"shylock" poems
Portia and Bassanio
Brave Portia's lot was cast
Inside a mocking case of lead,
Morrocco came and passed,
Then Arragorn, arrived and left, forlorn.
A list of louts came, failed, and went
Before Bassanio played his turn...
Poor rich Portia's patience spent,
Nerissa's lady solace yearned
Antonio, Bassanio, a troubled pair
A wily shark a loan arranged,
Whose bite, though small,
Beyond compare aimed deepest
To the matters of the heart.
Antonio, about to lose his fortune,
Bemoaned the losing of a friend,
The foiling of a fortune, sunk.
Shylock, certain of his pound of flesh,
Summarily dismissed by gentile gender-bending,
Played as a fool by a woman posing as a man,
Who drove a lawyer's visage in a Portia.
All ended well, at least for "Christian" men...
Life sweetened by the turning of a Jew,
No matter his conversion at duress...
Straight away Portia and Nerissa turned back
A ******* borrower who had landed on his feet,
And sprang their traps to tame their husbands' heat.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Dear Friends, this poem was composed many years ago and posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. Time here is compared to the money lender and miser Shylock in Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant Of Venice’, where Shylock insisted on cutting out a pound of flesh from the merchant Bassanio, for having failed to pay back the loan taken from Shylock! Hope you like it, - Raj
TIME THE GREAT USURER
TIME the great usurer, is a great miser too,
Always knows the cost of things to be paid
back by you!
It readily loans you the desired amount in
number of years.
Smilingly assures and allays all your doubts
and fears.
It makes the loan to appear like a free gratis,
So you hardly bother to take any notice!
But with the passage of growing years and
life depleting with time,
In paying back your interests, you got to
default sometime.
Precisely at that moment, the usurer knocks
rather loud,
And through death takes back its’ principal
amount !
Alas, Time the great Shylock knows the cost
of everything.
When will it learn to appreciate the value
we attach to things?
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
I am shylock,
In the attic barely used,
Barren exuberant floorboards creak in exhalation,
Of your footsteps.
There you find me,
In the dust;
A wooden trunk with brass fixings,
Didn't I tell you I held a million treasures?
You breathe in the sunlight,
From the round attic window,
Preening itself in your vision basked in gold.
I am shylock,
You moved a gilded hand,
Guided by a unknown force of union with the lock,
The air is silent around you,
The room is intrepid in its wanton stranger,
Who dares to enter this chamber of dust.
I am shylock,
You take my fingertips from the cup of a hand I had placed gently on your cheek,
The night before I had told you,
Of this room,
You gently take my fingers and place it on the lock.
I am shylock,
There is a gentle click,
That soon awashes the abated room,
That sways into a tsunami of grandeur,
Of history, emotion, silence and tears,
And it consumes the dust,
The acrid air and essence of my fears settle on your eyes and the homely mouth.
I am shylock,
You know how I came about,
Now,
You know how this room became accustomed to the dust,
And the floorboards, the dust,
And the window, the dark,
You are breathing me,
The trunk is open and waiting,
And at the bottom,
A ragdoll awaits your palm,
Your strength, your gentleness and patience,
This is my shy,
This is my lock,
And you entered the room and consumed me.
Burst through the door, cut down the labyrinth,
and found me.
Picking me up,
You,
Became me, attended me, held me,
with grace sensitive to my touch,
with the intention of a protector to my defence,
And the brazen warrior to my battle.
Now I am entered and countered.
Protected and put together,
Unbound and in your arms;
Now I am open and free.
My ragdoll, your love, and me.
Together, unlocked,
together I and you become, we.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
247
What would I give to see his face?
I’d give—I’d give my life—of course—
But that is not enough!
Stop just a minute—let me think!
I’d give my biggest Bobolink!
That makes two—Him—and Life!
You know who “June” is—
I’d give her—
Roses a day from Zanzibar—
And Lily tubes—like Wells—
Bees—by the furlong—
Straits of Blue
Navies of Butterflies—sailed thro’—
And dappled Cowslip Dells—
Then I have “shares” in Primrose “Banks”—
Daffodil Dowries—spicy “Stocks”—
Dominions—broad as Dew—
Bags of Doublons—adventurous Bees
Brought me—from firmamental seas—
And Purple—from Peru—
Now—have I bought it—
“Shylock”? Say!
Sign me the Bond!
“I vow to pay
To Her—who pledges this—
One hour—of her Sovereign’s face”!
Ecstatic Contract!
Niggard Grace!
My Kingdom’s worth of Bliss!
