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Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Come here, my baby
And sit here by me
And I will tell you a bit
Of your past history
From well before you
We even a fond desire;
Before I met your father
And our love caught fire.

Loo, loo baby.
You’re the best it could be
You are the greatest thing
That ever happened to me.
Shoo, shoo baby
I would sing when you cried.
Shoo, shoo baby
It’s your very own lullaby

I was happy enough then
But something was missing;
Something not involved
I merely just our kissing.
And he felt the same, too
Because we talked about it
And left room for neither
Of us to really doubt it.

Loo, loo baby.
You’re the best it could be
You are the greatest thing
That ever happened to me.
Shoo, shoo baby
I would sing when you cried.
Shoo, shoo baby
It’s your very own lullaby

Our eyes were on each other
But our hearts saw further.
There was something we felt
Off into our common future.
Today we feel sure that
What we were feeling was true.
Somehow we could see it;
What was missing was you.

So, we gathered our family
And all our loving friends
And that was the very day
Your wonderful story begins.
We knew when you arrived
That we had been correct
We had no more dots
We needed to connect.

Loo, loo baby.
You’re the best it could be
You are the greatest thing
That ever happened to me.
Shoo, shoo baby
I would sing when you cried.
Shoo, shoo baby
It’s your very own lullaby
Brandon Mar 2012
Shoo fly
Don’t bother my wife

             Shoo fly
             Go back outside

                         Shoo fly
                         Leave the inside

                                      Shoo fly
                                      Go out and die
Humans acting inhumane
purposely maim
For some higher purpose
serving no purpose
that requires them to purposely
commit these atrocities?


Kids and young adults
mostly dolts
not understanding
Looking to belong
it doesn’t add up
Won’t be long
until they’re not left standing
left underneath the heel
of a consuming lunatic
A blackened heart
no time will heal

Served up as another meal
Just an added wheel
One more cog
Doing for “God”
the most ungodliest of acts
Acting pious
but I’m not buying
Won’t get by us

Get left in the dust
They may be resolute
in this crusade they carry
but cruelty served among the blade
may have worked in the past
But that time has come and past
and like a book past due
so is the rue
that will be served upon you

Tuck those napkins into your shirts
because your time is short
And if there is a God
I’m sure you’ll meet him
and have to answer,
along with those of kindred spirit,
to next of kin
of those who are now spirits
The lives you took

Can’t take any more
Everyday many more
My eyes can’t believe
the ugliness and cruelty they see
So I turn away
I do not look
Don’t want to know
because ignorance is truly bliss
But is it?

Is it bliss for those
who’ll be sacrificed
so some nut job just might
go to an afterlife
with many wives
Are you kidding me?!

Take a hike
go fly a kite
because that’s about where
your ideas and ideals
(to use the term loosely)
come from

I’m in a fit
just thinking of it
This poem is long, I know
but I can not fit onto this page
the total rage
I hold in me for those
who can’t uphold
the simplest of human values
which is the value of human life

Where does one go wrong
in the head
to not see the wrong
no, instead
thinking okay
to take away
the precious breaths
we take each day??

Just go away
If you must ****
please start with yourself
Offer yourself up
to whatever it is that you are dreaming about
But leave others to be as they be
for they do not believe
what you believe

And don’t tell me that it’s not okay
to not think the way
that you think
Why, what’s the harm?
If you hold strength in your values
and beliefs
That whatever you’re chasing
is unwavering
Then how can I,
little ol’ me,
just standing here being me
How is that somehow an attack
on what you believe?

Just leave
You be you
and I’ll be me

It doesn’t matter what’s between
There’s no need to intervene
Bye bye
Take a hike

I promise not to judge you
even if my beliefs
are comparatively opposite
how it is the things you see

There's only one rule
You fool
As foolish as you are
Yes, a wound that heals
still leaves a scar
But you can't fool me
Nor will I be
Numb to the severity
Of the sickness that you teach

And sickness is the word
To describe the absurd
Of the nonsense that you heard
and accepted as true
because you have no values
Well, maybe to you
You feel you do
But these directives you choose
Need to simmer your stew
They're old; nothing new
Heard it before
On humanity, a sore
Faulty programming taught
For it can not be bought
Don't sell at the store
Not interesting; it's a bore

Young children know well
Yes we guide but don't sell
In each of us it's innate
Most choose love over hate
As a spectator you'd find
The majority of time
Even if no one is watching
People's actions are kind
Without being beaten
Because people want to be treated
With dignity and respect
What you give is what you'll get

So don't act like you've been chosen
That ******* you're holding
Its noxious scent fills the air
Through my nostrils it tears
But a fresh breeze
has rolled in
Brings with it the Golden
Rule; the same one
The simplest of tools
One of the first things
Taught to us in grade school
A basic design
Yet also eloquent
I think for most people
it's something inherent
The way that you wish
How others would treat you
Apply them to yourself
Make those actions what you do
And if all of us follow
Treating each other this way
The storm clouds would abate
Nothing left but brighter days
Written: February 22, 2018

All rights reserved
ryn Sep 2014
Elephant in the room*, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay

Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal

Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries

Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears

Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see

Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores

Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs

Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days

Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest

Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen

End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...

Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Nat Nov 2012
Saturday night, I’m getting crazy as usual,
taking pictures of my cats because they just look so beautiful.
Yea, some people go out, but I’ve got so much to do,
boys line up to take me out on dates but I tell them to shoo.
“Who are these guys?” you wonder, but don’t worry about that,
you wouldn’t know them because, they’re from a secret, hot guy frat.
I stumbled upon it once when I was out doing cool stuff,
like dancing with a king, and jumping off of bluffs.
Then one day, I jumped right into the hot guys secret lair,
and after I landed they could do nothing but stare.
I thought that they were looking at the mole on my face,
and I was right, but they loved it and begged me to stay at their place.
Not for the night, but forever, they didn’t want me to leave,
and who can blame them, I’ve got a badass weave.
But I had to decline, I just wasn’t ready for that,
so they said, “Come back anytime, even if you get fat.”
And with tears in my eyes, I bid them goodbye,
started my jetpack, and flew off into the sky.
I don’t have pictures of any of this because they were burned up in the fire,
but I can definitely assure you that I’m not a ***** liar.
But anyway, back to what I’m doing tonight,
I know that you’ll be jealous, you can’t help it, that’s alright.
I’m meeting up with Michael Scott and crew, but that’s not really a big deal,
we see each other every day, one time he tried to cop a feel.
Well, I may have just imagined that, which is probably pretty weird,
But I gave up on normal long ago, like my mother always feared.
Which is why I’m sitting here on Saturday night, talking to some cats,
who have low self-esteem because the media made them think they’re fat.
Those cats on the MeowMix commercials always look so thin,
no matter how hard regular cats try, they can really never win.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell them, “Let’s just have some fun.”
So now we’re watching TV, because, what else would we have done?
Any insult you could throw my way
Is true.

I'm worthless in every single day
Who knew?

When I'm near children I shy away
Not coo.

And when I'm angry, terrible things I say
You'll rue.

I **** sunshine's shining rays
With blue.

About people, every waking moment pray
They'll shoo.

And every sin which others lay
I do.

So every insult thrown my way
Is undeniably true.
Cecil Miller Feb 2016
I'm not the curious kind

I met you at the pub,
You were with your cuz
And I asked you, "What It Wuz?"

Was it on my face,
The invitation to come to my place?

You won't have to guess for long,
Once I get you home.
One sultry look in my eyes,
You'll know what's going on.

Give your love to me.
Open up and let me see.
I want to lay you down.
And kiss you all around.

It don't mean a thang,
If it ain't got that stank.
Do-***, Do-***- Do-wa-a!

