001443
DESCRIPTION 1161CR001443 Commonweath vs. M*, Michael J
On Behalf Of M*, Michael J
Payment Type                                Amount
CASH                                              130.00
GENERAL REVENUE FUND               80.00
VICTIM WITNESS                             50.00
Change                                              .00
Balance Due                                   20.00

Comments:



this feeling of overwhelming misery comes over me. i allow it to flood in and fill me with images of this man's life. his shame, his despair, his shackles, that cause that feeling of life being a bad migraine that never goes away.
but then i feel sympathy and compassion seep in afterwards, so silent and gentle. i think of how my presence may have changed that man. to see someone run to him, show him he is not invisible, not just another lost soul in the court system, not alone and invalidated by society simply for existing, not all of society is like that. i hoped my awareness would shout to him too, perforating the silent barriers to say "look, you are not unseen, you are not unheard, i know you exist! it's not time to die yet michael."

michaels seem to stick to me. their stories are vast and painful and hard to peel off, like dry glue. their struggles worthy of attention. michael you are real. michael, i see you. michael someone is listening, somebody knows that you exist. i know it is passover and it probably feels like you are dying in your sleep with no blood painting your doors for protection, but you do have that blood. it comes from your body michael. your struggles become your pain become your understandings become your transcendence. michael, you are intelligent, i can see it in your eyes. now do yourself a favor and

don't jump.
true story.
Robert Ronnow Mar 2024
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.

On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.

Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.

Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.

Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.

Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.

Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Big Virge Sep 2015
Ya Know ...  
I Use It Like A Nine To Five ...  
But That's NOT My Line ... !!!  
I Don't Plagiarise ... !!!  

These Words Were Inspired ...  
By .... Inity Fire ....  

Now This Proves I'm NO LIAR ... !!!  
More Like A ... " Good Friar " ...  
Who Uses What's ... DIRE ... !!!!!!  
To ... Elevate hiGHER ...  
  
Just Like ... Frequent Fliers ...  
Use Points To ... " Acquire " ...  
  
Ways To ... Get Around ...  
WITHOUT Using Pounds ... !!!  
  
Now This Piece May Confound ... ?  
Writers ... Who Are Crowned ...  
As The ... " HOTTEST  In Town ... !!!!!!!!!  
Because They Are .... " Proud " ....  
To Use It Like ... " CLOWNS " ... !!!  
  
I Use It Like ... WOW ... !!!  
  
I've Heard It From ... " Crowds " ...  
And Those Who Wear FROWNS ... !!!  
When My Words Hit The Grounds ...  
of Where They ... " Rule The Roost " ...  
of ... Poets Who Use ...  
This Thing Like It's Cool ...  
To Use It Like .... FOOLS .... ?!!!?  
  
They're .....  
CLEARLY NOT SCHOOLED ....  
In Using This Tool ...  
To Share What Is ... TRUE ...  
Within Their ... "Dark Moods" ... !!!
  
I Use It Like Dudes ...  
With Machine Guns To Shoot ... !!!  
  
Firin' SHOTS ... !!!  
Through Wordplay That's HOT ... !!!!  
And ROCKS DIFFERENT Spots ...  
Like .... Dalmatian Dogs .... !!!!! .....  
  
I Use It To Plot ...  
The Downfall of Wrong ... !!!  
  
I Use It To SHOCK ...  
Logically Like ... TUVOK ... !!!  
  
Or Maybe .... Sherlock ... ???  
When Dealing With Cops ...  
******* Like ...  " Lestrade " ... !!!  
  
Who Just AREN'T THAT SHARP ... !!!  
And DON'T Use It With Strength ...  
Cos' That's ... BEYOND Their Depth ...  
  
My Style's ....  
MORE Like ... " Shaft " ...  
AFRICAN ... In My Heart ... !!!!  
  
Who WILL TEAR APART ...  
Those Who Use It Like ... SHARKS ... !!!  
  
Who ... Use It To Write ...  
And Buy Into ... " HYPE " ... !!!  
That They Are GREAT WHITES ... !!!  
  
But As We Now Know ...  
That Story's For SHOW ... !!!  
  
They Use It To Cause ...  
People To ... " Applaud " ...  
As If They Saw ... " JAWS " ...  
  
A GREAT BIG White FRAUD ... !!!!!  
  
I Use It Like BOND ...  
Or Yes ... Roger Moore ... !!!
  
Because I'm The One ...  
Who KEEPS JAWS On The Run ... !!!  
  
So I Use It Like Movies ...  
By .... " Connecting Dots " ....  
  
So Sometimes it's MOODY ...  
And Filled With ..."Dark Blots" ... !!!  
And ... GUY FAWKES Type PLOTS ... !!!!  
  
I BLOW UP ... But Shrewdly ...  
With Wordplay That's ... GROOVY ... !!!  
That ... CALMLY And Smoothly ...  
Tastes Good Like A Smoothie ... !!!  
  
To Those Who Have TASTE ...  
For MORE Than What's ... FAKE ... !!!!!  
  
Lyrics ... That Are Made ...  
To Be ... Thrown In The Waste ...  
Or ... Thrown In The TRASH ... !!!  
  
I DON'T USE IT LIKE THAT ... !!!!!!  
  
I Use It With PACE ... !!!  
And Use It With GRACE ...  
  
And Use It In Ways  ...  
That Puts Most To ... SHAME ... !!!!  
Because Their Game's LAME ...  
And NEEDS ... " Zimmer Frames " ...  
Before ... All It Can Claim ...  
  
Is .... Dumbing Down Brains ... !!!!!  
  
So YES Sometimes I Use It ...  
In Verse That's ... ABUSIVE ... !!!!!  
  