3.2k
addressing my southpaw weakness...
don't know... my left hand is a bit...
weak...
started to train it...
by extinguishing cigarette
butts on each other knuckles...
have two vacant slots to fill...
and plenty of whiskey...
why?
i paid my Shylock...
i was **** with the Gorbachev
**** on my right shoulder blade...
now comes the fun part!
the lesson...
of boxing, with not boxing gloves!
i want the middle finger knuckle
to... hurt... the... the most...
like Tom Waits'
circus narrative...
**** these teenage girls cutting...
how about their start burning
themselves,
with hot, metallic objects?
how's that?
less blood!
ha ha!
two knuckles down...
two to go...
i'm giggling with anticipation...
while, i, eat,
the, pain! ha ha!
who gives a **** about
predictability,
preachers / theologians
or stock brokers?
so who?
the Turkish barbers,
the English tailors,
the French chefs?!
who?
the roof, the roof,
the roof is on fire,
let the ************ burn...
we don't don't need no
water let the ************ burn,
let the ************ burn...
i'm a simpleton...
catch the genie... catch the lamp
sort of scenario...
otherwise?
bon voyage / bon soir /
mon amí!
god, i hate the french!
it's like...
you want to lick them...
face to face...
and then... punch them...
my type of ****** nationalism!
comes the third knuckle...
and the cigarette...
it will be put out onto!
- like an interrogator might...
you show the victim undergoing
the torture, with yourself
prior...
and then?
torture the **** out of them! ha ha!
i.e. who's the buckle,
who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?!
oh please! please!
don't mention the oysters
of the elbow!
have some common decency!
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
tense as the rolled up newspaper thrown
slapping against the step
at dawn
awakening conspiratorial
slinking around the truth
sleuthing sniffing
my way to find
out this way or that but the way
about the signs the clues
preachers words the same weight
as the street corner girls
a way to think
in our detectiving
then the ultimate
DNA almost
the penultimate
remains of the doer dids
the who what did
whats the ne'er do wells on
Mulberry street , I know them hoods
no they were not the culprits
I scent along above below
sniff and snoof
behoove behind the wildest dogs
to find it was
mine own trail I had found
among the shivering forest green
I sat considered
a shylock set this up
then saw the bacon on my foot
I had been following.
I set off again my foot clean.
I will find this bandit.
I like bacon , though.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
a message sent to me:
“I know you, Marrano, secret Jew of my heart, weakened by words and strengthened thereby...stout man of words”^
a stranger invasion - his technology, a new combine of words,
percentage of perception high, a ferreting scraping of tissue,
an abrasion of spoiler alerts that are not hidden but now summoned, despite being unbidden early on a Sabbath morn
and at this, my haunted hours, this secret Jew,
wanders unexplored yet familiar routes
of his well traveled innards,
pondering this sweet Shylock Accusation, nay,
this confessional truth, but more, the nut of his essence that ‘tis
his conviction, his twisted sentencing, the exact lived-level of
a hellish Dante verse that shreds the escape of sleep,
that is home
“weakened by words and strengthened thereby”
words forced to the fore, peremptorily summoned,
this inconsistency so constant, his battle,
where neither victory, loss or truce, are resolutions legitimate,
contradictory poems are the tension production
of this high wire act of the man, a performance
best assessed as one of always slipping,
more near-falling failing than cross walking,
employing his word emissions as a balancing pole,
and balancing is a sometime thing
I am not an illusionist - if anything, a disillusionist
there are stanzas writ
but unspoken
that shall not be out-spit
here or now; for lengthy answers already exist,
in a thousand prior scripts
and
the thin wire of preservation
teaches the value of brevity
stout, I think not,
man of words,
no doubt,
one who is both,
a secret Marrano and a Jew, fully exposed,
and one who is
“weakened by words and strengthened thereby”
12/2/17 The Sabbath 3:33am
<•>
extra credit reading
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/529429/the-true-tale-of-shylocks-pound/
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
SHAKESPEARE'S MIND AND ART *
In the memorable words of Ben Jonson,
Shakespeare, the great Bard of Avon,
"Is not of an age,
But for all time."
Endowed with a brilliant mind,
Worldwide knowledge and intuition,
He comprehends the changing trends
And creates enthralling situations.
With his amazing knowledge of man's nature,
Creates admirable, everlasting characters
Like Hamlet, Macbeth, Caesar and King Lear,
Rosalind, Miranda, Shylock and Portia.
Skilful blend of wit, irony and humour,
Youthful merriment, song and dance
As well as poignant scenes of sorrow and remorse.
Dialogues lively, powerful and spontaneous
Enrich all his comic and tragic scenes.
