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"siphons" poems
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
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Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
END MONTHS CONSUMERISM
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
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30
There is a Cheshire cat with a nefarious nose ring Who lashes berating riddles, and vernacular that’ll make you cringe He slithers through abandoned shadows On dilapidated gravel, and bears a deathly sickle grin Enticing as he may be, he only wishes to deceive So be wary of his beguiles, they are hidden underneath his symmetrical smile Nor give in to the plastic prophecies he preaches Nothing he teaches will stitch meaning into your ambiguities For he enslaves your sorrows and siphons your dreams Leaving you asphyxiated in catatonic screams
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Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 11:26 PM UTC
Catatonic Cheshire Cat
Galloping through the apparently calm meadows, My springbok hoofs were touching the grass softly. How I rejoice hopping in the air above the cool moisty grass, Hopping feels so ecstatic after a cool shower on the rainy season. Maybe it's in the rain now that I feel so addicted to, but then I stop, And probably it's the Anaconda's coil that siphons up on me now.
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Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
The Siphoning
busy verbalizing my merchandise                                                               a display of teeth reefed behind my smile                                                       because merchandise is what i am after                           and The Revels watch over me                                 and laughter drains down through sewer grates i am watched over                                                                                           my potential client walks away                                                                      but returns again with queries                                                                        on this hot day                                                                                                  a smell like burnt hair raises from the gutters                                             and these are the streets that radiate                                                             on this hot day                     an honest clash and not some some touchy bout and here we are                                                               the costly coil of pushing business together ;                                               a lively thrive thrifty **** you"s and a dressing down        circling the other and striking their buttons                          interlaced within is a genuine pressing                toward each other goals   this partnership                                                                           swiftly made                                                               has an extreme edge and chaotic balance           the both of us must master or abandon our productivity              shall we be served by this union                                      or sever fighting ? unfit                                                                        it swerves and suffers a pity                   let's keep this one brief                                                      we manage business handshakes and scowl away with our wares each of us feeling equally scammed (we've made useful enemies at best) i break out laughing all the same-how and howl because i feel that feeling that this could go on forever and business has roots in all my moods i crouch at the curb        the curb is abrasive                              i sit i look at the dry heat radiating off the tarmac the slight greasy lime taste of the air passing the roof of my mouth the electric wires running hum into the buildings the storm drains at the edges of the roads where laughter siphons down to the magma of Hades it is waning off now                          and i feel vague i stand and i scan for more players i spot a vivid orange one one that i may barter their aura of vigour traded for my sketchy wares
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Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
t e e t h
busy verbalizing my merchandise                                                               a display of teeth reefed behind my smile                                                       because merchandise is what i am after                           and The Revels watch over me                                 and laughter drains down through sewer grates i am watched over                                                                                           my potential client walks away                                                                      but returns again with queries                                                                        on this hot day                                                                                                  a smell like burnt hair raises from the gutters                                             and these are the streets that radiate                                                             on this hot day                     an honest clash and not some some touchy bout and here we are                                                               the costly coil of pushing business together ;                                               a lively thrive thrifty **** you"s and a dressing down        circling the other and striking their buttons                          interlaced within is a genuine pressing                toward each other goals   this partnership                                                                           swiftly made                                                               has an extreme edge and chaotic balance           the both of us must master or abandon our productivity              shall we be served by this union                                      or sever fighting ? unfit                                                                        it swerves and suffers a pity                   let's keep this one brief                                                      we manage business handshakes and scowl away with our wares each of us feeling equally scammed (we've made useful enemies at best) i break out laughing all the same-how and howl because i feel that feeling that this could go on forever and business has roots in all my moods i crouch at the curb        the curb is abrasive                              i sit i look at the dry heat radiating off the tarmac the slight greasy lime taste of the air passing the roof of my mouth the electric wires running hum into the buildings the storm drains at the edges of the roads where laughter siphons down to the magma of Hades it is waning off now                          and i feel vague i stand and i scan for more players i spot a vivid orange one one that i may barter their aura of vigour traded for my sketchy wares