How I hate - I hate it so,
Whenever you say "no."
Baby, let it go.
Why else do you think
I bought you all those drinks.
This buzz don't come for free.

I don't need to see
What's in this for me.
I've been here before
So, I already know what I want.
I'm not the curious kind.

Once I have you all the time.
You'll know that true love was on the line.
I'm not looking to play games.
I don't need your name.

I don't need to see
What's in this for me.
I've been here before
So, I already know what I want.
I'm not the curious kind.

I see I've met my match,
And your plan is bound to hatch
Because I know I'm a catch.

Was it on your tongue,
Right there on the very tip, when I stole your breath away from it?

Now, now it won't take too long
To find the beat of my song.
When I get you into the rhythm,
We'll have it going on.

Lips and hips are true,
My hands all over you.
Shoo- ***, Shoo-***, Shoo-wa-a!

For a moment I thought so,
But you didn't tell me "No".
Baby, let it go.
My investment's coming through.
You're gonna get yours, too.
This high don't come for free.

Once I have you all the time.
You'll know that true love was on the line.
I'm not looking to play games.
I don't need your name.

I don't need to see
What's in this for me.
I've been here before
So, I already know what I want.
I'm not the curious kind.

I'm glad we didn't change our minds.

We saw the whole thing through.
And glad it was with you.

I'm not the curious kind.
I've been around the block some times.
Experimenting's not what's on my mind.
I've long since left my doubts behind.
No-one here has need for shame.
No-one has to point out any blame.
No-one needs to be tamed.
We struck a match and lit a flame.

Once I have you all the time.
You'll know that true love was on the line.
I'm not looking to play games.
I don't need your name.

I don't need to see
What's in this for me.
I've been here before
So, I already know what I want.
I'm not the curious kind.
2-21-2016. All rights reserved by me.
I just wanted to write something fun. This isn't anything very deep at all. The music I set it to is a mid 80's street style dance.
Donna Aug 2018
We walked around the
park and came across a sweet
garden of flowers

All trimmed so lovely
not a bud out of place and the
sun shone happily

Was there we saw a
wishing pond full of silver
gold and bronze money

So we made a wish
Plonk plonk plonk is what we heard
as the coins lie still

Jennifer was near
by , watering the new buds
Butteflies fluttered

there ivory wings
whispering sweet lyrics to
birds flying in sky

We came across a
monkey , he ****** to its cage
Dean said its hungry

It was colour of
midnight , full of gentleness
Contentment for sure

Dean pulled a twig of
leaves off a tall plant for the
monkey , who I thought

had smiled in its own
animal way , but all of
a sudden two girl

monkeys colour of
a rising sun tried to rule
the roast , so dean gave

them some leaves too , but
they seemed adamant to pinch
the males food , we did

have a giggle and
told the girl monkeys to shoo
They just ignored us

We saw elephants
Skin like a hundred years old
Eyes like big diamonds

One seven foot tall
Jennifer flew by smiling
sprinkling sunlight

upon there hay , we
saw a monkey eat a fly
It picked off its wings

threw them to the ground
and ate its body ,it was
a fascinating

moment, Flight never
to be lowered only to be
born again to life

Oh I loved the big
leopard she was amazing
Her fur so unique

Her temperament so
kind so loving so happy
Man as been her friend

It was a lovely
day and Jennifer enjoyed
herself too , she sang

a song making the
sun giggle so much , its teeth
fell upon warm earth

leaving sparkles in
ponds and glistens upon cars
and smiles in clouds

We all drank ice cold
water and ate some chips and
a panini with

cheese and tomato!
We drove home feeling happy
And the sky was too
Yesterday we visited a wildlife park it was truly lovely lots of the animals are becoming extinct and this particular park as given many of the animals a really lovely kind loving enviroment to live in :)))
Gabriel burnS Oct 2018
I’m not broken
I’m a puzzle not to be solved
I’m a bird of…
Preying on rain…
But the clouds elude my webs
I’m the underside of an antisocial umbrella
What with the moisture-averse lovers nowadays
I shoo them off and twist my spokes
And finally I’m no longer pretending completeness for the sake of my surroundings
Because She comes clad timeless
Comes with the thunder
And She tastes like all or nothing
Translation into Bulgarian:


Не съм счупен
Пъзел, но не за подреждане
Аз съм птица…
Хищна за дъжда…
Но облаците се изплъзват от моите мрежи
Аз съм сухата страна на необщителен чадър
Какво им има на избягващите влага влюбени тия дни
Пъдя ги и се извивам в спиците
И най-сетне не трябва да имитирам цялост заради обкръжението
Защото Тя идва цялата в безвремие
Пристига с гръм на мълния
С дъх на всичко или нищо
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
the greatest lesson i learned concerning life was what Ezra Pound refuted... it came from Tao - and on that 86 bus heading to school i have learned it like an arithmetic rubric - my only lesson came from Tao, all my lessons came from Tao - from a Buddhist revision... the lesson? the only way to aid the world is to let the world forget you, and you in turn forgetting the world be. for that what speaks to the entombed heart, the heart of hearts when the mountain crumbles into rubble, and you're left picking your fancy until the diamond is found among seashells, before you the sea of time gnarling with gnashing of shattered teeth - shoo shoo shoo as if tiresome of the green-bottom flies who's spawn is readied overly... the *******... i can't call them anything respectable in African sensibility... the ******* at the back of the bus and the white harlots too... me in the middle sitting reading a book... Stendhal romanticised me, but Tao taught me reality... i know it wasn't the original Tibetan slit eye, it was Japanese... the only way to help the world is for the world to forget you and you forget the world... which i relearned reading Heidegger, who suggested i should be transparent in engaging with the world through concern (being there, or dasein), even a Heidegger apologetic in me turned into Ronin - Asiatic apathy is courtesy, European apathy is simply impoliteness - the latter has too many ****** expressions - i summarise my life with the anonymous Taoist monk who said these words... anti-celebrity culture, they burn like fire in my mind - they burn like fire in my mind - they are my mind - but i had to show him the European verbiage and the ferns of European thought to prove him right, and i did. Heidegger's concern became the ***** Berufung, soon the concern fizzled and was masked by wife and children - but better a Heidegger apology than a Christian one - what meditation can a crown of myrrh provide while being crucified? none! the Rastafarians keep singing about Babylon... the tree wise men came from that region... so the fourth magician... the four horsemen of the apocalypse? Melchior, Caspar, Balthazar, Jesus  it's still a profanity of the tetragrammaton - four horsemen, four canonical gospels... and that ***** that's Gematria - the undermining of all serious study - you can keep those Rabbis in the museum with Grecian  marbles to collect dust, as i mention Tolstoy and that passage from war & peace: pierre bezukhov - the freemason friend (chapter 13) - l'empereur Napoléon  (666) - l'empereur Alexandre - la nation russe - comte Pierre Bésouhoff - sub z for s (Chiral Gemini) - + de und le - le russe bésuhof = 671 - omitting e (incorrectly) - l'Russe Bésuhof - BINGO! - the orthographic gag - most Anglo never heard of such graphic, having never made auxiliary use of it - but i stick to the lesson in Tao - the world does not recognise me as acting in its fate, and will not remember me as even the hushed - i rather not remember it in whatever guise it might provide for me - the first lesson in Tao, is the last lesson in Tao - Stendhal might have taught me romanticism of the ideal heart of woman - but that one maxim of Tao taught me how to not hunger for women, as if i were the Paraclete - perhaps what Christianity wished for was a placebo of the Paraclete - given that so many already believed the other figure being extinguished in the wake of the 20th century - but in talk of religion, such is the limited vocabulary, and such the impossible task ahead, in that grand masquerade of identifying all with one, and one with all:
as an atom:
                  omni           mono         omni