In his inimitable way, he describes -
How "..the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven
And as imagination bodiesforth
The forms of things unknown,
The poet's pen turns to shape
And gives to airy nothing,
A local habitation and a name."
The world cherishes his poems and plays -
A perennial source of delight and solace.
******** M. G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
(Copyright: MGN)
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
~~~
every word I write is a tribute
*now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear
everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy
what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?
at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:
"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"
every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind
I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok
but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well*
herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry
5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
THOSE PRECIOUS LITTLE THINGS!
Dear friends, our very life and existence being transient and ephemeral, I have learnt to love those little things which provides me pleasure and happiness! Hope you like this short reflective poem. With best wishes, – Raj Nandy, New Delhi, 21 JAN. 2023.
THOSE PRECIOUS LITTLE THINGS!
Little things of life I have learnt to love and
enjoy.
Rays of the radiant sun streaming through
the window of my study;
Along with a glimpse of the radiant blue sky,
Dew drops on a blade of grass shimmering
in the early morning light.
Even a beam of the golden moon is enough,
To make me heave a nostalgic sigh!
Yet for some, enough is never enough,
As they try to cling on to those ducats,
Which slipped through miser Shylock’s
fingers when he died! (see photo)
Butterflies multi-colored wings,
Parrot feather of emerald green,
The sight of a Gulmohar tree in bloom
ablaze with tinges of yellow and red, -
Are enough, and my day gets made!
And so are those pearly drops of tears
shed from your doe-eyed eyes,
shall suffice,
To bid me farewell on my demise!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Jan 21, 2023
Jan 21, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC
sitting in LA traffic,
feeling very traff,^
unsurprisingly,,
dream-haze to SF,
now, every doorway
is an entrance/exit
to the Matrix
the movie is all about
concentric circles of reality
intersecting, when I emerge
in Chinatown, me and naturally,
Neo too,
(older and cute, and edible, like my fav flav)
who finds me equally irresistible,
He asks am I real,
sore disappointed,
for earlier, making love,
there were no harpsichords,
just The Zombie’s breathy vocals,
singing prophetic these songs
“She’s Not There” and
“Tell Her No.”
my then reality was in no doubt,
but nearness breeds suspicion
as much as trust, and Neo
is a worrier, I foresee not
much future for him & me
other men have called me Shylock,
for the betrayal probability is nearer
to 1, and these words, a reality test,
a forewarning to all in my bed sojourn,
are framed, resting above my pillows:
“*If you ***** us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?*”
tear stains, some from loneliness,
others from being held to tight,
some from my own scripts reread,
some from you, you don’t even know
when they stay over, I give them
one of two matching robes, both
Barbie pink,
those that laugh and grab it on,
they’re the keepers, they are for real,
just like me
by the way, so many of you have drunk
my crazy words, it’s inexcusable that I’ve
not thanked you yet, individually like the
Queen Mother teaches, repeat reminds,
preenly informs, nothing better than
a hand written thank you note, so
considered yourself served and appreciated!
am I for real?
the very question I ask myself daily,
to my morn mirror who magic replies,
more than real, crazy unique special, so so
different, otherwise I wouldn’t stick around,
and I thank the mirror with a lipstick kiss,
and it blushes from the love so real, and
cracks
a smile and says you be careful my genteel,
lady princess, your pale skin is exposed and
the California sun is a burning torch and it
touches your perfect body like all the others,
whose fingerprints evaporate in time, so husband
your love, give it slow and precious, for you are
more than mere real, after all,
you are Brandychanning
Dec 20, 2023
Dec 20, 2023 at 12:16 PM UTC
I strolled among lavendills
in the pithy piney plodding hills
bearing the brunt of burdensome ********
as I garnished grins of whippoorwills.
On a plateau-ish plain of prickly peet
I felt the bog beneath my feet
tickling my toes with ****** tainted thorns,
I remembered gnarling days, and stood forlorn.
Pickled poesy pomagroups
foretold of future ladle scoops
in caligrating loop the loops in styles
reminding me of marching troops.
In shifting shylock shapes of time
with ripping radishes of rhyme
I began my daring dew descent
to the lowly muppet mugging climes.