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53
What I love Is what everyone hates What brings me joy Siphons it from others The Music The Hobbies The Weather Irrelevant You don't care None of it matters The impenetrable social bubble Destroyed by one person You untouchable, immortal Yet fragile Benevolence My growing smile is proof There is still hope Against all odds A blessing A remedy for a bleeding soul For a broken world Perfection
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May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
Growing Smile
f this. and that. f the soul-sucking siphons. f the **** ******** on all the things. f the wretched that ravages souls. f plundering the vast unknown. f the broken that breaks us apart. f the pain that can’t find the exit door. f the non sequiturs that never stop. f all the thinks I'll never get to know. f the desert that evaporates technicolor dreams. f the reams of unsung ink. f getting up too early. f never enough sleep. f having no focus because mind is always trying to escape. f the architects of this unending industrialized violent puppet reality TV. f not having patience for utmost important because basic survival in this free range slave menagerie is just too overwhelming and chips away daily at already threadbare sanity. f the aches under these ribs always begging for more. f the abyss that eats cravings caved in for breakfast. f the knowing that knows how awesomely amazingly brilliant loving flipping mind-glowingly ecstatic and jovial like a MF this existence could be. it haunts me: iridescent reflective ascendant peacocked wings fluttering phoenixflies burst from ill-fit cocoons surfing air so ******* fresh even the Lorax ain’t got **** to say - he’s dancing with kombucha in one hand and a DMT pipe in the other at the festival called, I dunno, Just Because it’s ******* Monday and we could love and make and dream and play all day every day every year every life... and I look over at this giddy ****** epic little boy version of me and I think: **** I have to keep trying keep believing in the things because the thought of leaving him in this world, as-is without me is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to think
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Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
f
f this. and that. f the soul-sucking siphons. f the **** ******** on all the things. f the wretched that ravages souls. f plundering the vast unknown. f the broken that breaks us apart. f the pain that can’t find the exit door. f the non sequiturs that never stop. f all the thinks I'll never get to know. f the desert that evaporates technicolor dreams. f the reams of unsung ink. f getting up too early. f never enough sleep. f having no focus because mind is always trying to escape. f the architects of this unending industrialized violent puppet reality TV. f not having patience for utmost important because basic survival in this free range slave menagerie is just too overwhelming and chips away daily at already threadbare sanity. f the aches under these ribs always begging for more. f the abyss that eats cravings caved in for breakfast. f the knowing that knows how awesomely amazingly brilliant loving flipping mind-glowingly ecstatic and jovial like a MF this existence could be. it haunts me: iridescent reflective ascendant peacocked wings fluttering phoenixflies burst from ill-fit cocoons surfing air so ******* fresh even the Lorax ain’t got **** to say - he’s dancing with kombucha in one hand and a DMT pipe in the other at the festival called, I dunno, Just Because it’s ******* Monday and we could love and make and dream and play all day every day every year every life... and I look over at this giddy ****** epic little boy version of me and I think: **** I have to keep trying keep believing in the things because the thought of leaving him in this world, as-is without me is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to think
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35
I used to date a guy Who ****** a lot of people out of a lot of things, Who pretended to be an alcoholic Just because he was lonely And the AA people Had voices that spoke to him, Voices that weren't in his head. In Alcoholics Anonymous, They have a saying that "Fear" only stands for **** Everything And Run." This is a saying I wish that I knew When all those tacky neckties were holding me back. So it's needless to say That I didn't have the wise words Of AA on my mind As I studied the Big Book on my own. Instead I marched into his mind And flushed his month's "sobriety" token Down his mental ******* Because sobriety doesn't mean Stealing a bottle of wine from Jewel And finishing it off yourself. And I was used to getting lied to, But I felt bad for those poor AA guys, Listening to his ramblings on a girl Who loved him And wanted him to change When in reality She just wanted the lies to stop. They should have given that sobriety token To a man who earned it. Give your tokens To those who deserve them. Do not put your pennies in a piggy bank That only siphons down a gutter In the end.
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Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Fear **** Everything And Run)
Seldom though eventually His words will wash away The human mind's a yawning sieve That siphons thoughts away For all we are is flesh and blood And dust, in all due time His face embedded in my thoughts Will someday leave my mind. Each grain of sand; each thought of him Will slither down the glass Slow and steady, one by one Until he's in the past. For now my mind's a youthful cache, No wave can wear or wash Impressions left upon my soul Cannot be staved or quashed. -Un-rhymed Notes- *Every once in a while The human mind is all it's built up to be; A sieve, where the balm of time slowly mends and knits The torn edges of the chasm. Every once in a while It is as if the wound has healed And the flow of muscle memory Ripples beneath the unmarred surface*
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Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
The Mind is a Sieve
A coercive throat siphons the sky: delineating. Men of Normandy, your dulcet words still flow On aching gusts around these hillock ramparts. Autumns tapestry fell with Harold, listless it Furnishes the margin of an otherwise bleak-boughed Wood. An obstinate robin: the failing furnaces closing Ember, pursues the regressive winter light among the Limbs of a grand oak, laden with iron cloud, low And heavy. The thicket is sparse yet astir, two narrow Eyes, eight square, inky pupils squat below the Russet brow of a thrice augmented cottage: histories White-washed witness, bearing pale stone arms and a Jaunty red-bricked cap. ©Thomas Gabriel
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Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
January 21.