But Only ... In DEFENCE ... !!!  
When People Make THREATS ...  
Or Make Those Attempts ...  
  
To Act As If ... I ...  
DO NOT Use It Right ... ?!?  
  
Is There Such A Thing ...  
As ... " Poetic Bling " ... ?  
  
HELL YES There Are People ...  
Who ... Use It For EGOS .... !!!  
  
Because They Are ... "feeble" ...  
And NOTHING Like VIGGO ... !!!  
  
LEADERS  Or KINGS ... !!!  
Or ... " Lords of Their Rings " ... !!!  
  
I Use It Like FIGHTERS ...  
NOT THESE ... " Nine To Fivers " ...  
Who Are REALLY ... " Part Timers " ...  
Who ... CLAIM To Be Writers ...  
When They Should ... RETIRE ... !!!!!!!!!  
  
So ... Just For The Haters ...  
Beraters' And Slaters' ...  
  
I'll Get To Your Capers ...  
And IGNORANCE ... LATER ... !!!    
  
Who Are They To JUDGE ... ?  
What Man Puts On Paper ... !?!
  
When They're NOT Above ...  
  
"low down " ... ***** Shakers ... !!!  
  
I Use It ... Just FINE ...  
WITHOUT Prose Filled Lines ...  
Cos' It ISN'T A CRIME ...  
To Rhyme ALL The Time ... !!!!  
  
It's ENVY I Find ...  
That DEFINES Their Insights ...  
  
Because ... When They Try ...  
They CAN'T Use It Like MINE ... !!!  
  
REFINED And Inclined  
To Speak About Life ...  
The Strain And The Strife ... !!!  
And YES The ... GOOD TIMES ... !!!
  
But WON'T EVER Contrive ...  
To Use It ... Just For Smiles ...  
  
Or For ...  
It To Be ... LIKED ...    
  
You DON'T Like It ...  
... That's FINE ... !!!  
  
But .....
DON'T Be Surprised ...  
If ... One Day You Find ...  
A Vision or Sight ...  
That Reflects What I Write ...  
  
Cos' I Use It Like Lights ...  
That ... Each Day We Walk By ........  
  
I Use It Like FIGHTS ...  
We See ... TAKING LIVES ... !!!  
  
I Use It Like WARS ...  
BEHIND ... CERTAIN DOORS ... !!!!  
  
I Use It Like ... " LORDS " ...  
Use It On The Poor ... !!!!!  
  
Sometime I Feel Sure ...  
I CAN'T Do ANYMORE ... !!!!!!  
  
But That's When I Find ...  
Energies Close To Mine ...  
Who QUICKLY INSPIRE ...  
  
Like ... " Inity Fire " ...  
  
And On That Last Quote ...  
That's ... ALL That I Wrote ... !!!  
  
It's Really ...  
NO Nine to Five ... !!!  
When I ... Sit And Write ...  
  
It's More Like Something Wise ...  
That Reflects On This Life ...  
  
Through ...  
Good And Bad Times ...  
  
Which I'm ....
Proud To Now Find ...  
  
Is What ...  
  
... " I Use It Like " ...
A Cappella : https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/i-use-it-like
JAM Oct 2021
Oh, my name is Jack Stewart,
I’m a canny gang man
And a rovin’ young fellow I’ve been.

I’m a piper by trade,
I’m a ramblin’ young blade,
And ‘tis many the tune I can play.

Now here’s a simple song
To say what they done.
I told them about all those fears
And away they did run.
they sure must be strong,
And they feel like an ocean
Being warmed by the sun.

Their mouth is open wide,
The lover is inside
And the tumults done.
Collided with the sign,
They're staring at the sun,
They're standing in the sea.

I’ve got acres of land.
I’ve got men at command.
I’ve always a dollar to spare.

Note the trees because the
Dirt is temporary.
More to mine than fact, face,
Name, and monetary.

Put money in my hand and I will do the things you want me to.
Vanity overriding wisdom, usually common sense.
Should I delete it? they said they'd read it.
They promised they would never ruin it with sequels.

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine.
Whatever it costs, I will pay.
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me,
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

Now picture this, I'm a bag of *****, put me to your lips
I am sick, I will punch a baby bear in his ****
Give me lip, I'ma send you to the yard, get a stick
Make a switch, I can end the conversation real quick
Okay nobody speak, nobody get choked
You wanna here a good joke?

The comedy of man starts like this:
Our brains are way too big for our mothers' hips,
And so nature, she devised this alternative:
We emerge half-formed and hope
whoever greets us on the other end
Is kind enough to fill us in.
And babies, that's pretty much how it's been ever since.

Now the miracle of birth leaves a few issues to address.
Like, say, that half of us are periodically iron deficient.
So, somebody's gotta go **** something
While she looks after the kids.
She'd do it herself, but what, is he gonna get this thing its milk?
He says as soon as he gets back from the hunt, we can switch.
It's hard not to fall in love with something so helpless.
Ladies, I hope we don't end up regretting this.

That was then,
this is the twenty-first century,
And there’s too much aggravation.
It's the age of insanity,
What has become of the green pleasant fields of Jerusalem?

This is the age of machinery,
A mechanical nightmare,
The wonderful world of technology,
****** hydrogen bombs biological warfare.

There used to be a guy for this type of thing,
An underwater guy who controlled the sea,
Got killed by ten million pounds of sludge from New York
and New Jersey.

Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, carry the water
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean
Water dissolving and water removing.

Then there’s the creature in the sky
Got ****** in a hole, now there's a hole in the sky
And the ground's not cold.
And if the ground's not cold, everything is gonna burn.
We'll all take turns,
I'll get mine too.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the cold again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground.