When, on sordid stony steppes I stood,
amid the brash and boorish wood,
wenting where I was, I brought
a hinting hackle pang of good.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning)
Arrogant
Book Soldier
Conceited
Con Artist
Covetous
Cunning
Deceitful
Disingenuous
Egoist
Egregious
Envious
Entitled
Evil
Haughty
Hypocritical
Ignominious
Immoral
Jealous
Jumped Up
Machiavellian
Martinet
Mendacious
Nit Picky
Obsessed
Peck Sniff
Perfidious
Persnickety
Pompous
Popinjay
Predatory
****
Rapacious
Regimental
Sanctimonious
Self Important
Shylock
Smarmy
Sophist
Supercilious
Unctuous
Unethical
Vile
Vicious
Zealot
ljm
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
the planet Earth alone in the great Universe
built by the Star called sun pulling the earth
93 million miles in each and everyday of Eternity
a little Planet timeless a self nurturing to survive
the wondrous being grows smarter
the magnitude of Earth destiny refined
for within its self discovery a predator race
consuming the earth with inventions making
every modern convenience to enrich life of humans
while on Earth causing extinction using up
the entire planet as Earth revolves around the Star
the human senses taught to pillage **** in greed
while the love of Star light celestial beings cry
stop polluting grow sustainability grow grow
cosmic consciousness for all life thinking
I run singing beware of the predators
humans consuming at an alarming rate
exterminate exterminate stop over populating
the song of life needs to love the maker of life
feed drink run play buy modern invention ....
back in the Bay so carefree so good
the breeze on a warm summer day
eclipsing the terror of humans with weapons
sustainability for all Stop making weapons
a distant cry....off with their heads
we need to look at their ideas stack up these
round hairy orbs...stop these heads from thinking
the race is on to own every modern convenience
ownership the brotherhood of power and greed
a Shylock selling the goods first you got
to have a weapon allows instant gratification
the adrenalin to preform theft **** manipulation
don't need an education weapons mental strength
to pull the trigger a modern christian born again
getting his ***** on the right foot in
la kook aracha getting its antennas alined
when the lights turn on they disappear the room is vacant
Evangelical nation knows no borders
on land in mind rights of women
gods nation with guns killing pillage ****
alas what of education got it pull the trigger
for GOP the oily Democrats one world government
brought to you by the makers of weapons
killing for profit 60% of each tax dollar made
to own the Planet one welfare nation over all
in god we trust little jesus people
a human race for humanity
every thing created was once an idea
a thought is a spirit that becomes a being
flesh and blood living life created
the right living in the shadows
on the edge of night til all the Stars are alike
til the other time lord casts its shadow
a quake a night rising falling middle land
a beauty in life creed to be a home
the strong will to proceed
the race of humanity
such beauty...
gjmars 6/17/15
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
i gave my pound of shylock... see, objectivism would like me to be accurate claiming it was not a pound’s worth, exacted to the precise .1 gram of weight... but that just breeds confusion, and where’s the joy in that?
you were already chosen as the vessel of apathy
and gauged out eyes,
heartless economics built around insects,
and there you were being told:
make not your vessel a poured in content of a *****
but a russian girl of worth,
because, let’s face it, these girls experience daily
abuse that cannot be given a historical relevance
for all of humanity... choose a ********** to enter the empty
vessel of your content worth from apathy
and you’ll have to allow a crucifix of you worth too -
choose a nobler kind of girl to give your missing beating ***** to,
so she might quench something apparent in you...
but then she does opposite and you’re left as the *****
with sweet mammon whispering into your ear
about all the glories of the staged life to receive
bounties of rubber, plastic and dust of the entertainer’s stage...
then imagine being psychoanalysed on every page turn
just so that someone can have a job without having met you...
all the local prostitutes decided to denote me as the devil...
i just started wearing sunglasses when looking out the window at night.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
Hey Jew,
Yeah You,
They roar in the past.
It's going fast,
They're so mean,
Their cruelty is always seen,
Yet it's the Jew, Shylock, who's condemned,
For being angry, for wanting defense.
What would you do
If it was you?
Thou shalt not be cruel
Except to a Jew, they're worse then fools.
That's what they say
And I, in the modern day
Say hey,
Leave him be,
Stop being so mean!
I'm so glad I live today,
I say!
That's how I feel about the Merchant of Venice!
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
My Dear,
I hold nothing in this world higher
Than the pedestal I've made for you.
I cherish your every breath
And every bat of your lashes
This wind knocks me over
Burns my flaming heart to ashes.
I'm sure you know what it means
When I say you're absolutely beautiful.
It means I've given my heart to you
But only we see the truth of it all.
I can't be without you anymore
I'm sorry, but it's true.
It's become your obligation to stay
Unless i grow completely through.
I'm here for as long as you'll have me;
I'll do whatever you need.
Don't worry about leaving my heart broken.
It's breaking piece by piece.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Black cats waltzing under ladders…
The mind tends to jest this way.
Left a choice, not today.
We twist through our dreams
like silk worms weaving.
No stars grace our
dead zone sky there?
Do you ponder the life
inside a rain drop?