i am that spark that ignites your desire that which fuels your madness. i am the explosion of your senses the explicit insult to your feeble needs. of mind and body, result or not. i am the force within your planetary resolve not gravity. nothing of the kind. i am that which streaks in the sky a dying star, i am not. to feeble, i think. i am that which siphons your resistance the strength of a thousand black holes, i have. i am that which reasons with your soul for your body is too weak. i am that which is enthroned atop your passion its master and commander. i am the continuous peal of deafening thunder that plagues your wild fantasies. i am your fear you are at my mercy, i come when i please. i am the scandle of your life you dare not whisper of my existance. i am that unknown which you seek with feverish want. i am not yours to keep not yours to have. i am that which eludes you the fruit above Tantalus'head, the water at his feet. i am......... that which i will never know, that which you cannot know. for i am incomplete. and i am just beginning.............
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Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
i am
Amidst the vast blue planet Of what is sea and porous flesh The ***** rides the current At its hunger’s great expense When restless waters compose suppressing their distress With frail mouth tethered closed The swollen being is dismissed Lusting for substance Demure discarded for greed Heart and hooded nudibranch Unfasten their jaw to feed Opaque moon for a mouth Siphons water like blood Rhythmic pulsing of valves Gaping mouth left undone As time judges persistence Each beat echoes the ache The ***** too ravenous To hinder its weary gates Then the surface cast light To the starving and hollow Who proceed to ignite With the spark of each swallow
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Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
"Vital"
Sometimes Silence is a Lie. it drains the lake, it does... it siphons the symphonies. it bleaks the speech, unbridled from a long mute, to a mutiny. the mute in me ~ would rather, but we'd rather knot. null reprisals, highly prize super nova in the Scotia of our scathing plight. no other might. but... we'll do what the light won't in the dark night. we'll trouble the cube. each of us, the rube in tomorrow's **** the Thumb in the oyster of an ill quiet where the Lord of Prayers Errs the attempt to split Heirs. We inherit the wind and a breeze. And a breeze will **** a Windmill straight fair. but not for the lack of peace. but the fog of war. at the very least.
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May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Sometimes Silence Is A Lie
. Labyrinth in my head... Set in heavy stone. Brightens not, siphons instead. The dark gnawing at skin and bone. Labyrinth in my heart... Rerouting purpose and derailing reason. I'm together but pulled apart. I've won most days... But today I'm beaten. .
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Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 1:48 AM UTC
Labyrinth
Chums are settling in the back room of the Feast House ~ post and beam ember dreams gray fog fingers and draping fiords holding patron's gaze Dandan is nestled in a fireside chat (with a song from Jeremy playing from the high rafter) *sail east and greet the dawn young man, distant shores are converging* Old habits die hard for the Great Dane ~ whistling tunes in a somber minor, baritone sounds and orchestra strings rising from a distant, muted choir Ruby lips and finger tips scour the cockeyed soiree *the safe house is old and rendered, but well worth noting* Filling jars with pickled pears, the specialist weeds the white maggot and siphons his favoured grog "...shackle the outhouse my mates! the foreign scrum is bolting!"
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Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
The Feast House
Amidst the nightly dimness Branded by vicious lights, Minds rife with uncertainty Perch behind strange eyes. Foam and froth cushion doubts Of shadows further down. Tossing, turning, entwined; Cries against the dreary drizzle. Thoughts of daybreak vanish Upon night's nimble prowl. High above the goddess grins Veiled by velvet and dust As desire siphons, ****** and pins The embers of livened skin. Sheets of white glide underneath, Illuminated by tainted radiance ****** on unfamiliar tracks, Drowning in oceans uncharted, Knowing less of the world.
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Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
Night Drops
my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions Have of my memories My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another We are three generations eating dominoes pizza Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a, Well, Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940 My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat His mother died young Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children. Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers. “So you went and did it.” The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.
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Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
Father
my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions Have of my memories My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another We are three generations eating dominoes pizza Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a, Well, Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940 My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat His mother died young Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children. Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers. “So you went and did it.” The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.