So I ain't got no ambition, I'm just disillusioned.
I'm a twenty-first century man but I don't wanna be here.
My mama said she can't understand me,
She can't see my motivation.
Just give me some security,
I'm a paranoid schizoid product of the twenty-first century.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful
A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily
Oh joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible
Logical, oh responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable
Oh clinical, oh intellectual, cynical.

Then I had visions, I was in them.
I was looking into the mirror
To see a little bit clearer
The rottenness and evil in me.

You know I think my schooling was phoney?
I guess it's hard not to agree.
You say, "It all depends on money
And who is in your family tree."
Right (right), you're ****** well right,
You got a ****** right to say.
Right, you're ****** well right,
You know, you got a right to say.

Been around the world and found
That only stupid people are breeding,
The cretins cloning and feeding,
And I don't even own a TV.

Put me in the hospital for nerves
And then they had to commit me.
You told them all I was crazy.
They cut off my legs, now I'm an amputee,
******* you.

I don't need no education.
We don't need no thought control,
No dark sarcasm in the classroom.
Teacher, leave us kids alone.
Hey! Uncle Sam! Leave us kids alone!

We wanna grow up to be
A debaser.

“Look at me, look at me
Hands in the air like it's good to be
Alive and I'm a famous rapper,
Even when the paths are all crookedy.
I can show you how to do-see-do.
I can show you how to scratch a record.
I can take apart the remote control,
And I can almost put it back together.
I can tie a knot in a cherry stem.
I can tell you about Leif Erikson.
I know all the words to "De Colores",
And "I'm proud to be an American".
Me and my friend saw a platypus.
Me and my friend made a comic book.
And guess how long it took.
I can do anything that I want cuz

Who gives a **** about an Oxford comma?
I've seen those English dramas too; they're cruel.

So, why would you speak to me that way?
Especially when I always said that I
Haven't got the words for you.
All your diction dripping with disdain,
Through the pain, I always tell the truth.”

“Look at me, look at me
Just called to say that it's good to be
Alive in such a small world.
I'm all curled up with a book to read
I can make money open up a thrift store.
I can make a living off a magazine.
I can design an engine
sixty four miles to a gallon of gasoline.
I can make new antibiotics.
I can make computers survive aquatic conditions.
I know how to run a business,
And I can make you wanna buy a product.
Movers shakers and producers,
Me and my friends understand the future.
I see the strings that control the system.
I can do anything with no assistance because

I give a **** about the Oxford Comma!
I climbed to Dharamsala too, I did.
I met the highest Lama.
His accent sounded fine to me.

Now, why would you speak to me that way?
Especially when I always said that I
Haven't got the words for you.
All your diction dripping with disdain,
Through the pain, I always tell the truth”

Comedy, now that's what I call pure comedy.
Just wait until the part where they start to believe
They're at the center of everything
And some all-powerful being
Endowed this horror show with meaning.

Now, Uncle Sammy, did you hear about this one?
Tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Sammy, are you grinding on a pelvis?
Hey baby, are you losing touch?

If you believed they put a man on the moon,
If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve,
Then nothing is cool.

Moses went walking with the staff of wood.
Newton got beaned by the apple good.
Egypt was troubled by the horrible asp.
Mister Charles Darwin had the gall to ask.
Well I took out my dogs and them I did shoot,
All down in the county Kildare.
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me,
I'm a man you don't meet every day

And in the Twenty-First Century
From the height of the highway onramp we saw,
Two dogs, dead in a field,
Glowing on the oakland coliseum green seats wasteland,
Dogs, dogs we thought were dead,
They rose up, rose up when whistled at,
their rib cage inflating like men on the beach being photographed,
A guard dog, guard dog, for what? for what?
Against tofers ellis pennyless athletics fanatics,
Getting into games through a whole in the fence,
For the owner of the blue tarp tent,
Pitched by a creek beneath an onramp,
In the privacy of the last three,
Skin and bony tree, devoid of leaves,
And us undeceased, and our new cds,
Dippin' on goodies, oakland
it's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead under a sky so blue.

But you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

I’ll say they secretly long to be some part of a car crash,
Long to see their arms stripped of the tendons,
The ****** of swelling exposed veins,
Webbing the back of their hands,
To be a red tendoned dog,
To be red tendoned dogs,
Blood breathing by the side of the highway.

Oh, their religions are the best.
They worship themselves yet they're totally obsessed
With risen zombies, celestial virgins, magic tricks.
These unbelievable outfits.
And they get terribly upset
When you question their sacred texts,
Written by woman-hating epileptics.
Their languages just serve to confuse them.
Their confusion somehow makes them more sure.
They build fortunes poisoning their offspring,
And hand out prizes when someone patents a cure.
Where did they find these goons they elected to rule them?
What makes these clowns they idolize so remarkable?
These mammals are hell-bent on fashioning new gods
So they can go on being thoughtless animals.

See the dwarfs an' see the giants,
Which one would you choose to be?
And if you can't get that together
Here's the answer, here's the key.
You can freeze like a a man of century thirty.

I'll save my breath and take it with me
Till a hundred years and so
Shame you won't be there to see me
Shaking hands with Charles de Gaulle.
Play it cool an' Saran wrap all you can
Be a century thirty man,
You can freeze like a century thirty man

So I live like everyday is my last,
But I plan for tomorrow as if I will never pass.
A Pharoah on the subway
Who never had dreams of jets but fell asleep on run ways.
I just know that one day, that anything I needed I could mold.
Get everything you want it ain't always good for the soul.
A mix of self-worth, some help, a little control,
And I don't know the rest, good as mine is your guess,
The recipe ain't the best, to make it though is our quest,
And if you choose to accept, the meaning of life is yes.

So, we ain't going to the town,
We're going to the city.
Gonna trek this **** around
And make this place a heart to be a part of, again.