Do you sweat in the
Nightmare of your soul’s Shylock
“Never the same! Never the same!”
cries the old man atop his
scrap yard shanty, with broken voice.
Time in it’s callus hands presses
86’400 times from sun to sun.
“I can’t find the moon anymore.”
She cried, for a lover gone
before the river dock
was dried of the salt tears.
What you see is human.
What is seen beyond these
feeble orbs, refracting bits of adulterated light,
those who dance in the storm’s finest hour, and
laugh at the days gone by,
as the stage spins quietly on it’s axis.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
He carves a little piece from me
a tiny bit of fleece and he
seems satisfied.
The tallyman comes knocking with
a rent bill that's just shocking
and he carves another tiny piece,
soon there'll be no fleece to carve
no food, no money and
I will starve.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
When you borrow trouble
The interest rate is
Very high.
ljm
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
(a poem in Senryus)
Let’s rerun the play,
take up strings, so the puppets
can start fresh their dance.
Summon the old ghosts—
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
—pronounce them reborn.
Recall the actors,
lead horses from their pastures,
raise the curtains.
Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Viola love anew.
Old, ever-hallowed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stage.
Human suffering,
live—don’t fret, you won’t miss it
—it’ll come to you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
End of the innocence by Don Henley
The Perfect Idiot by Fievel Is Glauque
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 1:17 PM UTC
0__0
( • • )
o
<>
V
// //
jew - boy huddled by the
Entrance to the alley
( Under the el )
•
New York
City
Can ****
The spirit
That is yearning
To be free
He hangs with the black boys
Lays with the Puerto Rican babes
••
( I know him well )
••
( How so very well )
•
Works the garment district
( works it still )
•
jew - boy !
( Plays the part so well )
••
Never been -- halocausted
He is free
If he got the Money !
If he got the Money !
( He ain't free like you -- you see )
•
New boy on the corner
Believes in what he knows
Found out about compassion
And lets it show
In the most unusual way
••
Gently
Sublimely
Completely
••
Like a Shylock sort of thief !
••
Sittin with the winos
In the alleyways
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
studious skinny scruffy scribe
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sniggering,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning ********
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
The saints would want me to forgive. That I have
done. Uphill trek, great effort, conquered the summit.
But then the witch doctors have asked me also to forget,
just forget, like nothing happened. The gray amnesia
intensely urged by incessant chants of choral animé
of aging cherubims would make it difficult, quite
difficult, to explain myself, to myself, with all honesty,
how I got the scars that run deep to the core of my unholy,
(Why not just say sinful? But what is a sin, anyway?),
heart. Unreal these demands. Abnormal? Unnatural.
Unnatural such reactions. Like a Shylock, I would have
yelled, nay, sworn (did he swear?) - a Jew also feels
pain, and bleeds - red blood, not green, not yellow –
when pricked, wounded, ****** slashed, crucified.
But I am not a Jew. Neither a Christian. Nor a Muslim.
Not a saint. Just a human.
Just a human. Not an Avenger or any superhero.
Can’t fly. No imaginary avian wings like those
of Caucasian angels. Not bat wings like those
of soot- or ember-colored devils. Outside an airplane
only my thoughts soar across the blue skies
and above the numerous species and varieties
of clouds. No cloudy mind.
Just a human. Blindfolded Science, not blind nor blinded,
called the species I belong to, just one, **** sapiens.
Wise human. Subspecies **** sapiens sapiens.
Wise, wise human. Made up of matter. That matters.
A lot. Matter not essence. Matter of fact. A living thing.
Not a germ nor a microbe nor a god but surely omnipresent.
Not a plant but may be green-minded. Needs plants.
Not a fungus but may be fungus-faced. Occasionally
attacked by the whitening, not by the illusion of being white,
but by blotching, thanks but no thanks to Tinea versicolor
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest I must.
Just a human. Classified as a hominid. A mammal. Highest
Form? Who said so? Aristotle? Highest? No! Form? Yes -
an animal. Not a microbe. Not a plant. Not a fungus.
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest, protest, I must.
Not a virus. Not white, not black, an Asian, a Filipino.
Not your virus. But like all humans, afraid, very much,
of the new coronavirus. But I am
Not the virus.
Afraid of coronaviruses, and all other deadly viruses,
because I am. Just a human.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Juliet love anew.
Let go of the ghost -
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
- pronounce them all dead.
Fight no more battles,
release strings so puppets
finish their dance.
Dismiss the actors,
set horses to pasture,
lower the curtains.
Ever-refreshed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stages.
Human suffering,
in concert - you won't miss it
- it comes to you.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 6:30 AM UTC