                                       omni                                  or

(around me everything, i must concentrate on myself)

                                                        ­      nihil

                                         nihil             omni          nihil

                                            ­                  nihil  

(around me nothing, therefore i must encompass it all)

whatever the answer, i sought, and found mine,
it was in Tao, and nowhere else.*

there's never a talk of transparency
in politics - politics isn't
about transparency - it's about
the vaguest and the foggiest -
you all should know this by now -
but ado with George Orwell's double-think,
or simply doppelgläuben -
you believe to disbelieve - that's what the
doppelgläuben does - if religion be the ******
of the masses, then engaging the masses with
politics is engaging them with
hell-raisers - diluted alcohol from 40 to 15%.
no wonder they're ******-off being prescribed
status quo placebos;
politics was never about transparency, all those
near the pigsty troughs know the motto:
you scratch my back, i scratch yours.
the electorate think this applies to them
also true between their daily squabbles, but it doesn't.
doppelgläuben: you believe to disbelieve;
and of course we want objectivity, we want
cages after all... Darwinism is perfect for
an objective expression, which is why poetry
is sidelined as Loser St. -
we all want perfect abs and the opportunity to
sell yogurt rather than Mongolian Yurts
in swimwear shorts... but how long will this
Siberian talk of rationality serve the mammalian heart?
how long will objectivity given Darwinism seem
sensible to keep? are we at the butchers' or
reflecting on life? raw meat, maggoty meat, well done?
we all know that the majority of us are losers,
but drilling this in will never allow us to
speak objectively... well, it will... like in Munich,
an 18 year old lashing out from what he heard
his father being called: Scheiße Auslander -
this is the rational benefit of objectivity so keenly expressed
in argument - which is why so many people have
turned to poetry, but they don't yet see that
the ****** was worn for much too long -
and given democracy, they get lost in the whirlwind
of so many people feeling the same.
hence? Tao lesson no. 1 - aid the world by the world
forgetting you... and you in turn forgetting the world
so the world can be best aided, and you kept free
without minding the c.c.t.v.
vircapio gale Oct 2012

hiking new forests
mountain homes of moss and dew
more roots deepen

berries ripe
dot taiga heath--
alien planet

yellow blazing sun
from maine to georgia

pain born hero
in oven boots of blood and pus--
summit breeze

barefoot hiker
calls herself 'FearNot'--
toes enjoy same mud

snake rises up
fangs gleam at water lair
cold spring quenches all

***** at each view--
water comes in and goes out
like a filter

at waterfalls, swans
alighting air-- noble poise
on the way to sea

gunas intertwine
my sweet mountain hunger paths
bitter taste of bark

sour grass
garnish of an earthen tract
saliva honeyed

strands of spider flight --
i too catch myself making
web after web

"nature loves to hide"
hidden hermit roars of all
strife and fire flux

spider bite at dusk
afterswing of scenting food
shoo the meal away

change becomes the same--
people streams talking pixels
aging static web

symbols set in light
speed of optic living nodes;
clicking finger fibers

websites spin and stick
plastic tropical alphabets
ant waves clean the keys

fueling in process,
living fossils already
drilling seas--on earth

give or take six months,
happy birthday!
two seasons gone


A mountain poet has come to the city, blisters pushing up his toenails. His smile spans 15 blocks of concrete and rebar. Strangers coo to see his sunshine gait but cough at his aroma. Hospitality is found after all, in parks and in the drunken streams from clubs gregarious for midnight novelties.

poet's apology--
not exactly 'myself' to
license gratitude
when time gifts symbols distance--
terror war towers still fall

Emergencies of all sorts force their way into my mind, as I live, sometimes as I write. Ambiguities serve as fulcrum nooks for meanings incompossible to hide, not being ready to share what can't be shared, obscurity offers the ineffable reprieve to be spoken nonetheless.

peering in the word--
sound signs meta symbol
witty sea of *****

property stings
abstract fights to earth
mixing labor

i found a haiku
on my coworker's desk--
where is the frog pond?

dad drinks alone--
photo recalls sunlit leaf
and beer can stare

opining fire false
freezing hearts with argument--
cold spring, winters warm

It is with the love of a child that I write, wincing harder into that self-given 'Indian-Burn' of cathartic fetish and psychological indulge. Where is maturity, and what use is it when faced with endless ground-zeros? Still open to answers, still unwilling to speak plainly or straight about the blanket crookedness and blissful meander that colors life most vividly. I imagine dacrygelosis understood.

thawing pond
creaks in headstand calm--
autumn air released

night's insight pierce
heralds migraine's ease--
gong of moon or sun

on dead wood, against
live trees, hours of *** by
mycelia blooms--
fragrant rot and sweat collide
skin spotted with forest sun

love signs everywhere--
two trunks spiraled
in a yellow wood

vocal awe resung
this is love! this is love!
deep summer fruit

rub of bark                      
vast forest sways across skin
                        naked expanse
Sam Temple Mar 2016
I knew we would never, ever be blue
When I looked into those eyes

Our love was so pure and true
Filled with long gazes and loving sighs
I knew we would never, ever be blue

Her words of love rung, oh, so true
Puffy clouds float by in the bluest skies

Each day together this love just grew
The type of love that never dies
I knew we would never, ever be blue

And the compatibility when we would *****
All up in those luscious creamy thighs

Never a time I didn’t know what to do
It’s easy when you live free of mistrust and lies
I knew we would never, ever be blue
st64 Feb 2013
Here lies wealthy aunt Dot
Let us pray for her, people
Let us pray for Dorothy Keeper
For here comes the grim reaper.

They called her Marie-Antoinette
Breaking fast on cake and tea
While gorging whole on tamarinds
And tittering her high-squealed laughs.

She wore her sky-scraper heels
With such care, they'd always look new
With no scuff marks, but in the end,
She hurt her back and broke her ankle!

She lived in such a mansion
You'd need an elevator to get to ***
Her gardener had his own butler
While her dogs had weekly pedicures.

Yet when they found her, on her last
She was bedecked in every wealth imaginable
Burdened tables, with rarest delicacies
But not a crumb of mercy on her plate.

You see, the ones she thought valued her
Were simply riding high on tails
They were cloven deep through the ranks
While rank decay sat fat in every corner.

Always one to expect return
She did little to relieve that scorned idea
When nephews begged for bursaries
She'd shoo them gone; let pets sap cream.

Now, upon her mortal hour, her eyes did sink
So deep in sharp despair.
Her ragged breath her kin did hear
And mere perfunctory embrace she felt.

Her sickness begged a touch of care
A little sweetness, a glance of kindness
But pitied eyes swept aghast around
At the splendid array in her mausoleum.

Nephews now grown men stand and look
They shoo not the flies around her mouth
For minds locked ******* heartless past
Fail to discover any worthy pattern.

No one could give what she desired
So they turned all from patient, one by one
To their cosy, quiet homes
Save the little boy, silent by the door.

They knew not that their paltry lesson in humanity
Screamed for mercy; to alter, make good flow
The little boy turned, to change the tide
*** for tat pays not; we should all know that!

Peace and mercy, she but sought now
And in his utter silence, he gave her that
Her eyes pled such deep appeal
His heart bled at their steep reveal.

Most unfortunate turn of events unseen
When the boy now held beneath his eyes
Heavy, darkened rings of suffering
Intense subject of compassion.

Years later, no one would know that
Upon her deathbed, she bequeathed him silent gift:
That, until kin break spited cycle
He would bear the brunt forthwith.