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21
There is a string of things hung with ideas as clothes pins They take off the ideas and the string can't hold the thing Memories are strands that if you pull it will never stop unwinding The common person sees something in the little he won in life The rest are rather useful than pleasant Nobody received flowers or fame If you could see now I'm dying to drown in flames The love I've been placed through has to be the stuff of myth It seems to hold back until the graze The way it holds by taking The way you hold by cradling There's so much in me that you already know I have a bit of wrinkles and the acne scars too The whole of society sees me as living the dream But the parts of me that people think are hidden are on the internet See what the world knows I should be aware of all the rules I've broken to be here Then no purposeful ignorance can be said of me There has to be someone who can point out the crumb on my lower lip Rather than speak without the relevance of politeness There's something about the way you hold me That says you're trying me on There is no transaction taking place Treasure is most found on the map of my slow heartbeat The calm before the storm siphons its way into my blood cells Making me believe in the little I know as well You have to be well read to read someone else's biography You have no language if you only understand yourself Take a bit off
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Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Strip
The path of life slowly siphons me of my dreams, like a child ripped of innocents. Set with false expectations. lead into the dark with no light. Guided by stories of those who made it. Alone in the dark i am. fearing my surroundings. following the imprints of the past comers One institution at time, I follow. I follow for the ones who cannot travel this path, I follow for the ones who have failed on this path, I follow to leave additional tracks. As i get closer to the end of this vast darkness, the path begins to thin until there is nothing but a sliver to guide me. Fear fills me. I am lost. waiting to be found.
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Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Waiting To Be Found
Voie lactée ô sœur lumineuse Des blancs ruisseaux de Chanaan Et des corps blancs des amoureuses Nageurs morts suivrons-nous d'ahan Ton cours vers d'autres nébuleuses Les démons du hasard selon Le chant du firmament nous mènent A sons perdus leurs violons Font danser notre race humaine Sur la descente à reculons Destins destins impénétrables Rois secoués par la folie Et ces grelottantes étoiles De fausses femmes dans vos lits Aux déserts que l'histoire accable Luitpold le vieux prince régent Tuteur de deux royautés folles Sanglote-t-il en y songeant Quand vacillent les lucioles Mouches dorées de la Saint-Jean Près d'un château sans châtelaine La barque aux barcarols chantants Sur un lac blanc et sous l'haleine Des vents qui tremblent au printemps Voguait cygne mourant sirène Un jour le roi dans l'eau d'argent Se noya puis la bouche ouverte Il s'en revint en surnageant Sur la rive dormir inerte Face tournée au ciel changeant Juin ton soleil ardente lyre Brûle mes doigts endoloris Triste et mélodieux délire J'erre à travers mon beau Paris Sans avoir le cœur d'y mourir Les dimanches s'y éternisent Et les orgues de Barbarie Y sanglotent dans les cours grises Les fleurs aux balcons de Paris Penchent comme la tour de Pise Soirs de Paris ivres du gin Flambant de l'électricité Les tramways feux verts sur l'échine Musiquent au long des portées De rails leur folie de machines Les cafés gonflés de fumée Crient tout l'amour de leurs tziganes De tous leurs siphons enrhumés De leurs garçons vêtus d'un pagne Vers toi toi que j'ai tant aimée Moi qui sais des lais pour les reines Les complaintes de mes années Des hymnes d'esclave aux murènes La romance du mal aimé Et des chansons pour les sirènes.
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Voie lactée (2)
Voie lactée ô sœur lumineuse Des blancs ruisseaux de Chanaan Et des corps blancs des amoureuses Nageurs morts suivrons-nous d'ahan Ton cours vers d'autres nébuleuses Les démons du hasard selon Le chant du firmament nous mènent A sons perdus leurs violons Font danser notre race humaine Sur la descente à reculons Destins destins impénétrables Rois secoués par la folie Et ces grelottantes étoiles De fausses femmes dans vos lits Aux déserts que l'histoire accable Luitpold le vieux prince régent Tuteur de deux royautés folles Sanglote-t-il en y songeant Quand vacillent les lucioles Mouches dorées de la Saint-Jean Près d'un château sans châtelaine La barque aux barcarols chantants Sur un lac blanc et sous l'haleine Des vents qui tremblent au printemps Voguait cygne mourant sirène Un jour le roi dans l'eau d'argent Se noya puis la bouche ouverte Il s'en revint en surnageant Sur la rive dormir inerte Face tournée au ciel changeant Juin ton soleil ardente lyre Brûle mes doigts endoloris Triste et mélodieux délire J'erre à travers mon beau Paris Sans avoir le cœur d'y mourir Les dimanches s'y éternisent Et les orgues de Barbarie Y sanglotent dans les cours grises Les fleurs aux balcons de Paris Penchent comme la tour de Pise Soirs de Paris ivres du gin Flambant de l'électricité Les tramways feux verts sur l'échine Musiquent au long des portées De rails leur folie de machines Les cafés gonflés de fumée Crient tout l'amour de leurs tziganes De tous leurs siphons enrhumés De leurs garçons vêtus d'un pagne Vers toi toi que j'ai tant aimée Moi qui sais des lais pour les reines Les complaintes de mes années Des hymnes d'esclave aux murènes La romance du mal aimé Et des chansons pour les sirènes.