That’s the dream but
There are times when all the world's asleep,
The questions run too deep
For such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned.
I know it sounds absurd,
Please tell me who I am.

Is this my starring role
Or just a cameo?
Who am I living for?
Well, I can't take no more,
'Cuz when it rains, it pours
What am I living for?
I don't got much, but I got heart and soul.
I found myself through all the highs and lows.
Oh Will I drown in the pain,
Or go dance in the rain?
What am I living for?

So, I can lead a nation with a microphone?
And I can split the atom of a molecule?
Look at me, look at me
Drivin' and I won't stop
And it feels so good to be alive and on top
My reach, is global
My tower, secure
My cause, is noble
My power,
is pure.

And it’s the end of the world as we know it.
it starts with an earthquake
Birds and snakes, and aeroplanes
And Lenny Bruce is not afraid
In the eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn
World serves its own needs
Don't mis-serve your own needs
Speed it up a notch, speed, grunt, no, strength
The ladder starts to clatter
With a fear of height, down, height
Wire in a fire, represent the seven games
And a government for hire and a combat site
Left her, wasn't coming in a hurry
With the Furies breathing down my neck.

Paranoia, paranoia,
Everybody's coming to get me.
Just say you never met me,
I'm running underground with the moles, digging holes.
Hear the voices in my head,
I swear to God it sounds like they're snoring.
But if you're bored, then you're boring.
The agony and the irony, they're killing me.

I’m dead but the world keeps spinning.
Take a spin through the world I left,
It's getting dark a little too early.
Am I missing the dearly bereft?

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy Turner
He was wishin' for a burner
To **** everybody walkin'
He knows that his soul in the furnace

Young man walkin', wishin' for a burner
Four, five, six, ten ratchets on 'em
Ten men with 'em, ten clappin' on 'em
Dead men with 'em, dead men, get 'em
Four-five rip 'em, four-five zip 'em
You talk money, young men get 'em
Beluga, beluga, beluga
he fell in love with the Ruger
he fell in love with his jeweler
he fell in love with the mullah
It's all about the rule
It's all about the move
It's all about the rules

That was then,
Now I am a man, man, man,
Up, up in the air
And I run around, round, round, round
this downtown and act like I don't care.
So when you see me flying by the planet's moon,
You don't need to explain if everything's changed
Just know I'm just like you.

So I pull the switch, the switch, the switch inside my head.
And I see black, black, green,
and brown, brown, brown and blue, yellow, violets, red.
And suddenly a light appears inside my brain
And I think of my ways,
I think of my days
and know that I have changed.

So, be easy and free,
when you’re drinkin’ with me
I’m a man you don’t meet every day.
a lyric poem
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2013
Yea verily
The Movers and Shakers are society’s paveway makers.
They recognise a need, feel a cause and initiate action.
These people make things happen, they are the driving force in our society.
By virtue of their very nature, they are rarely perfect,
they have backgrounds and have, invariably, at some some stage of their life,
trodden on the daisies.
Our society could not do without these people.
They are a rare minority and because of their positivity and momentum
They make enemies.

The enemy of the Movers and the Shakers are the Naysayers and the Finger Pointers.
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are the reactive side of society.
They rarely initiate and rarely expose themselves to the spotlight.
They fester in the shadows in their masses and froth into braying criticism
Which may, or may not, develop into righteous finger pointing and condemnation.
(Depending, of course, on the issue at hand and the degree of hysteria generated.)

The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are society’s negatives.
(They would say that they are society’s necessary checks and controls…
Which perhaps, to some degree they are.)

The realm of the Tall Poppy Syndrome is the perfect territory for Naysayer/Finger Pointer operation.
It provides the right mix of avarice, envy and vengeance to blend clandestinely beneath a covering cloak of righteous indignation.
And it provides the symbiotic platform for mass reaction from the great unwashed.

I note that Mayor Bob Parker and benefactor Sir Owen Glenn are the latest recipients of negative onslaught.
The Mayor has just announced that, after many years of public service, he has had a guts full of the braying abuse and is throwing in the towel.
I sincerely hope that he retires with wealth and lovely wife and that he bathes in the satisfaction of his many, many achievements…well away from the accusing crowd.
And if I was Sir Owen Glenn, I would abruptly cancel the offered, generous, $2 million finance for the Anti Domestic Violence Campaign
and with fierce eye tell the Naysayers and Finger Pointers of New Zealand society to go stuff themselves… then turn and walk away, never to return.

Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
AUCKLAND
5 July 2013
Helen Jul 2015
This Drink is for You!

Here's to the groovers, the movers and the shakers
Here's to the players, the haters and the takers
Here's to the quiet, the shy, the romancers
Here's to the boisterous, the
energetic, the dancers
Here's to the last, the second,
the first
Here's to the notion you can quench a thirst
Here's to the different, the unique
the one of a kind
Here's to the offensive, the defensive and
the one of same mind
Here's to you all!
Don't colour your world
blue!
This drink raised...
It's for you!
mt Nov 2013
And now,
Ladies and Gentlemen
The story of a man
Who lived and died inside his own head
Came into this world on a whim
And left on a whisper
Leaving behind just his footsteps
For the waves on the nights
Darkness came too early
To wash away,
Clean to the bone
Leaving just the shiny purity
And reflections for those interested
In the forest,
As all good mad men roam,
He got lost on the edge of,
Between beginnings and endings
And no real divisions.
Occasionally, finding a wise man
To split his time with
Making it the three of them
Him, the man,
And them together
Roaming with direction
But still purposeless
Because a purpose
Would be their downfall.
He feels most comfortable
When he is certain there is no guide
No difference between territory, charted
and uncharted
Because there's no one to make maps
Only forays forward
Leave the paths clear
Spontaneous insight lost soon enough
Mystic Seam on his forehead
Childish gleam in his one blind eye
The Silly Being
Cutting his way
Through the molasses, thick
Of time
Space, inconsequential
But he knows,
The only certainty he dares carry
Is that heaven,
Heaven, doesn't begin.
Cannot be reached.
The pearly gates are grim
Not a soul passes through them
But too many
Leave through the alley exit
For Heaven is not a place
Heaven is time
Time well spent
Because the burden of passing
Is forgotten
Destroying gates
And slicing meaning
Road block!
Why!
Only in my head!
Detour!
Runs out of steam
Pure words
tainted
lost again
run off the road
missed the stream
Back to a story
A story of myself
Framed in bigger terms
Thoughts, thinking of big
And ego eating dinner
It's what the doctor ordered.
Trying to convince
What it could be, nothing
to be nothing
go nowhere
while paths grow and clean themselves
Srubbed raw
swallowed by my
tallest trees, growing richly
inside a small world
with deep holes
to **** and cling to
Being Nobody is an Overcoming
Defeating the propaganda of Somebody
The self lies
It can only grasp
Fruitlessly
It finds for itself
It can't see beyond
No!
Never that simple!
To save yourself you must save the world
Only fools grab all they can

"Only fools rush in"

Only fools stay back
Playing with fire
It's a prophesy
Doing it because we can
Is the route to go
The only route we know
There are no reasons
Sometimes directions
Even if they lead nowhere
Right back atcha'
Screaming, cuddling
Cuddling?
I'm not the sentimental type
At least,
I pretend not to be
Maybe it shows
I don't know
That's what it comes down to
Yeah,
I don't know

I can't remember a single thing I heard on the news
Even if it's all engrained in
My bark brain
A pair of loveless lovers
Wanted to prove to themselves
So they cut into my soft brain
Their own story
And I would return the favor
But I lost the binding to the pages
Of my story
But if I could so humbly request
O,
Greatest Story Tellers
And Yarn Spinners
Of our time
I would very much like it
If I was, humbly mind you,
The Greatest Story
You ever told

But Nameless
It would be my overcoming
There would be no excuse
Not to do great things
Even better if no one
Knew that I did them
It would fill my heart
And be a great conversation piece

"Hey Ladies..."

Pull up one eyebrow
Flip out my pocket-halo

"I've done it, done it all.
Not that you would know"
Just the way I'd like it
Then remind myself
I hate bars
And talk a walk home
Late at night
(Okay, maybe a jog)
(Fine, a sprint)
The night suffocates
If you hold your own neck closed
It's a nice change from day.
People have finally turned on
Engaged
Maybe its the fear,
Time to relax
I've forgotten that
But seeing others alive
Is the last thing that reminds me, I am
I am, too.

And, I hate heredity
It can make folks forget
That
They are, too
I inherited nothing
Except confusion
And that's the only gift to offer
Because
You know you love someone when you can be
Confused, together
It would bore me to death
If we could understand each other
That might just be
My Neurotic Impotence talking
Looking for an excuse to shiver in place
Yes,
Neurotic Impotence
not
neurotic impotence
It's my second name
I hate middle names
People keep them secrets
For no reason
I hate secrets
Secrets don't exist
Somebody always knows them
So they can't be very secret
National Secrets, too
Give my my cut
I'm a gossip
And I've run out of stuff
To ride conversations
Straight into
I don't do enough weird things
Or get involved too often
To tell a good story
The windows to my mind
Are sufficient
I've been informed,
That they're quite pretty, also
Makes me feel a bit better
About all the time I've invested
At staring at the tops of trees

Not much, actually

It makes me look pensive, I think
Almost like I know what I'm doing
That saddest part is that
I'm not completely lost either.
Hovering in the middle
Neither here, nor There
Typical, I suppose
So's indulgence
But I say,
Kids,
Older folk devoid of experience,
Indulge
Only in yourself, however
Indulgence isn't the problem
It's not knowing why

Now let me preach a minute
True prophets
Ask for nothing in return
Not a dime,
The good ones,
Not even your attention
They stand on their private
Street corners telling to the stars
In both hushed whispers
And crashing screeches
About what they think
And the day the find
A disciple
They will be pleasantly surprised  
Because that was never part of the the plan
They are prophets
And saviors
Because they are the select few
Who saved themselves

And now,
The man we talked about earlier
He's still alone
He's a bit afraid
Enough so to not find someone
To tread the waters with him
Because he is an almost fearless man
He doesn't fear scenery
Place, and time all the same
It's the implications that weigh heavily
On a psyche that's already burdened itself
On long bus rides
To remind himself (and his good pal,
psyche)
That he isn't going anywhere
The city he thought he was bored of
Has slipped into the background
And now that the future
Might just
Actually happen
It's time to freeze in place

It's a nice break against the pushing
rush of reality
To stop and smell the roses
While right behind
His back,
The world implodes
The sky blossoms open
Only fools rush in
Only fools stand back
Survey the scene and you
will lose the gist
The parts will show themselves
And you'll miss the whole
That's where it's alive
Don't get so caught up in the pieces
It's the weight
You'll drown in
It's a little death in the family
Enough to shake it up a little bit
Thanksgiving, dig in
One less the thing to worry about
And one more thing to write off
I'm sure there's a grand deduction for it.

Remember when I said I hate things?
That's not true
I don't hate anything
Things only exist, and are
Because other things are
That they aren't
And I can't love
So there's no hate
Nothing to compare it to
It's more of an empty feeling
With a silver lining,
It passes quickly
I haven't found the thing I just Hate yet
There's always a catch
Call the Holy Hotline,
There's always a catch
We're here for your calls, 24/7!
Heaven is neon
Brothels, tight lipped doors
It's
Sanctified Skidrow
Baptized in Hard Liquor out
By the chalice alley
The heavenly Saints
Who were brought down
Straight from
"Up There (He's smiling down on us,
I swear I can feel it, if I strain really hard and pop the blood vessels in one of
my good eyes, He's there, He's always there. I swear, She told me so,
Late at night, screaming o god at the ceiling, That's when I feel him,
***** blood and Canonized ***)"
These saints, now,
Or perhaps Saints,
Mumble to themselves
And sing invisible praises
It's weird
The visionaries are all weird
But to be insane in an insane world
Offers a sliver of freedom
Between all the crucifixions and handcuffs
White noise, and head banging

I never got
What other people called
Soul Searching
Because I did it everyday
Being broken down
and rebuilt every week
Goodbye o, Worldly World!
Not too cruel
But never too nice, either

This is not the end
I realized
That there is no end,
Is there?
That's the only certainty

And the man asked me,
"There's no end is there?"
Cigarette in mouth, limp
No, no
There never is
And the walls
We have built
Will collapse
If we turn our backs on them long enough
And soon enough
The Hopeless
Caught on each side of the wall
Will have to to unwind
Themselves
From the thick braid
They've found themselves in
Insanity
Unwinds the same way
Curling inwards
From the corner of my closed eye
Fractal Freedom
In a million parts
Twisting into
The beautiful whole
To be at liberty
To uncoil again
Back here again?
Always back here
Insanity
Before and again
And the big wide world would
Drive you so
If you dared understand it

I think I
Might just be part
Of an elite class
The ****-ups
The movers and shakers
But never the pushers
The world rotating around them
Looking for an in
Exits to nowhere aplenty

But right now,
I sit Here
Sterile, and sick
The man's voice buzzes, and rattles
Like the old AC at my grandma's apartment
The air,
Almost as dry
His low hum splits would could be
A comfortable silence
And I suppose,
That's why they think we're here
For all the "could be's"
The first words out of my mouth
Are a shrieking car crash
The mechanical man
Has such a grip
On the Atmosphere
His cogs and wires
Are free from the disease
That i Am
Rotting in my seat
Outside, where I cannot go,
The sky is static

Why is it static?
I'm afraid
It's been that way too long
And now my walls melt into the sky
Buzzing and Flickering
Low Light
The worst
It's now a diagnosis
Tell me what I have
Please oh please
It's in my head
But feels like my chest
Sitting in place
Might be
Cruel and Unusual
Long walks on the beach sound nice
But alone
If you can be with me, and alone
You're the one
-Aw....thanks me!-

And it scares me,
Like many things
The dreary rounds
I make each day
That I've built my own prison
I might just find myself
More free in a cell
(Free up my schedule a bit, just a bit)

And facing that mechanical man,
My voice dries up
Pulling my thoughts
Down with it
Flush
A soft touch to
The hard lighting

Uh,
Maybe I need to lay down
Where the grass cuts my shins
I've given up
There's nothing but god above us
And nothing below us
The sky is god
And it is empty.
This poem began as what I would like to think of as cohesive, but I just let my thoughts lead me and let it snowball into whatever the hell it has turned into.
Marília Galvão Mar 2015
War
What is war? Is it a soldier dying, or guns, or bombs, or crosses, or weeping mothers, or sport, or patriotism, or valor, or high paying jobs? What is war? Not hell. For that is merely evil. War is worse than evil. It is mind-boggling suicide --mass suicide-- with humankind devouring or trying to devour itself. In vain attemps to assuage some sort of weird, innate (and apparently insatiable) appetite nurtured by our true and beloved God, Mars, we will not settle for less than the "flower of evolution" as the main course, embellished by bountiful side dishes and fanciful shakers filled with the "fruits" of our marvelous hands and big starving brains. How long will we persist in this lethal nonsense? How long before we really believe that salvation lies not in an insane paradox fostered by brute and selfish gluttony, but in the far more "nutritious" and healthful viand in the sadly neglected garden of human compassion and understanding? Considering the status of brotherhood today, possibly too long.

By Jack Kervokian
Kervokian's description of his painting 'The Gourmet (War)' - http://www-tc.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/kevorkian/aboutk/art/war.gif
Tommy Johnson Jun 2014
Wail
Whine
And flail

Regale us with your colorful photographic memory
But use discretion, there are children here

We had Schnapps in a spray bottle
At the time I had the most unsightly uni-brow
And they asked us all to define the term "tongue-in-cheek"
We laughed and said, "Never go *** to mouth!"
We got suspended

We decided to pull out the heavy artillery
And painted a giant **** on the side of the school
We needed an auxiliary artist
So we hired an abstract
He spray painted "Get up and go, lay down and die"
Right on the main entrance, so incredibly serupticiously
And in such an irregular manner, as if he put every ounce of his disdain towards that institution of  lower learning in every movement
Like Van Gogh in real life live action

The next morning, hot off the press was our act of vandalism
We foiled the plans of the faculty to have a nice school day
They acted perfectly, like it was scripted
Angry, horrified and ashamed

The sound of us patting ourselves on the back was incomparable to anything we've ever felt
Even my incontinent grandmother laughed

But soon all the movers and shakers at city hall demanded the ones guilty were found
They rechecked the security footage again and again
They went through student records
It all lead to us
They picked me up while I lied drunk on top of scraps of nonsensical
writings
I resisted arrest and became a victim of police brutality
Knight sticks slammed into my chest
Tips of pointed boots driven into my stomach
And demeaning verbal abuse to my person

The aftermath was all of us serving six months in juvy
Surrounded by incompetent correction officers
And just waiting for our boys to spring us
If I had a chance to do it all over, I'd do it all again
Claire Waters May 2012
“It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”

William Garretson was the gardener of 10050 Cielo Drive, in Los Angeles, a summer house rented by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He lived in the guest house on the property. On August 9th, 1969, members of the Manson family visited the residence and brutally murdered all the inhabitants, as well as Garretson’s friend Steve Parent. Garretson claims he had no knowledge of the murders that night. He is the only survivor of the Tate Murders.

your screams sounded
like fiberglass breaking
an almost impossible noise
like a hemorrhage at midnight
i was walking through the garden
and i swear
i heard the neat click
when he severed the phone line
if only i had known

i have thought up one hundred scenarios
in which i saved your life
but there is only one
when i don't
and every night i try to justify this reality
because i could have sworn
the sound of their boots
on the steel fence
was the telephone
ringing

when they saw the headlights
swerve over the lawn
steve was as good as dead
shattered like a lightbulb
under pressure
four shots pressed into his forehead
a candid bullet kissed him faceless
his absence was
a tell tale piquancy of slaughter
i lay in bed that night
and turned my face to the wall
when i heard the screams

tell me i reek coward
say the raw red skin of my knuckles
shaved away from the foundation of my raised veins
as i sat through another police interrogation
are nothing compared to the red poppy
that blossomed in the center of his chest
call me callous
but i will never forgive myself
for trimming the flowers
that sat innocent on the coffee table
in the middle of a mass grave
all i can say is
i was just the gardener

i found her
blooming on the living room floor
the baby cut
weeping from her umbilical cord
still attached to mother and father
by a rope traveling from neck to neck
thorny slices of fetal skin
peppering the carpet
blood sprays still wet
were soaking into the wooden door
sadism comes in many
limp limbed contortions
but only one color
and i saw *HIS
smile
carved in the cavity
of her stomach
i swear to god
i wish i could say
i didn't see it coming

i found the severed tendons
of his fingers
suspended in the eerie light
of the swimming pool
pruned like overripe plums
the remnants of his face
scattered across the driveway
like taraxacum seeds
their bodies all
hanging like wilted stems
broken xylems hinged to sepals
by threads of sap
running down uprooted ligaments
there is not enough therapy in this world
to cure the silence in the garden
upon the aftermath of execution

the shapes of murders' footprints
left raised beds in my shoulder blades
manure smeared ***** across my lips
every flower i have ever planted since
has languished in the smell of your corpses
melded into the callouses
of my finger tips
i am just the gardener
and i am all broken anthers
petals shriveled, toxic
call me a survivor
but there is blood inside my filaments
RW Dennen Oct 2014
What desirous riches we crave
to return our destinies
for paradise sights and nights
filled with glittering starry portals

And to feel the air of day and night
abound with blissfulness and sleep

Ooooh how we dream not that dreaded dream
but dreams of peace at rest

Aaah to return if only within a second and relearn
what nature has to give and only what we are allowed
to take
And listen to the shakers of the earth
growl their pristine craves
And to feel that solemn
rest once
the return to freshness softened
earth
around our barefoot toes
And to regain freedom spatial boundlessness
lost,
but only regained at last
in dreams reposed
Brittle Bird Apr 2015
I'm collecting each passing moment
with a pinch of salt and sugar
sprinkled in my memory

One, two, three shakers full.

but the sands of time keep slipping
through my mortal fingers

I keep an empty jar on the top shelf.

and everything else is a blinding mishmash
of my mind in the morning light.*

Please don't look under the bed, it's embarrassing
what I forget to think about.
Day 7 of NaPoWriMo.
About trying to keep track of what this life means to me, but not getting very far. Also, I'm not a morning person, so that's obviously when everything falls apart.
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
Dawn King Mar 2017
And once I was a poet
Words poured out
Just as waterfalls do
Among the fauna and flora

And once I loved a man
Tears poured out
Just as scorned ones do
Among the lie and injury

And once I was a scholar
Dreams poured out
Just as the progressive do
Among the movers and shakers

And once I was a hussler
Schemes poured out
Just as survivors do
Among the users and takers

And once I was a nomad
Splendor poured out
Just as free souls do
Among the winds and gods

And once I was a poet
This poem is an original work by Dawn King and my intellectual property. It must not be copied or used in any writings, publications, photos, or online platforms without my express permission.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2013
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's

twitch.

in a box of halos  you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls  with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
What desirous riches we crave
to return our destinies
for paradise
sights and nights,
filled with glittering starry portals
And to feel the air of day and night
abound with blissful
restfulness and sleep
Ooh how we
dream
note that dreaded dream
but dreams of peace at rest

Aaaah to
return only within a second
and relearn what nature has to give
and only what we're allowed to take

And to listen to the shakers of the earth
growl their pristine craves
And to feel that solemn rest once more
the return to freshened softened earth around our barefoot
toes
and to regain freedom spatial
b o u n d l e s s n e s s  LOST but only
regained at last in dreams reposed...
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Around the pool of chandelier light the movers and shakers gathered
in tight knots, unwilling to untangle from the policy books
intent on pushing fences further out into the Caspian Sea
across the Black Sea and encircling the whole Artic Circle
from latitude whatever to wherever.

The chief fence maker arrived with a pair of pliers
and rolls of barbed wire twenty thousand posts
and a battalion of unnamed soldiers all hiding
behind masks of make-up

" Now listen, people, roll out that spikey wire starting from here
to eternity and keep going around the globe until you return
five hundred years to meet the beginning with the end!"

A few bald heads bowed but wary of  cross-hairs
hiding along the ceiling behind sharpshooting
shapeshifters.
They knew instinctively, that unbowed head may be bowled
over and transported to Siberia in a meat wagon
for permanent freezing with the mastodons.

"Go Now, do not turn back, ever, or you will become
a pillar of salt."
The band played The Last Post
as the last post rolled out.

Peace began as soon as the war ended
and the fences were built around the entire
Northern Hemisphere.  

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
I love the smell of my flesh in the morning
So soothing, like the ghost of the woman you're mourning
Conforming to a bitterness, you swore to me
That you wouldn't do what you did, but what's more to me
Is that your stain rests upon every thing that I enjoy
My heart is a consultant, don't insult it by calling it unemployed.
I put too much time into your eyes on my mind, in my rhyme
Undermined, badly timed, so let's get to other subject lines

Starlight baking cloudy, shaking
Hourglass breaking, howling naked
On a street corner, "Happy Birthday!" (belated)
Just say it. If it's in a reactor, it's decaying
A single rooftop smothered by snowflakes, earthquakes
Heartbreaks, salt shakers, risk-takers, green bakers
Understudy, crush me honey, lose my number, don't go under
Keep me waiting and debating, my hand shaking, the phone breaking

My face is a reflection of the sunlight's rays
Keeping a constant rumbling from underground at bay
And everyone complains that they're smothered in their own way
But when I rationalize the rainbows, their records won't play
I simply need the orchards to escape this lonely torture
A place to sit and paint in front of a tree and make a fortune
Soothing ears to rest and putting minds at ease
My music, a viral infection, a depressive disease

Constantly starving myself of the rain
I bring the trees to their roots and stimulate the brain
With a conflagration of color, instantly insane
Yet civilized, melody harmonized, urbane
The strings will vibrate and body rejuvenate
Conceptual mind-**** a rising heart-rate
The starlight glowing outwards, the falling of the towers
To signify to flip to side B in a mere matter of hours
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
cameran Jun 2014
it wasn't meant to end up like this,
but i was sad,
and he was lonely,
and alcohol is nice
for sad and lonely people
"blame it on the *****."
David Nelson Aug 2011
Idiot Man goes to Washington

well I need to come up with a brand new plan
I'm sure there are many more lives I can *****
gosh I bet you I can be a congressman
I mean after all I have no clue

yeah I'll strut my strut and pretend to be concerned
act like I have the people's best interest at heart
I'll argue with the others like they have learned
instead of doing right I'll pick my nose and ****

so round and around and around it goes
every four years the people try making a change
replacing the current Heckle and Jeckle crows
with new wiener shakers just as strange

so after four years of wasting everyone's time
what should I think up next
I mean after all I am Idiot Man
maybe send a picture of my **** with text  
  
David Nelson ....
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
For the movers and shakers -
My utmost respect and love.
To the artisans and craftsmen -
My appreciation for good works.
To the warriors - need I...
To the Mums and Dads -
Thanks. If not for you...
For the big-girl's-blouses -
You know your worth.
To the funny-bunny's -
I ****** myself, in a good way;
Those great educators.
To my Teachers - Hail! Hi!
For the unsung and unstrung -
Don't worry - I'll wait.
And the courageous explorers,
What can I say?
Tell me all about it, soonish;
You help anchor me in reality.
7-8/3/2014
Enough is Enough, 8 of 9 (Night)
Casey Lederman Dec 2013
Time and drugs, the binding of our book.
How can I love when my heart beats
like the wings of a dying butterfly?
Hands shake
shake
shake hard enough that the leaves from surrounding trees
fall
and the salt and pepper shakers clang
China notes upon the table.

I spit on you, but I have no right
(nor left)
to do so.
Cut your hair, go for a run, leave yourself behind.
Dance with yourself or dance with the devil,
the two are one and one is zero.

Coffee, bass, thump, stomp,
coffee
coffee
coffee.
Ingest toxicity as the earth ingests the rain,
the rain that once was water-
wasn't it?

Bleeding eyes and tasteless lips and feet that touch,
soul to sole.
Who are you to dance, to drink, to forget,
while I stand stagnant
as a memory?

Come home to tearful cheeks and screams of pain,
come kiss my eyelids with your
punches,
or stay buried within your beautiful haze of smoke and
uppers
downers
all-arounders.

Capture a moment as a child captures an ant,
harmless at first
until the tweezers come out
and then-
oh,
there go my legs.

And in the other realms the time sweeps
through sands of soulless poison,
green and beautiful and stocked in slime enough to cover all of
Jerusalem.
Dance
dance
dance until you seize and your mind is a blank page of
uncried ****** tears.

And as my soul burns upward and the flames singe my
nostrils,
I reach toward the closest substance,
just push
push
push these flames back inside and downward,
before I combust into a ball of hellfire
right here on the grey tile floor.
When my day,
like a flask
is empty
Chances are
you're absent,
like the salt and pepper.

On that day
like the green
leaf turned ash
my mind is missing--
run off with the salt
and the pepper

Somewhere
with a sunset,
margaritas,
potatoes
for dinner, and maybe
cottage cheese
for breakfast,

The shakers,
waiting for you
to notice my
stainless steel finish
and how perfectly
it compliments
your eyes.
after Billy Collins' "You, Reader"
Macstoire Sep 2015
Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day

Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great

So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'

So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast

First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired

Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good

In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother

But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish

Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend

But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'

This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake

So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'

The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'

When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat

So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make

So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess

So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'

But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way
August 2015
Mr E Oct 2015
I walk by them often
you have too.
The fakers who judge what you do,
who pretend to be,
more than they are.
Who believe they're safe,
down to the core.
Who paint their faces different hues,
who laugh and smile when others do.
Oh the fakers, movers, and shakers,
why do I let you stay?
And let you judge another day?

— The End —