And now, Aunt Dot has died
All return to home and hearth
Yet no redemption till the day is due
And the soul awaits .......ever patient.

Star Toucher, 22 February 2013
brooke Sep 2013
and they brag
about their permanence
but it isn't, truly.
(c) Brooke Otto
Shelby Predrick Apr 2015
Sister, I told you
How much I needed you
You listen to all my pleas
And cry over my bees.

But there's this beast inside me
Stay away from her, it pleads
You are not supposed to open that bag,
But how can the snake not lie?

Oh, well, my sister, you took in all of it
Swallowing my temporary misery.
But what have you sewn?
You made it all your own.

My love for you is real
But I can't put it into words
Because you know me as well as I do
That I'm a meal.
A curse.
A shoo-away.

You see, my darling, nothing can ever come out.
Scarred when I saw six
You can take it when the demon picks.

Everyone is a little broken inside
All I've been doing is not burden you all night.
I hope you understand!

Please tell me you'll never let go
With the dog just inches below me
You're my last hope.

Can you grab it all back again?
You were right and I was wrong.
My fingers are begging to work out
But it just doesn't go with my brain for long.

As you slip away from me
Please do remember these moments
Those fragmented keys
To the garden that is to come.

Sister... It couldn't have been better.
Zainab Attari May 2014
Look into my eyes and you shall see
The innocence and solitude in me
I am all alone in this massive ball
No one to pick me when I fall

Touch my body and feel
The absence of countless meals
I have dug into several bins
To find a morsel from trashed tins

I have slept on cold hard grounds
A better place, still not found
I was soaked by the pouring rains
And disturbed by noisy trains

I have played with broken dolls
Drawn with charcoal on overfilled walls
I have prayed to all the gods I know
Their love makes my soul glow

I am a child too
Don’t deprive me of you
Cuddle me in your arms
A little crave for love means no harm

I know I am an orphan
And might not even get buried in a coffin
But don’t shoo me away so recklessly
Where is your humanity?

Don’t throw that money and walk away
Please hear me out or for a while just stay
If you know of an orphanage, take me there
I no longer want to live in despair.

-Zainab Attari
I have a soft corner for children and it pains me to see them with no guardians, parents or older siblings to pick them up when they fall or cuddle them in their arms when they feel cold.
I fail to understand the reasons behind poor families growing their bloodline when they have nothing to feed it to survive. Sometimes one needs to be practical rather than emotional. :)
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
preliminary explanation

before i really begin the project i have a few scatterings
of thought that made me do this, without real planning,
a different sort of impromptu that poetry's good at,
less Dionysian spur-of-the-moment with an already
completed poem entwined to a perfect ensō,
as quick as the decapitation of Mary Boleyn with the
executioner fooling her which side the swing would
be cast by taking of his hard-soled-shoes -
i mean this in an Apollonian sense - i know, sharp contrasts
at first, but the need to fuse them - i said these are
preliminary explanations, the rest will not be as haphazardly
composed, after all, i see the triangle i'm interested it
but drawing a triangle without Pythagorean explanation
i'm just writing Δ - i'll unravel what my project is
about, just give me this opportunity to blah blah for a
while like someone from an existential novel;
what beckoned me was the dichotomy of styles,
i mean, **** me, you can read poetry while in an awkward
yoga position, you can read it standing up, sitting down,
eating or whatever you want - obviously on the throne
of thrones taking a **** is preferred - the point being
what's called serious literature is so condensed for
economic reasons, font small, never-ending paragraphs,
you need an easy-chair and a bottle of cognac to get
through a chapter sometimes - or at least freshly mowed
grass in a park in summer - it's really uncomfortable because
of that, and the fact that poets hardly wish upon you
to be myopic - just look at the spacing on the page,
constantly refreshing, open-plan condos, eye-to-eye -
but it's not about that... the different styles of writing,
prose and the novel, the historical essay / encyclopedia
or a work of philosophy - what style of writing can
be best evolutionary and undermine each? only poetry.
poetry is a ballerina mandible entity, plastic skeletons,
but that's beside the point, when journalism writes history
so vehemently... the study of history writes it nonchalantly,
it's the truth, journalism is bombastic, sensationalist
every but what courting history involves -
a journalist will write about the death of a 100 people
more vehemently than a historian writing about the Holocaust...
or am i missing something? i never understood this dichotomy
of prose - it's most apparent between journalism and history...
as far as i am concerned, the most pleasurable style of
prose is involved in the history of philosophy, or learning per se,
but i'll now reveal to you the project at hand -
it's a collage... the parameters?

the subject of the collage

it weighs 1614 grams, or 3 lb. and 8 7/8ths oz.,
it's a single volume edition, published by Pimlico,
it's slightly larger than an A5 format,
3/4 inches more in length, and ~1 centimetre in
width more, it has a depth of 1 and 3/4 inches in depth,
a bicep iron-pumping session with it in bed -
i was lying with this behemoth of a book
in bed soothing out a semi-delirium state
listening to Ola Gjeilo's *northern lights

and flicking through the appendix, and i started thinking,
no would read this giant fully, would they?
the reason it's a one volume edition is because
the only place you'd read such an edition would
be in a library, at a desk, and you'd be taking snippets
out from it, quotes, authentic references points
for an essay, esp. if you were a history student,
such books aren't exactly built for leisure, as my arms
could testify... after the appendix i started flicking
through as to what point of interest would spur me
onto this audacious (and perhaps auspicious)
act of renegading against writing a novel (in the moment,
in the moment, i can't imagine myself rereading plot-lines
after a day or two, adding to it - that's a collage too,
but of a different kind - and no, i won't be plagiarising
as such, after all i'll be citing parallel, but utilising
poetry as the driving revision dynamic compared
to the chronologically stale prose of history) - i'll be
extracting key points that are already referenced and not
using the style of the author - the book in question?
Europe: a history by Norman Davies prof. emeritus
at U.C.L. - the point of entry that made me mad enough
to condense this 1335 page book (excluding the index)?

point of incision

Voltaire (or the man suspected of Guy Fawkes-likes spreading
of volatility in others) -
un polonais - c'est un charmeur; deux polonais - une
bagarre; trois polonais, eh bien, c'est la question polonaise

(one pole - a charmer, two poles - a brawl, three poles -
the polish question) - mind you, the subtler and gentler
precursor of the Jewish question, because the Frenchman
mused, and not a German, or a Russian brute...
and i can testify, two Polish immigrants in a pub,
one senior, the other minor, one with 22 years under
his belt of the integration purpose, one with 12 years,
the minor says to the senior about how Poles bring
the village life to cities, brutish drunkards and what not,
it was almost a brawl, prior to the senior was charming
a Lithuanian girl, before the minor's emphasis on
such a choice of conversation turned into idiotic Lithuanian
nostalgia about the disintegration of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth, primarily due to the Polish nobility.

10,000 b.c.

looking that far back i don't know why you even
bother to celebrate the weekend -
i mean, 10,000 years back Denmark was
still attached to Sweden,
England was attached to France,
and there was a weird looking Aquatic landmass
that would become a myth of Atlantis
in the Chronicles of Norwich,
speedy ******* Gonzales with the equivalent
of south america detaching itself from Africa...
mind you, i'm sure the Carpathian ranges are
mountains. they're noted here are hills or uplands,
by categorising them as such i'm surprised
the majority of Carpathian elevations as scolded
bald rocky faced, a hill i imagine to have some
vegetation on it, not mountain goats with rock and roof
for a blacksmith in a population of one hundred...
at this point Darwinism really becomes a disorientating
pinpoint of whatever history takes your fancy,
Europe - mother of Minos, lord of Crete,
progenitrix / ******* and the leather curtains
of Zeus's harem (jealous? no, just the sarcasm
dominates the immortal museum of attachable
****** to suit the perfect elephant **** of depth
the gods sided with, by choice, excusing the Suez
duct tightening of a prostate gland... to ease the pain
upon ******* rather than *******); mentioned by Homer
the Blind tooth-fairy, the Europe and the bull,
Europoeus and the swan, same father of wisdom to mind,
on the shores of Loch Lomond -
attributes a lover to the bull, Moschus of Syracuse,
who said earring Plato cured him of where the ****
should not enter even if it shines a welcome
in the disguise of Dionysius... revisionists bound to Pompeii
named Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens Veronese
and Claude Lorrain revived the bulging bull's *******
and her mm hmm mm, too gracious my kind, hehee...
Phonecians from Tyre and Io - so too the Sibyl of ****** -
and unlike the great river civilisations of the Nile,
the Ganges, soon to be the Danubian civilisations
and gorged-out-eyes-that-once-sore-colour-but-lost-sight-of-
soon the seas overcame civilisations of the rivers,
as Cadmus, brother of the thus stated harlot said:
i bring you orbe pererrato - hieroglyphics of the cage,
but not an owl or a hawk inside it -
so let's perfect speaking to an encoding by first
rummaging into learning how to procure the perfect
forms of counting - i say left, you say I, i say right
you say II, left right left right, what do you say?
VI. bravo! the Hellenic world just crossed the Aegean
and civilisation bore twins within the cult of a lunar-mother,
Islam of Romulus and Remus, a she-wolf
a canine of the night - according to another -
tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes - or so the myth goes -
a cherished phantom of what became the fabled story
of sole Odysseus with his ears open and the remnant
sailor's ears waxed shut - as if the bankers of this world,
revelling in culprit universal fancy than nonetheless
bred the particular oddities - lest we forget,
the once bountiful call of the sirens to the oceanic
is but a fraction of what today's sirens claim to be song,
a fraction of it remains in this world, the onomatopoeia
of the once maddening song, the crude *******
arrangement of vowels bound to the jealous god's
déjà vu of the compounding second H.

from myth to perpetuating a modern sentiment

you can jump from 10,000 b.c. to the Munich Crisis
of 1938 - 9 with a snap of the fingers,
imitating quantum phenomenons like gesticulating
a game of mime with Chinese whispers necessary,
if Europe is a nymph, Naples her azure eyes,
Warsaw her heart, Sebastopol and Azoff,
Petersburg, Mitau, Odessa - these the thorns
in her feet - Paris the head, London the starched collar,
and Rome - the sepulchre
or... die handbuch der europaischen geschichte
notably from Charlemagne (the Illiterate)
to the Greek colonels (as apart from Constantine to
Thomas More in eight volumes, via Cambridge mid
1930s)... these and some other books of urgency
e.g. Eugene Weber's H. A. L. Fisher's, Sr. Walter Ralegh,
Jacob Bronowski... elsewhere excavated noun-obscurities
like gattopardo and konarmya had their
circas extended like shelved vegetables in modern
supermarket isles, for one reason or another...
prado, sonata sovkino also... some also mention
Thomas Carlyle (i'd make it sound like carried-away isle,
but never mind); so in this intro much theory,
how to sound politically correct, verifiable to suit
a coercion for a status quo... Europe as a modern idea,
replacing Imperum Romanun came Christendom,
ugly Venetian Pirates at Constantinople,
Barbarossa making it in pickled herring juice
in a barrel to Jerusalem... once called the pinkish-***-fluff
of Saxony, now called the pickled cucumber,
drowning in his armour in some river or Brosphorus...
alchemists, Luther and Copernicus were invited on
the same occasion as the bow-tie was invented,
apparently it was a marriage made for the Noir cinema,
beats me - hence the new concept of Europe,
reviving the idea of Imperium Romanun
meant, somehow including Judea in the Euro
championship of footie gladiator ***** whipped
narcissists, rejecting the already banished Carthage
(Libya / Tunisia by Cato's standards) and encouraging
the Huns, the Goths and the even more distant Slavs and
Vikings to accept not so much the crucifix as
the revised spine of the serpent but as the geometry of
human limbs, well, not so much that, but forgetting
Norse myths of the one-eyed and the runic alphabet
and settling for ah be'h c'eh d'ah.
dissident frenche stink abbe, charles castel de st pierre
(1658 - 1743) aand this work projet d'une paix perpetuelle
(1713) versus Питер Великий who just said:
never mind the city, the Winter Palace... i have aborted
fetus pickles in my bedroom, lava lamps i call them.
the last remaining reference to Christianity?
Nietzsche was late, the public was certain,
it was the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, with public reference
to the republica christiana / commonwealth was last made.
to Edmund Burke: well, i too wish no exile
upon any European on his continent of birth,
but invigorate a Muslim to give birth on it
and you invigorate an exile nonetheless:
Ezra expatriate Pound / sorry, if born in eastern
europe a ***** Romanian immigrant, pristine
expatriate in western Europe, fascist radio has
my tongue and *****, so let's play a game:
Russian roulette for the Chinese cos there's
a billion of them, and no one would really mind
a missing Chow Mein... chu shoo'ah shaolin moo'n'kah!
or a cappuccino whenever you'd like to watch
classic Italian pornographic cinema with dubbing
with nuns involved... Willaim Blake and his
stark naked prophesy, pope pius II (treatise 1458)
even though Transylvania, Tharce and Hungary
shared the same phonetic encoding with diacritical
distinctions like any Frenchman, German,
or Pole at the Siege of Vienna (1683)
to counter the antagonising Ottoman - i swear historians
do this one purpose, juggle dates and head-of-state figures
prior to entering a chronology - they must first try out
a ******* carousel before playing with the toy-train...
broadcasting to a defeated Germany public, T. S. Eliot
(1945) ****** import to into Western Germany
and talk of the failing moral fabric, China laughing
after the ***** intricacies of warfare of trade,
what was once wool we wished to be silk...
instead of silk we received vegetarian wool, namely
hemp, and Amsterdam is to blame... nuke 'em!
that's how it sounds, how a historian approaches
writing a history from the annals, from circa and
circumstance and actual history, foremost the abbreviations,
the fishing hook standards, the parameters,
the limits, and then the mathematics of history,
one thing culminating into another... contra Lenin
N. S. Trubetskoy, P. N. Savitsky, G. Vernadsky
Russian at the perks of the Urals - steppe Tartar shamans
or salon pranced pretty **** boys? where to put
the intoxicant and where to put the mascara... hmm,
god knows, or by 21st calculations, a meteor;
they say the history of nations is a history of women,
then at least the history of individuation
and of men who succumb to its proliferation
is astoundingly misogynistic.
Seton-Watson, among the the tombstones too reminded
of remarkable esteem and accomplishment
with only one gravedigger to claim as father...
as many death ears as on two giraffe skeletons
stood Guizot, men of many letter and few fortunes,
or v. v., incubators of cousin ***** and none the kippah
before the arrogant saintly diminished to
a justly cause of recession, ha ha,
by nature's grace, and with true advent of her progression
as guard-worthy pre- to each pro-
and suggested courteous of the ****** fibre,
oh hey, the advent of masqueraded woofing,
a Venetian high-brow, and jealousy out of a forgotten
spirit of adventure that once was bound
to hunting and foraging... forever lost to write  history of
a king dubbed Louis the XIV...
crucibles and distastes for the state to be pleased,
once removed from Paris, forever to Angevin womb
accustomed once more, at Versailles released -
as cake be sown so too the aristocratic swan necks
for worth of mock and scorn - and the dampening rain
rattle the blood-thirst of the St. Bartholomew's Day
slaughter, to date, the rebirth of Burgundy,
of Anjou, and with the dead king presiding, to be
of no worth in judging himself a king before god or pauper...
saluer Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville!
that i might too in stead rattle a few bones prior to burial
with the jaw that will laugh and chatter least
had it been to my kingly-stead a birth so lowly.
then at least in satisfactory temperament i procure a
judgement of the noble like of a *****
for an hour's worth of pistons and jarring tongues...
as if from a nobleman then indeed as if from a *****,
for who sold Europe and said: Arabia, if not the
Frenchman, the Englishman, the Spaniard?
the former colonial conquests served you not enough?
i imagine the reinstatement of Israel like
the Frankish states under Philippe-August...
precursors to a cathedral dubbed Urban the 2nd's..
there were only Norwegian motives in the Ukraine
and the black sea... Israel to me is like plagiarism
of the Frankish states of the middle-east, with Europe
slightly... oom'pah loom'pah mongolian harmonica.
some said Rudyard Kipling poems,
some said Mr. Kipling's afternoon tea cakes -
whichever made it first on Coronation St.
some also say the Teutonic barbecues -
it was a matter of example to feed them hog
and cannibalise the peasants for ourselves,
a Prussian standard worth an army standard of
rigour - Ave Maria - letztre abendessen nahrung -
mein besitzen, wenn in die Aden, i'd be the last
talking carcass...
gottes ist der orient!
gottes ist der okzident!
nord - und sudliches gelande
ruht im frieden seiner hande.

germany's lebensraum, inferiority and classification,
inferior slavs and jews, genetics and why my
hatred of Darwinism is persistent, you need
an explanatory noting to make it auto-suggestive
for Queen & Country? diseased elements,
Jewish Bolshevism, Polish patriotism,
Soviets, Teutons, the grand alliances of 1918
or 1945? Wilsonian testimony of national self-determi
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
When we
Are alone,
Me and Ammini
Make another
World to play in.
Like the ever vacant
Sand houses
Some adults build
With their kids
On the beach.

I will get angry
Even if the gentlest
Of breezes
Passes that way.
She will turn livid
Even if a *****
Passes that way.

Or sighs
Or their scars
Appear on the face
She will
Wipe them off

After playing
For long,
We will fight.

Ammini  will holler
Louder than
The way she laughed.
I will keep mum
Louder than her.

I will
Lay her down
Holding her close
To my *****
That will beat
Ammineee, Ammineeee.

As she pretends
To sleep,
I will shoo her off
Go away pussiiii!
As if the masculine
Of pussee is pussoo
She will shoo me off
Go away pussoo!

I will retort
Go away Poochamma!
Ammini will retort
Go away Pochamba!
Go away Kochambi!
Go away Kochambra!
Go away Pochambra!
Go away Sochambra!

Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away


At a loss
For words
She will
Change the tune.

Tiffin box!

About to lose,
I will show the
Trump card.

Go away
Agnus Anna!

Her face will change.
She will say

Go away
Kuzhur Wilson!


When Ammini
Turns back
Kochu TV,
I will
The bathroom
The door
Puff on
A cigarette.

Kind of
To live
Around me

**Translation : Ra Sha
“Wilson speaks the language of the Christ contemplating life in the dark cavern in the twilight zone between crucifixion and resurrection. At the door, stand guard numerous women, goats, dogs, birds and reptiles speaking agitatedly in a vernacular tongue. All objects, living and non living, fall within his jurisdiction. Over everything falls a great sheet of sadness like a gloomy rain. “

Ra Sha
D Conors Jul 2010
Coffee and Tea, I'll take them both,
Light me up another smoke,
Have a piece of Shoo-Fly pie,
Hear the birdies in the sky,
Take my pen in trembling hand,
Compose some poetry, if I can.
D. Conors
09 July 2010
I close the book and sit up.
It’s been a while
since the last time I finished a book in one sitting.
Lately I haven’t had time,
so I’ve read them in parts.
Really short parts.
I’d forgotten the feel of a whole book.
It is a completely different sensation.

I close the book and sit up.
Then I stare at the back cover for a few moments
and then,
I flip it over.
Then I stare at the front cover for a few moments
and then,
I open it and close it again.
And then I take a deep breath.

I close the book and sit up.
I look around and come back to my room.
It takes a while
to get used to the change in surrounding.
I feel as though I was thousands of years away.
I forgot what it felt like to get lost like that.
It was nice feeling,
getting lost,
and then returning.

I close the book and sit up.
I look around the room,
remembering where everything was,
that part of the wall with the paint peeling away,
the stickers I put up on that side of the room when I was ten.
A fly,
which has somehow gotten in,
buzzes around the room
looking for an escape,
trying to find where the light is coming from.
This may take a while seeing as I have the curtains drawn.
It flies around getting dizzy, until I lose sight of it.
I look up at the picture of me and my best friend on the wall,
trying to remember that this is the world I belong to.
Trying to remember what my place in it was.
It’s hard to pull yourself out of a world,
your left with a bittersweet after taste
from somewhere faraway.
The taste differs from book to book.
Right now, it tastes
like peaches.
I feel slightly disoriented, and dizzy,
like the fly.
I feel washed out.
The same feeling you have after having a good cry.
Because sometimes, those are necessary.
It’s a good feeling,
satisfying and unsatisfying at the same time.

I close the book and sit up.
The curtain is wrinkled
and there is an odd yellow light shining through its translucent surface.
That’s right.
It’s sunlight.
There’s a door, and a hallway outside it.
That’s right.
It leads to the kitchen.
There is a backpack,
with papers,
and books spilling out of it.
That’s right I have a paper due tomorrow.
A test the day after that,
and after the last plunge I took I can’t afford to do badly on it.
Slowly following this pattern
of familiarizing myself with the world
I come back.
The Empty Child Mar 2013
I'm always thinking of you,
For all the imposters I say shoo.
You always know what I need.
To be with you I plead.
With blueberries, or syrup,
I always cheer up.
Waffles are my weakness.
Each and every one is full of uniqueness.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
call it quits for me, i'm getting ***** eyed; no, really, when i slump into looking donkey-***** eyed, and i haven't smoked anything "funny", call it quits for me... i'll tell you to tell them that i only need an comfy arm-chair, you translate that in whatever wording you like.*

   fair enough,
you have your
sober opnions;
i'm about
to get ****** &
tickle myself;
+marvin gaye?
well, d'uh;
   that gotta be
the new, or rather
the aversion
toward the
Donna Jun 2018
Dean as gone home now
His off on his stag do with
our sons and close pals

I got up early
this morning to wash all the
bedding for my girls

We are having a
girlie weekend , spending time
together with smiles

I've tidy up the
Chalet there's grass everywhere
But thanks happy broom

The sky is still grey
But it's lovely Warm outside
Doors are open wide

I really love ants
too but there everywhere now
Even in cupboard!!

Now shoo off please I
don't want to eat ants for my
breakkie , shoo shoo shoo

The sun is trying
to come out but the clouds are
having a meeting

My youngest son is
not please his got to spend the
weekend with us girls

But he'll get spoilt
rotten , as life is about
family time spent <3

I've got my phone on
Already laughing at my
dean and sons snapchats

***** , archery , a
nice sit down meal and good old
knees up in a club

Not long now till we
marry o the excitement
Tis a sunny day

Flowers o so grow
Prettying up the green grass
Trees are smiling too

Unwinding is so
good it settles lots of stress
Positive thoughts bloom :))
Have lovely weekend all ***
Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  I sit entranced by the rhythmic force of the cargo train rolling by.  This is the third train in 25 minutes, and with each pass, the sound of the heartbeat steals my attention away from the drunken chaos around me.  I glance at the north wall where a small, golden, shadow flickers with each pulsation.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.   The cargo train seems to disappear as unexpectedly as it arrived, and now I am pulled back into the scene around me – drunk, rowdy bar-hags and middle-aged men with bellies expanding at a rate too fast than can be restrained by their tucked-in Milwaukee Brewers t-shirts and their ******* Green Bay Packers jerseys.  I re-focus my attention to the crew with whom I share this table.

The CEO’s.  How is it that God blessed me with such an opportunity as to break bread with these four great, inspiring, and humble men?  NO WAY IN HELL is this a coincidence - this is undoubtedly God’s work at hand.  Our waitress walks quickly by, and I notice the uncomfortable glance she casts in our direction, her eyes focused on Vince’s t-shirt that reads in large, red letters, “CEO. Christians Encouraging Others.”

Vince. Boisterous and fearless, he can be relied upon to know everything about anything, and for the benefit of all within ear-shot, he never shuts-the-****-up about his faith or about those who lack it.  Thank God for Vince because without his leadership during our five-hour drive here, I would know nothing about tire pressure, ideal gas mileage, ****, the meaning of great music (a.k.a. R.E.M.), or how to deal with nagging kids. He is a truly model Christian, taking every opportunity to remind us of our calling in this world, passionately ending most conversations with, “This is Satan’s domain - the end of the world as we know it.”  When we were one hour away from the campgrounds, Vince disproved my previously-developed theory that he could not possibly be any more of a puke.  After making sure he still had everyone’s attention, he pulled out his favorite hat and enthusiastically adjusted it on his head.  Featuring another clever acronym, the oversized, navy-blue trucker mesh cap accented with gold rope trimming proudly sports, “C.I.A.”  Christian in Action.  

I share a cabin with Vince and these other heads of households.  These fellows come here once a year “to get away from the wives.”  One of the other fellows with whom I have the pleasure of sharing the cabin is Paul.  Paul forewarned us that he suffers from irritable bowel syndrome, a claim substantiated by the bag of “**** powder” that he proudly held up in the air during the ride here for all to see.  My brother Tom also comes along in order to partake in the outdoor activities, trip paid in full by my older brother, Richard, who has financially supported Tom for as long as Tom has been able to utter the words, “I can’t afford it.”  Thanks to ****’s Christian generosity, Tom’s soul has been saved along with all of Tom’s money as his mortgage was paid off over a decade ago.  Unlike Tom, **** is a tortured soul who suffers from PTSD.  He is also a recovering (to be more accurate, “recovered”) addict, having been cured “just like that” (snap!) when he found Christ in the 70’s.  

Deh-bee. Deh-bee. Deh-bee.  Another cargo train…  Why did I agree to this?  The waitress comes by again, this time with our food.  “Thanks, doll,” Vince says with a wink.  Embarrassed for her, I look away, staring once again at the flickering light on the north wall.  My gaze is suddenly disrupted by the steamy, ivory dish of food placed in front of me.  French fries, bathed in a lake of runny ketchup, sit enticingly in the middle of my plate.  To the left are mountains of milky-white coleslaw, and to the right sit boulders of golden-baked cod stacked one upon the other, towering high as if built to honor to the gods.

Without hesitation I grab the pale, cloth napkin and blanket my legs.  I find myself clenching the sparkling fork as I drive it into the base of the cod shrine.  Ketchup runs everywhere, and as I lift the bloodied mess above my plate, I become too distracted by the sound of Vince’s voice to notice that the cod never makes it to my mouth.  Vince stops and stares at the blunder of food now back on my plate, laughter erupting from the bowels of his cholesterol-encased belly.  

Debbie. Debbie. Debbie.  No train.  I look down at my plate again, the contents of my plate further bathed in ketchup.  My appetite is gone.  All I can think about is that frigid November night two years ago when I found her lying dead, body still warm, in our gazebo. When I saw the back of her head all over the floor, I knew it was too late.  “Debbie and I were going to go out for fish that Friday, but I didn't get home early enough…”  I hadn’t realized that I said anything aloud, but the sudden silence around the table quickly awakens me to reality.  

With a mouth full of chewed cod, Vince looks intently at me and raises his arms. “Man, don’t let him trick you!  He’s out for everyone, and he’s toying with ya.  Shoo him away. Christ is in you. This is Satan’s domain, and he’s messing with your head.”  

His voice trails off as my mind wanders back to that night.

“Greg, are you listening to me?  Cast these thoughts away, man!  The devil is trying to ensnare you. Call upon…”

“Hey, Vince.”  I cut him off.  “The other day I saw this sign in front of a church, and your hat just reminded me of it. The sign said, ‘It’s hard to stumble when you’re down on your knees.’  You know why your hat reminds me of that sign?  

"Let me tell you, Vince.  Let me tell you why your ******' hat reminds me of that ******' sign. Cause your hat says, ‘C.I.A.’”

Vince, silent for the first time since I’ve known him, responds to my comment with a blank stare.

“C.I.A.  ****... In… ***…  Get it?  You see, you’re never going to stumble, Vince.  You’re already head down, on your knees, taking it hard in the ***.”
Thank you to my wife for your patience in editing this piece for me.  I love you, Hannah Klein.
I'm as deep as ya modda.


No waaaaaaay!
Rambo Mar 2017
A thought, off the top o' my head--
't rings aloud like the crack o' thunder,
then 't bangs around, and 'tis no wonder
I'll get no sleep 'til I am dead!

The tremendous ache,
the pounding pain,
an evil, Abel-less, headly Cain,
a godless, disastrous, Earthless quake--
I'd just like some sleep!

"Rise, my body" calls out my brain,
"we've got t' write all o' this down!"--
but yet, still a clamor at my crown.
A pen and pad I 'wake t' grab,
Then my thoughts go down the drain!

Int' the cabinet t' pinch a pill,
I take 't with juice,
relax and loose,
and wait for the pain to finally ****.

Off t' sleep just one more time,
then another thought my mind comes to,
I whisper t' myself "oh, shoo! shoo! shoo!"
but it stays, it stays-- such a tragic crime!
I'd just like some sleep!
Something I think we can all relate to. Isn't it great?
luna Apr 2015
pigeons are so unappreciated
being the rats of the sky
they overpopulate the park benches
waiting for a crumb food supply

yet if you look at the bigger picture
isnt our species just the same
over populating social networks
waiting for a supply of attention or fame

and i use the word 'species' quite lightly
is human even an appropriate label
because most of us are so inhumane
compared to pigeons we are the unstable

pigeons just want food to live
humans live to want more
yet we are the ones shoo-ing them away
when they are the ones who deserve to be adored

i mean yeah they seem to be everywhere
but take a minute to look around
we are the ones causing the destruction
stuck on this filthy ground

they deserve this earth
and so do you and i
so next time you call any creature filthy remember
you are stuck on the ground as they are in the sky
Heli Colmenares May 2012
There once
was a chicken named
who came from a long line of hennys
on one afternoon
he said shoo fly shoo
then picked from the floor
2 pennies
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it really doesn't help to write your **** and have some cyborg
alternator typo it - even after a bottle of whiskey -
what? that's basically tweeting, isn't it?
i'm competing with 140 date that dot -
i have to wake up at 12 o'clock and
feel being needed, water the garden, make a steak
and chippie meal with fungus
sauce, then get myself ready for
the Bolshoi don quixote, originally
choreographed by Marius Petipa to the music
of Ludwig Minkus -
i have to admit Swan Lake was more like
STOMP - among the garbage cans -
a ******* centipede spectacle, or a thousand
ants in the gym!
- what a headache -
what a ******* headache -
i love being crude and blind toward what's
dubbed high culture... i won't
be drinking a cosmopolitan with that,
a shy whiskey while taking a **** in a cubicle
where the **** goes... fun fun fun.
tomorrow's Petipa show, or oof af rag a muffin whiff woo...
takes the steam from  stiff upper lip,
makes Dublin global... get pissy of the Guinness you'll
beat all the models on the catwalk in Paris...
eyes underwater - i'm seeing do do double! burp.
or so minded. dabbed the dab and sleepwalked
the rest of it... impressions of the mummified monkey -
they love their novels because they hate their
Ensō - they love their Zen, hate their Tao Buddy Bud, Bud -
they want to read in bed - god forgive them -
i'd write the diabolic of what i'm doing right now,
but it'd be a waste of paper, you keep it to your imaginings -
ha - short-script, the the repetition doesn't matter;
and while on the street i cherub sang to a sinking of
cleaning those papa Blanc shoes - who said less trip
or tip toe but shoo shoo shoo - i was
the first Aboriginal Black in Candy Skin Ah-merry-ca-ca-ca...
people were missing the cancan dances while
i was being forged from **** splendour... into
the Irish version of a tatty up my ****...
oh now they love me... they payed their month's wages
just to see the boxing match: Tiny Titus v. the Ice Lodger
Bjørg - the former out cold... while we scalped and
skinned chickens, and for the first time we thought
we had hope... cinnamon was added to savoury dishes...
it was like discovering the steam engine!
m'eh m'eh m'eh... Mongolian harmonica and the lip
fuelled propeller boats... brr (it's cold when it's humid
down under in the forked excess skin of the tongue);
god, strap me to a shady alley in Paris -
god, strap me to a shady alley in Amsterdam -
or better still, send me to a village on the Faroe Islands -
away from this anorexic-trying-to-look-pretty people...
send me to a place where the news is the only anorexia,
where people hunt Orcas and eat the blubber -
i want to be there... **** Barbados and that sacred sand
of beaches with slobbering great whites -
send me further north to the doom, and gloom -
well of course keep your pride-riddled Brits and
their auxiliary eager Irish Gnomes on Parade -
20 children in a diameters of a cubic mile -
about 2 paedophiles slurring their speech wet Koranic
style giving up cigarettes and alcohol for a teeny tiny
hole or a mole's eye socket fitting to try the shoe...
ever notice? she really looks like a dolphin...
esp. if she's entitled to be called Lady rather than Mrs.,
god they do look gooey glamorous -
fat fingers budget fat rings of fated diamonds
ready for the Jewish pawn shop - fake Rolex... half price!
it's one thing that the art of poetry is so passe (acute too, yes,
eat eat e and take to the bullring) -
or so elitist - call in the psychiatrists! but it's another
to deliberately make us seem illiterate - or half so,
in that we write a formula of lubrication, and
are represented by friction - you almost want to correct
your faults... but it become frustrating in the end...
so you don't bother... poetry - the pauper...
avant garde artist - the king, pretentious in itself -
if only St. Peter cut off a nose rather than the ear...
i wouldn't be watching the complete X-files
with Krebsmensch being frustrated about not
being a published author - funny how good
people become evil, among apathetic people either side.
Zoe Dec 2011
I want to bring happiness
to let the tears melt away
to deliver laughter
I want to shoo away anger
to make it boil to a gas
to reveal a smile
I want to hold you close
if that makes you happy
I want to hold you far
if that makes you happy
I want you to be happy
so let me distribute you happiness
reisedvngill Apr 2015
You said you love me but I would not understand your situation.
How could I understand if all I can see is you going down to your self-destruction alone?
Bring me to your level of understanding,
let me explore your thoughts,
open the gate to your heart widely,
I am standing right in front of your wall, knocking on to the gate of your heart.
Let me in, let me show you how much I care about your beautiful being.
You are not alone, so do not shoo me away.
Me… too want to carry the burden you have been carrying.
I will go with you to Heaven, earth even hell, no matter what.
Please do not hide anything from me…
Just hold my hand, as long as I am with that tall figure for me to follow, that broad shoulders for me to cry on, that gentle heart for me to love, that man’s soul for me to adore, I will spare my whole life with you.
Ollie, I love you.
Neil T Weakley Nov 2013
I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".

My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.

Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.

"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.

Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.

Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.
Larry B Apr 2010
There's nothing funny about flatuence
My wife has it all the time
Course she always blames it on me
And I'll always say, yes dear, it's mine

The worst time, is on those cold nights
With the covers pulled over my head
The sweet aroma of, "What in the world was that?"
It drives me right out of my bed

Now I'm not saying that it's stinky
Okay, yes I am
I even got her beano for Christmas
Well, cause, I'm just that kind of man

Now see, everytime that it happens
Her and my dog, point at each other
Then the dog puts a pillow over his face
Til I think he will surely smother

(Whispers) Wait just a minute, my wife walked in
I can't let her see what I'm writing
Cause if she knows that I told you
Then the rest of the night we'll be fighting

Okay, she's gone, anyway she's stinky
Flatuence, has got to be a sin
For there's always something evil
That seeping out of her rear end

Now, I have literally tried everything
And I don't know what else to do
I love her, so I guess I'll accept it
While holding my nose and saying "Shoo"
I always thought throwing out books was sacrilegious. You were supposed to pick them up gently by their worn sleeves and carry them home to roost forever on sleepy shelves. To then shoo them out into the cold, in their tattered jackets? Unfeeling, to abandon an orphan like that.

But I recently steeled myself to the task of getting rid of some books and found myself surprised by how easy it was. I was sheltering books regardless of merit (or merit in my eyes anyway – and it’s my house so my eyes that count) and offering them unconditional shelf space. I had a vast collection of awful, one-read crime books. I had ghastly chick lit charity shop smash-and-grabs, from desperate days of long, comfortless commutes. I had books that no one else wanted, that I picked up because I felt sorry for them.

But I feel happy with them gone. They were like sickly relatives who linger over-long. Their languishing was up, and they knew it. Now my books – MY books – all fit nicely on my bookcase.

They are sorted not by title, not by author, not even by genre. They’re organised by how they make me feel. White Oleander sits next to Fuel Injected Dreams because they call to the part of me that lives in Echo Park and drives a ’69 Camaro with holes in the floor. My Series of Unfortunate Events books live with the Sally Lockhart series – both sets conjuring ***** dens, freak shows and gas-lit streets for me, despite being children’s books.

So my bookcase is no longer a rambling orphanage full of trapdoors and ladders. It’s a carefully curated archive; a many-paged history of the building of me.
This is not a poem. I rarely write poems these days. I would say this is the same as a pianist sitting down at the keyboard because they have a little time and they can see blue sky out of the window. An essay, or an exercise. A stretching of the fingers.
Donna Feb 2018
O I'm well tired
My poor feet are bigger than
normal that's not good

I know what a big
elephant feels like now with
there big stompy feet

And it's o so cold
outside that winters trying
to get in my house

I can feel it's bite
What a cheek it as , get out
of my house winter

go outside to the
trees cause no matter what you
do the trees stand tall!

Yeah take that winter!!
And see your fluffy snowflakes
They can shoo off too

Because all they do
is shut down the schools buses
and all train stations

And it melts way to
fast to build a snowman , all
that's left is puddles''

Oh slushy mushy
Fussy crushy lushy snow
Pushy offy please
Fed up with winter roll on spring :) this was inspired today after watching snowflakes full down x

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