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55
Some lust driven, mechanical, force bit my heels with Her. A skeleton scatters digitally & opal curls fold and rally; like the ribbons I ripped off & fed to the floor boards, records gawk at the floral four chords. Corridors with meat lords & siphons at the doors of my poor endurance. Lather me in mollusc glue & beach chairs; I will win this war for you. Will the bulky books teach me more than the feverish looks? A question to a bronze haired child, transparent as the parents. Telescopic looking glass with the basket of the teeth we've lied through set aside where I reside: A coral cave with my liquid aluminum hunches. Playing chess in the nest that I built with spit & twigs from another clown with a different wig. The hippy who screamed at his flower. It was Halloween & the malt made me assault a Queen.
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Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Europa Quintuplets
I have been too long in the world. I am frayed at my edges chipped cracked and broken in places I have been too long in the world. Have listened too long to the THOU SHALT NOTs the I WANT IT ALL MY WAYs the IT'S MY RIGHTs and I have let them dry the lake of my soul with their drains and siphons I have been too long in the world. I shall use the golden joinery of the Japanese art to honor my frayed edges weave a golden, or silver, or platinum thread through them fill my cracks and broken places with lacquered metals I have been too long in the world. other edges, smashed to smithereens, will be left as they lay jutted, stiff while the softened, smashed powder from them I'll keep in a medicine bag and mix it, as needed, with my blood stirred into a salve, a queen of healing I have been too long in the world. my thousand-times-broken heart repaired and repaired and repaired and re-paired I will wrap like the gift it is with the gold of Love while laughter falls from it salve regina c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
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Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
salve regina
I don't know... Maybe it's cause, it's just one-of-those days. But I wanna just give it away... Maybe its because, Im a little-bit crazy... Lil-bit lazy. Or maybe... Its the story itself... LONGING TO BE FREE... from ME! HOW CAN IT BE? how?                 How can it be? That You would use me? (Back to the scene) There's a mighty regime "Illuminator" of darkened dreams The Mark is seen Then izzy starts to believe. He embarks on the waters streams "LIVING the dream" He siphons others, When well received. All he achieves, In just a few short weeks! Making artists of thieves. Conqueror of the disease, of the fruit of deciet. Not like art but of seeds, Planting memory trees In our children who need Us See Jesus.
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Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
the author of invention
it's ready to happen hours count down to launch, but the burners hum already the structure is taken up siphons slowly into the bloodstream the catalyst, the moment the agonist, the imitator the perceptual set is set, and it's famished not even lit, and it's waiting for more- the stimulant, the ignition the doctor, the system like inlets of blood, the freeways carry us to the city like carcinogens, like poison medication like aluminum, like exhaust i too am carried and when i reach that center i am deposited, and begin to take effect while i wait for my own poison to take hold of me blood within Blood and poison in Poison medication in Medication in MEDICATION we make sure all of our cancers are medicated it has happened already but i am waiting for it to happen again the freeway now quiets itself in anticipation a new day to repeat the city is ready for more
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Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
Hippocrates
As the sands of time Slowly slither, silently on As you try to grab a hold It siphons through your fingertips The harder you squeeze The faster the flow But when you open your hand Spread your fingers wide a small pile settles in the palm When you hold on It suffocates suddenly, simply still But loosen your grip And life flourishes as you will Change is the only constant Always remember the simple truth, that   people are in your life for three reasons: For a reason for a season or for a lifetime Each one as important as the other but none so important that you can't live without each one just a lesson learnt So be grateful for each moment well spent Because after all... All we ever seem to do is say goodbye
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Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
All we ever seem to do is say goodbye: