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Derek Yohn Sep 2013
The brambles in the emo forest
grow sharper with the passing days.
Three months deeper into the oatmeal
on the heels of the turtle goddess
and i am compelled to ignore the trees.
i have never been crazy about shrubbery,
being that the majority of my experience
has ended badly for the plant.

**** it.
It would appear that my green thumb *****.

My pillow is a poor substitute
for the warmth of sweatpants
or the comfort of your arms,
but i am locked into the devices
of another two year paper binge.
i would greatly prefer to be
static in my global positioning
as long as i can lose myself
swimming into the recesses of
your vibrant blue Oceania.
i want to hand you my eyes
so you can see my fixation on
the perspectives of action
and identify with my analysis
on the frailty of beauty,
intangible though it may be.

When i was weaker,
i appraised the value of
a man to be intrinsically
linked to the relation
between time and pride.
Driving a parallel path
to the stars, there is
only one thought:
Reality is like a dissected
frog: i poke and ****
and pull and poke and
probe and stare and ****
and pull but i still
can't figure out what all
those little tissues do
when they are turned on.

What if i want to taste the fruits of serendipitous fortune
or walk the garden path of chivalric sunshine?

If i could liquefy my soul,
i would pour you honey-laced
shots of my longing so that
when the darkness of the mid-week
slanders me you can touch
the sea spray of a wave
i have sent to wash away
the fears of circular evolution.

i want to build the hearth
where we can light the fire
of roundabout destiny and cook
the flesh from the slaughter
of our angry cows and bulls
so that we can incorporate
our weaknesses into our strengths.

i want to shape a necklace
out of my scar tissue
and wear it loudly so
that you can see the pain
that enables me to feel yours.

i want to finish my marathon
with my bag of bricks
because it is impossible to
truly win without the
burdens of justice and morality.

i've collected the screams
of my travels in a glass jar.
One day when the sun
struggles over the distant
cold horizon, i
plan to exact revenge
on the container and
make a concerted effort
to buy American.

In the hills above the
languishing sticks
i appear to have
dislodged a rock slide.
In my estimation,
the carnage will be
exquisite and swift.
If i survive the
judgement of guilt,
i can visit the friends
already lost to the
perpetual fires of the
sanctioning underbelly.

Why can't i take the
burgeoning petals of the
dark rose and elevate myself
above the sickness i have
seen in the eyes of my
accusers and those who would
trample the silly notions that
are all i have ever owned?

i feel that in the life i have witnessed
there are innate weaknesses in the
system i have supported.

In the instance given,
i have allowed myself
to be collared and
pent up by unspoken
deeds and words.
When my candles flicker
and reform, at least
i will be able to stand up
and clarify the point with
the authority inherently
granted to an elder whom
most ignore or ridicule in
the comfort of a happy living room.

i have seen hints of the futility of
nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs,
prepositions, and conjunctions
because they cannot begin to
express the vertigo i am cursed with
or the gravity that will not allow me to
escape unscathed.

i'm afraid that one day
my ink well will run dry
and my fingers will fuse
together and conspire to
undermine my sanity.

i fear the ticking of
my watch when i can
feel its echo deep inside
the canyons between
my synapses.

i cower and whimper
under the auspices of jest
when my soul is overrun
with desires that cannot
be slaked with water.

i want to detach my
aorta so that i will not
be bothered by the
binding of my skin
to the dry earth.

i need to hum the
melodies of aquatic repose
and bathe my wounded
feet in the streams that
flow to the cliff's edge.

When the time comes
for my foray
into the sublime,
i can fade away into
the arbor mist and
not feel the piercing gaze
i have become accustomed
to during this.

And for so long,
i have fed the horses
and watered the hedges
for everyone,
only to find that
all my livestock
dies within the
fences i have built
to protect the few
things left after
my tornado.

Approaching six full, and
i'm camped outside the
city gates and starving.

i puked when the moon
cycle shifted this time.

i thought that if i
sacrificed fuchsia to the
demon he would mistake
it for acquiescence, but
when the clock struck twelve
my pumpkin only rotted.

Why did you want to see the water?

i'm not going to buy
the dumb tourist act.
You knew the sand
was poisoned.

Nevertheless,
i am 3/5 of a man
when engulfed in
purple madness for
your affection.

the bells have fallen silent,
and i have seen your persuasion,
like an old silent movie.

What of your petty elucidations?
Can you teach me about destiny?
Do you have any watermelons?
If not, why not, or, even better,
who cares?

i don't think you have
seen my rose garden,
the thicket i entered
once to reenter time
and again, lonely and
bleeding, twisting and
turning, with no
right-hand-rule
to guide...

but this isn't your story anymore.
this is an old poem, but i like the narrative...i apologize for its length, i hope it is an easy read.  it was written over a twelve month period, and the course of my life dictated the course of the poem.  I will let the reader draw their own conclusions about that year....
Jackie G Aug 2018
Sin
Temptation at its finest
Bad decisions, like they're mindless
As i look at all the blindness
Living life like it's timeless
Some shout yolo, others think nobody could see them

If i were them I'd be COMBATING all those demons-even start praying more!!!
WE ARE NOT KIDS
THIS IS FOR REAL
THIS IS FOR SURE
Good intentions are always first
But next comes PAIN or should i say hurt
then your trapped doing dirt
Or should i say"pay backs"
Very unforgiving
Trapped in sin

Hurting no-one but self.
Trapped in sin
I wonder if they know
With pain comes power
But you hand it over
When you're trapped in sin

It's foul, it's *****, it's sneaky, it's deceiving, it's spiteful,it slanders
It's hurting others, it's nasty, it's unforgiving, it's lustful
It's sin!
Release yourself of it.
We are not perfect but we are able to become new and regenerated wash yourself of bad things in your life so you can get what your heart desires
Valentine Mbagu Dec 2015
Law,
All ye termites hacking ants are you without sin?
Twisting the law to your greed thus dethroning justice
Thou that dis-virgins the law to suit your selfish taste,
Did not equity say that none is above the law?
Money-thirsty vultures seeking positions to occupy.
Law hackers depriving justice and equity of her rights
Equity and justice now lives in shame of her virginity,
Almighty termite, do not your deeds speak evil of your sins?
I weep blood for justice and equity whose daughters you *****.
Is there none whose conscience still breathe or lives?
Power-driven termites making uncountable promises
Yet accomplishing none but your calculated interests.

Equity,
All ye leaders that preach peace, are you not corrupt minded?
En-slaving accounts meant for public welfare
Yet you claim to have the peoples interest in mind,
Did not the law command you to let equity and justice smile?
Parasitic predators hi-jacking the country's economy
Filthy termites proclaiming injustice upon powerless ants,
Justice hackers, do not your conscience judge your judgments?
I wish that you allow justice and equity have her way.
Law benders at whose feet equity and justice bow
Rippers of the law, at your hands justice is twisted,
Is your nature as humans so inhumane?
Little wonder the earth lives in fear of your tyranny.

Justice,
All ye slanders of the law, why not sheath your swords of corruption?
Your unchecked power has broken the wings of justice
Thereby making equity a widow without a husband,
Remember your oaths to serve with justice and equity;
Did you deceive the ants that voted you in to serve them?
Chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions
Woe betide your conscience for refusing to judge you,
Are you not guilty of molesting the law?
I mourn for the shameful death of equity and justice.
You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption
Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again,
And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.

Karma,
Murderers of the law, will you also bribe karma?
I doubt if you can buy the law of karma with money.
Thou whose gluttony corrupts justice and equity,
Don't you feel guilty that you disvirgined the law?
Equity and justice now roams about in nakedness,
You that preach the law, are you true to yourself?
Heartless spiders cob-webbing the law to entangle poor ants
Did not equity bid you come to justice with clean hands?
Yet with filthy garments you condemn innocent ants;
Mind you that someday the law will rise again.
All ye scavengers of justice and hackers of the law,
Do you think you can **** the law of Karma?
Injustice pronounced on helpless citizens who are powerless and without a voice.
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Tommy Smartarse hated smart arses . Especially intelligent smart arses. More specifically he despised the smart arses on the payroll of Narcissist Corp.

He loved to hear the sound of his own voice over the intercom.
'Mr. Tommy Smartarse will commence this afternoons meeting at three o'clock'.

If you weren't paying attention then you didn't get a second chance.
He had formally announced his agenda. End of.

No one though could miss that horrible whiny, nasal, asinine inflected,grating tone of voice.

His demeanour was reminiscent of a disgruntled hangman who had been informed of the abolishment of capital punishment.
The chalk white of his teeth were razor sharp and the gates that held back the venomous bile that swirled from his voluminous bowls.
A real nasty *******.

A swagger in his **** portending the arrival of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His office was a cesspool of debauchery and smelled like the disinfected wing of a fever hospital.

His eyes gleaned with the glint of a thousand mad *******.
A small weedy specimen with a comb over from hell.
'Satan's representative on Earth' he liked to refer to himself.
Foul over-tanned wrinkled skin hung from his face.
A flaccid face like a rhinoceros' **** on a sick day.

Abandoned by his mother, it was rumoured, in the back streets of
Peckham; adjacent to 'Nancy's bordello'.

No one dared mention his parentage or the orphanage which spat him out at fifteen years of age.

Yes, Tommy Smartarse came up the hard way and his brain was all he had going for him.

A cunning, devious, three faced pile of ****. All five foot four of him. His vocabulary was borrowed from old footage of Winston  Churchill and he fancied the British Bull Dog was a secret relative.
Tommy Smartarse was a fantasist  to match the best of them.
Delusions of world ******* percolated in his grey matter and instilled a false sense of unbridled confidence in his own abilities.

Some said Tommy Smartarse was devoid of any decent qualities and this was evident in his deplorable character.
A bully amongst bullies. A prize swine amongst pigs.
The slurs and slanders that rolled off his reptilian-like tongue were legendary.

Today though Tommy Smartarse would meet his nemesis.
A new recruit would attend the meeting.
A suave young man with an Oxford education and the artillery of a thousand cerebral Einsteins. A brilliant young man named Martin Christopher Savant.

Tommy Smartarse's life was about to be dismembered.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
The HUM-BUZZIN' 0f a newspaper flywheel-press
What jarred up BUZZIN' slanders will these stories hold?
On Newspaper traps where tortured minds are stuck and sold!
Where lowered human beings are treated less

On almost every city corner news is sought
Those ugly outhouse lookin' shacks disperse,
Smelly rotten things not found in beauty verse
The sensation of broken wing-ged offical caught

Garbage boy, toss my garbage at my door,
maggot level I will bend,
And claw-fetch the news of bitter end
And saaaavoooor the nasty things in store
A salute to my newspaper's sensationalism
And to myself for falling into their sticky
trap about Clinton but it didn't stick too long
Sharina Saad May 2013
This is the time of your life!
To do your deed to the country you love
For the promise of a prosperous land
A  brighter future for the nation
Our pledge for a credible leader
Guide the citizen with religion faith
Lead our life with nobility, integrity and honesty
In the present day, Future and the hereafter..
vote ! dont lose your voice
Dont you  keep your grievances at heart
Let your voice be heard...
So do not lose your vote... VOTE!
To win or to lose
To die or to live
Winning or losing is part and parcel
Of a COMPETITION...
Contestants please play fair
Voters stay calm and cool..
Try not to spread evil and hatred among us..
Leading us all to chaos..
Also Try not to remain silent
when given the right to choose
Play democracy! Play fair!
Chaos may end up bad..
If we do not maturely contest
For who’s wrong and who’s right...
Chaos may end up a disaster, a massacre...
Explainable chaotic phenomena
If we do not curb our lust for greed..
Campaign maturely for Malaysia..
We despise chaos and fights
Votes are the voices of people
Let us all do our bit to Malaysia
Stop this Chaos!!
Silence the words of slanders and hates...
5th May 2013 is General Election day for my country Malaysia...  Happy voting. may Allah guides us to choose the best leader to lead our beloved country Malaysia.
Sharina Saad May 2013
Your life is full of agony
A victim of slanders and hate
Accumulation of grievances
of years being shunned away
from your rightful position on the throne..
Cant blame you though
For your temptation to retaliate
Try to put my feet in your shoes
Cant imagine to be as strong as you
of the voices unheard
of the opportunities rejected
of the freedom denied
of the rights deprived
of the life laughed at
of the mental torture
of all the torments in your heart...
Do Revenge... I am with you
If you fall and fail
I am still here for you
to wipe all your sorrows away..
What does it mean to yield? How do I do it?

Do I have to stop,
or do I merge into what’s already flowing?

Do I just let God plant a seed in me and let it keep growing?

Or do I stop and see what’s coming, hoping I’ll make the right choice somehow?
What do I do God?
There’s so many things always pulling, I get lost and forget which way I was rowing.

But then I see your signs and remember that there’s something more worth yielding for.
Something more worth giving my life for.
I know the truths in me and I’ve found something worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.

but

I’ve never cried Lord, more than when I’m on the floor.
On my hands and knees begging you please to hear my pleas.
Because this world gets too heavy, and the burden doesn’t just hang on my back.

It slips in the cracks that have formed over time
because this broken soul tries to climb without a harness.
This broken soul tries to be someone he’s not.

Lies, steals, lusts,
but still gives it all he’s got.

This broken soul can’t carry the burdens of the world.

They’re too heavy to hold,
when the same hands and back back are trying to carry a sister who was addicted to crack, who’s marriage has fallen to pieces and she’s trying to stick them together and get it back
but she’s forgotten that you’re the thread that keeps it all together.

Without it, we’re dead.

This broken soul tries to hide the lust but whenever no one’s looking, he falls back into old habits and selfish desires that requires him to de-humanize women and see them only as things that bring him satisfaction.

There’s something so terribly wrong with that.

Something needs to change and fast.

And it’s this same mouth that lies and slanders because he wants people to like him and so he puts on another face in hopes to hide away the toxic black that builds up when he forgets to yield.

When I forget that there’s beauty in the brokenness.
When we finally come up and confess.
That we’re all a ****** broken mess.

and then we hope for more because we’re told to score.
but we never make the cut,
there’s few that do.
but when they’re through,
they’re broken too.

There’s beauty in the brokenness

Someone loves this broken mess.

We’re stuck safe in our heads,
at least, that’s what we think until it all caves in or someone breaks the code and walks right in.

Then we’re left lingering in a place we can’t escape, and we have to accept that it may
never
be
the same.

At some point we have to admit that we don’t have it all figured out, and listen to the cries of your heart.

Shout, let it out!

There’s beauty in the brokenness.

The one who loves that broken mess,
is the same one who can put it all back together.

He can make it better.
Heal the wounds that tear in rough weather.

He'll fix the locks,
reset the clocks
and turn back time to when your doors weren’t closed,
when do you suppose?
you’ll have enough strength,
enough courage
to last the length it takes to show that you have nothing?
it's takes everything
to show that you have nothing.

And realize that it’s when we show we’re broken,
share we share that token,
that we become everything he wants us to be.

When we finally yield,
slow down,
stop,
look around,
we’ll remember that we don’t actually need to go anywhere.
We don’t need to do anything.
Because no matter what you do,
where you go
or how many times you’ve fallen down
no matter how many times you’ve dirtied the gown

He loves these bruised

hurting,

damaged,

anxious,

depressed,

lustful,

brok­en messes

and nothing will change that.

No more, no less.

So, what does it mean to yield?
remember,
There's beauty in the brokenness.
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.
Fah Nov 2014
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep        to dream
within a dream                         the nightmare of a mother's fear

depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -

awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep      to dream
with a dream                           the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance

within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -

for birthing me
questioning                if it was the right decision

if I          was born to suffer
this fate

so i wake                  in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge

to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow

                       out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others    children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost                 looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you *******
you **** up at everything"

it's difficult to look               it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.

My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up

strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
- a meditation dream -
Frank Ruland Aug 2014
I close the door and lock it shut
I'm back in my silent spot
where the world outside is null
and once more rendered void.

Here, my walls are calmingly barren
the windows have been blacked out
the air feels quite fine on my face
and certainty is within grasp.

Quiet. My world as I know it is
soberingly serene and empty
of any and all interferences
I am free to breathe and be me.

I go to sit in my Quiet Chair
and, am surprised by the air
waves! They are starting to
ripple.  Dysfunction casted!

The floor above once more ignites.
"What in the **** is this ****?!"
The Demon shouts with calamity
ringing out vividly in its voice.

"God ******, **** my life!"
The Demon cries out in hysteria
it rampages, slinging profanities
and slanders in blurred hysteria.

All too well I know the Demon's rants
I quickly take my stand and rise up!
I bang on the ceiling with my broomstick
hoping to silence the dastardly devil.

Bang, bang! The broomstick booms,
cracking the ceiling, sending sharp
warnings of my agitation upstairs
Its relegations I cannot bear.

And then, a moment of silence
I pause my retaliations and lie
quiet. I stand still and wonder,
"Could it have been that easy?"

"Just WHO in the **** are you?!
You insignificant piece-of-****,
WHO are you to try to silence this?
Shut up, and let me do what I do!"

The Demon goes back to its rant
too many nights I've been kept awake
incessant, worthless ramblings
only have served to make me break.

I take a deep breath and exhale
I cannot deal with the Demon
nor its continuing condemnations
no matter how cheap the rent.

BANG BANG, my broomstick booms
I must quiet the callous ******
this is my apartment as much as its
WHO am I to put up with its fits?

"God ****** boy, now that's it
I ain't got patience for your ****
I'm coming down to quiet you
Soon, you'll let me do what I do!"

There I stand as the Demon descends
I drop my broomstick and prepare
listening to its heavy footsteps rain down
thud, Thud, THUD, THUD, THUD!

The Demon's standing at my door
I hear it breathing its heavy breaths
waiting for me to face my fears
something I've yet to do before.

With a shaky hand and labored pulse
I slowly go and unlock my deadbolt
it takes all the strength I can muster
unsurely, my fingers find the handle...

I swing the door open in a flash
the handle hits the drywall with a crack
the Demon stands before me
my face begins to go flush.

In front of me is an age-old mirror
displaying my own reflection
I had always somewhat suspected
but couldn't bring myself to believe.

I close the door just as quickly
the deadbolt is locked once more
I return to darkened room
huddled, in the corner shaking.

"Madness is your master-- can't you tell?
At least I was a ******' angel before I fell!
This is your Hell! THIS IS YOUR HELL!"
... And my Demon's rant begins once more.
Oran Gutan Dec 2012
what is a telescope
-a tyrannosaurus skeleton
-a reluctant birthright
what are *****
-a state line
-an obsolete receipt
what is a wave
-grandmother says: she will never forget as long as she lives
-a forest trail in thick fog
what is sea sick
-he ran over a dog
-wettest March of the century
what is an hour
-no smoking allowed
-the fuming face of a buffalo
what is sunburn
-inedible black toast
-I think she slanders me
what is wine
-overnight contact lens solution
-a humble canal
what is a mirror
(child | beluga)
~(ham):o + ¥ineapple
what is travel
-a last minute thing
-warmth within a windshield
what is revision
-a slow explode
-milk in coffee
what is antacid/calcium supplement
-a bottle cap
-handy clutter
what is a fist
-something to try eating when in circles
-flour, 1-to-20 eggs, some ennui, expiration dates
what is a sigh
-a fresh seismograph sheet
-sound mechanical in early morning
what is skin
-a shoelace
-child labor
what is a workshop
-scalpels, piñata bats
-a lunar module
what is that shiny dead thing in the green eyed river
-New Year’s Eve ball drop
-otherworldly return to beginning
Arlo Disarray Jan 2016
I remember grey clouds on a Wednesday, sitting on the hood of your car
with fingers tightly wound together
and watching the sun get absorbed by the hills

I remember kisses on my eyelids in the mornings
when you thought I was still asleep
but I was only pretending
just to get those kisses

I recall a rainy day in August
when we were walking in the fog,
shoes sopping wet, both of us lost
not just in the mist
but in each other

I loved our laughter on the pillow
right after we'd rolled around a bit before
And I remember tears collecting on your chest from the happiest moment I'd ever experienced
Something so good that I cried from being so happy

I miss the fights we'd have where we were screaming horrible slanders at each other
Because when they were over, it was always that much better to have you in my arms again

My heart feels so much lighter
and smaller
ever since all those nows became yesterdays
Carly Two Oct 2012
I'm sorry everything I did was just sweet way to make you leave,
surfing on waves made of maybe I'll kiss you again
getting high off disappointment without knowing that's really how all those movies end.
And all you wanted was my heart on a plate
and baby, maybe I said no,
but I'm still bleedin' from the hole.

And I backtrack all the slanders for the moments you got me to believe in you.

I may have made up a lot of dumb excuses
but they were exclusively to your benefit.
Copyright, C. Heiser 2012
I am a practitioner of madness this month
so bless your bravery to vex me
if you want to see intellectual slaughter
it will be a gift and pleasure for me
more the better, for fear I do not have
not in this month of madness

Come swine drink my vintage wine
it maybe warm but I know you like it
then like a ***** give me more
of your unfounded slanders you *******
come dine with me
in my month of madness


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Frank Ruland Apr 2014
How did I wind up in this most virulent of places?
Surrounded on all sides by my own starved personas?
The echoes of their disbelief off in the distance.
Emaciated shapes with sunken stomachs,
Silhouettes of misshapen mandibles and jagged fangs,
and sinuous, slavering, lolling tongues.

A brutal dreamscape polluted with forgotten philosophies,
effigies of a man whose doors are barred with spite,
smoldering craters, teeming with rage and deprivation.
toppled pillars erected from the testaments of Old Gods--
all blanketed with ash from the burning skies looking over.

Barren, skeletal trees with gnarled, pitted limbs--
their roots, bloodied; constricting coffins below.
squeezing the death out of those with nothing to lose.
The names of slaves carved into their bark,
and strange, odious fruit hanging from barbed wire.

In the distance, a temple of blackened marble
built by the ******, liars, deserters and cheats.
Founded on apathy, mistrust, selfishness, and deceit.
A temple for the proud faultless masses to migrate,
and headstones for them to lay their heretic heads.

After their Last Supper in these cold corridors of contempt,
the sloths slack off, slinging slanders and sacrilege
of the ones who put everything before them.
Their wrathful caterers listen through the walls,
howling obscenities and sharpening their bloodstained knives
in preperstion for the next, barbaric banquet.

And behind our towering temple, lies the desecrated cemetery
where gravediggers beckon passer-bys with their skulduggery.
Their promises of an existence where you're always six feet away
from anything and everything that spurns your spine;
separated by a panel of mahogany and a ton of terra firma.

My follies force me to forgo fate and follow the fellow.
Led to a tomb where transgressions transcend time and tolerance.
On the borderline of  the ethereal and surreal,
where the air is thick with the impending sense of antipathy.
The light is stolen away; I'm forced in to a coffin--
I scream and claw, but the coffin's nailed shut.

And then I come to-- drenched in cold sweat.
The familiarity of my surroundings slowly sinks in:
bed, blanket, nightstand, half a bottle and my medication,
"*******."
It had a been just a dream, much to my regret.
Josh Whitton Mar 2013
I do not stand alone,
Thinking that in this world,
There is something unknown.

Unknown is the reason for greed,
For wealth and harboring, A ******,
A sickness untreated to allow innocence to bleed.

Unknown is the reason for racism,
Spoken slanders and propaganda's,
Media's misguided music to masses for totalitarianism.

Unknown is the need to be accepted,
A collection of emotions to be displayed,
Not being ourselves - The worst, portrayed.

I need not know a lot for I know this,
That love overcomes all and ties us together,
In an intercontinental consciousness.

I know this because walls have been brought down,
Children play where none were once found,
People still rejoice in helping, healing and sound.

I need not know a lot because this, I have found.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
the comatose day slanders the "preoccupied"
with its images

dying children mar the moonlight's release
(the awakening lovers that  we all want)

our culture ....is
a petrified forest!

producing but this!
villified psuedo-leaders!

but
i am the master here!
soon you'll be gone!

as
the vestigial hints of a
slandered humanity soon fade

the dying children
stream down from
the moonlight's lovliness

and undresses us of fearfulness
and places around us
aura's deep and true colors
and dreams

WE BELIEVE!
and live
WE BELIEVE!
and forgive
WE BELIEVE!
and rise

true again in our own eyes

and

true again in eachother's lives
SeyiEagle Mar 2016
When wave of trouble batter too harshly,
And life's fortune refuses its smile.
There is a place I love to be
When the road to stardom seems endless,
With all efforts but yet fruitless.
There is a place I love to be
When life's puzzles is so scrambled,
And the solution is far reachable.
There is a place I love to be
When the turbulence abound in drill
And I seek to get out, to leave and be free.
There is a place I love to be


When best friends turns foes
When my trust makes me fool,
There is a place I love to be.
When brothers i dear
Brings me slanders i bear
There is a place I love to be.
When all hope are betrayed,
And the once caring arm elbow me away
There is a place I love to be.
When my sins seems unforgivable,
And no one else I could cuddle,
There is a place I love to be

A place that promises no stress and worry,
A place often hard to find,
Buried in the garden of luck.
A place cool, calm And soothing
And its warmth comfort me on every side.
I could lay all day long,
'cause in there I often found solace.
In your Arm, a place to be
Aaron Tangkengko Jun 2014
The Underground Man

“By the way, what does a decent chap talk about with  greatest possible pleasure?
Answer: about himself.”

Note one: On the Circus.

Lies are cars, I tell you, pummeling through the freeways of smiling faces and charmed ears.
Spitting smoke in my eyes. Despite this clear fact, honesty is *****.
I turn on the TV, I choke on the noxious laughing gases of the permanently paradoxical world.
******* smells of roses. We’re wooed by the scent of scandalous roses.
******* is a beautiful bouquet beating on so many dead horses. A million bouquet armed gadflies
Stinging the horse. Grating her with their stems and thorns.
Our lips contracts as sphincters in a never dead language, a romance language

L’amour du merde.

The air smells of rosebuds and vanilla candles, and I break into ulcers.

They sing the sugar songs. Muddled by the sound of a flock, imitating a fog-horn blaring in the mist of song. Speaking openly is **** and the **** clinch tightly to keep it in.
But we dance with bouquets reeking of peppermint, gumdrops and bon bons, smiling with courtesy, modernizing a Victorian cordiality
A half-made smile. Fetal. Sloppily pasted. Circus clown faces hysterically melting under the intensity of the honest moment.
It is truth: Half of the single human life is spent taking part in the most pornographic reality we can conceive, while the other half is a mask pretending we don’t grab the ***.

Note Two: We are an aftertaste.

Some days I feel ugly to the world. I justify these sensations by the believing the world to be ugly to me in return. So the world and I glare at one another in a staring contest between two ugly wounds. We’re really quite eager to bark the last word in a garbled string of language.

BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!!

Going on in the nights where my eyes are wracked by the tired pins and needles of insomnia.
My heart rate jumps to the skipping rope turned by anxiety and exertion.
Muscles are stretched thin and I’m no more fluid and wanted than old Play-Doh left to cringe in the sun.

Then the red glow of alarm clocks shriek at me to lie in sleep.

I’m a hammer split against a wall stored in a shanty hovel pooling of novels and slanders hissed through grit teeth and clenched jaws wading through this growing cesspool where I hiss and hiss as a coiled snake residing in these hidden underground passages.

I will be vile because the world is vile. And I will be beautiful for the world is beautiful. Humanity is the manticore. A Monster consisting of a million realities. A colour palette of melting hues and every person wants to say we’re pink, red, or green. We’re a mysterious aftertaste, left lingering in the back of nature’s tongue. A platypus walking on two legs. A monster with eyes leaking ****, with irises more alluring than Shakespearean Sonnets. An Angel with a lyre belting out the best of Bob Dylan. A mother leaving her newborn to rot in a dumpster.
And a doctor saying he ain’t gonna make it. Mama’***** the bottle cuz’ daddy’s comin home and daddy’s hittin’ mommy because look at what she made him do.

Humanity is a manticore. He gnashes her teeth at coiled snakes. He wants to swallow its eggs.
A bank machine to wallets, and creditors to pockets.
She’s crude and cold. He has eyes of atomic flashes, roar that wails an echoing wail of lives spent sighing behind a monitor. Tragedies piling into transcendence, gripping onto God with heads packed into ovens and daughter swallowing one pill too many.
Of wedding bells and birthday parties and strawberry shortcake and the hope we’ll just get together and feel all right. He has an underbelly glistening of ivory white, and she’s brimming with dreams filling with the hope of seeing Xanadu. A belly of ecstasy and climaxes of the most ruthless sort to glisten to the light of ****** that embers the night towards the ecstatic scent of chemical mornings.


The gravedigger.
I am the world’s gravedigger
Burying the world
In the needless disgust
Of a muscular mind, armed with an atrophied hand.
itsmecastiel Jul 2018
I hear the voices behind me calling my name.
I turn to look, but the voices vanish.

I hear the voices when I walk through the canteen for lunch.
But I never ever find the source.

Do you want to know what I hear?

I hear the secrets I've told one person.
I hear the embarrassment I've put on myself.
I hear the pain and suffering I've had to deal with.
I hear my name slandered every turn I make.

But the worst of it all, I've heard that it all came from you.
You talk to me like a friend,
But in reality, behind my back -

You're a monster waiting to devour me.
A monster who slanders my name.
A monster who spreads my secrets.
A monster who I thought was my FRIEND turns out to be the same person stabbing me in the back.

What have I ever done to you to deserve such treatment?

I am cross with you,
but I won't fight back.
Because when I do, I'd be the very monster that you are.

Tell me more, tell me more.
Tell me more of your lies.
Lie to my face and say it with a coy smile.

In the end of the day, you are nothing but an insecure little child who needs attention.

I will no longer give you that attention.
Lie to me some more,
I'll hear you, but never listen.
Frank Ruland Jul 2014
Brothers and sisters, who are you to be disallowed your hearts, voices and minds? Who are they to dilute your lives with their blasphemy and lies? Cast down your oppressors! Cast out their slanders! Breathe in new life and exhale their blight! Devils are among us, and they wish to lead our flock astray! The Seven Circles await those who aren't willing to pry the usurpers' fingers from our riddled veins! They want what's  left of our sanity, hope and grace! They care only about themselves saving face! They are the starved, parasitic and greedy demons aplenty! We are the few, subservient souls they so seek to frenzy! So I say to you, my brethren, rise up! RISE UP! Raise your fists! Your fingers! Voice your hatred! Let the anger flow through you like a tsunami through a city! Take your dependencies and cast them back unto your tormentors like stones! Politicians, idols, false  prophets and acrimonious angels alike! Show them no mercy, just as they have shown you! This is the way to redemption! This is the start of the Rapture! I ask: can you open your eyes? Can you realize yourselves, your own lives? Can you come to understand all they have wrong, and how you can make it right? I say unto you, dare, decide, do! Do this now, before they do it to you!
dreadfulmind Nov 2013
If you are hurt or betrayed, If you are hurt by people, who share the same blood as you. Remember Yussuf A.S, who was betrayed by his own brothers.

If you find your parents opposing you. Remember Ibrahim A.S, whose father led him to the fire.

If you are stuck with a problem where there's no way out. Remember Yunnus A.S stuck in the belly of a whale.

If you are ill and your body cries with a pain, remember Ayyub A.S who was more ill than you.

If someone slanders you. Remember Aishah A.S who was slandered throughout the city.

If you are lonely. Recall Adam A.S who was created alone.

If you cannot see any logic around you. Think of Nuh A.S who built an ark without questioning.

If you are mocked by your own relatives. Think of Nabi Muhammad S.A.W.

**Can't you see how wonderful our Nabi is and their stories. Islam is indeed beautiful and perfect!
Jewel Jan 2019
Jenny





Jenny, oh dear Jenny,
Gone forever
Still I wonder what could've been your life given over
and how times will your disease take another.
Posing with a smile full of cheeks last I saw her.

Eight days before, you ate so poor
Picture requests came in more and more
Watching every meal gram
Had to look right for Instagram
Had to get the comments yelling, Jenny ****!
Gotta to have the likes and the views
No harm but fun in making them drool
Loving the way they cyber worship you


She's only a baby but that's not how they saw her
Ever showing off the many contours of her body
So the many names they had for our Jenny.
The many predators adoring her daily
Always in the chat list
Begging for more than a kiss.
All they had to do was ask and she happily gave
You would call her fast but I saw an Image slave.

Picture after picture never fully pleased
Illegal nip and tucks were the only means
To get the look she desperately wanted to achieve.
Make me to die for
She went and said at death's door
That was her last smile
Didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye

Under twenty and gone already,
She's only a baby, yet heaven is ready.


Jenny if I told you would you actually believe
You're apart us all, even me
All slanders made on you really hide that truth
We go around and around in deja vu
Obsession for perfection is no longer fiction
Though we don’t treat it as the worst form of temptation
Just be quiet, wait, be patient for a next self destruction
Now fingers pointing at Jenny’s pretty picture
Forget the doctor
That’s who we'll blame.
Ladies and gentlemen,
Welcome to society's wicked game.
I welcome feedback guys!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
that was my pet name, a love's long lost word
of infuriating apathy against grey public passerby materials:
simply that: kakasha - or little ****, or mouse ****,
or rodent shrapnel - i guess me being a Pole
and she being a Russian would have never worked out -
i don't actually know what was expected of me, an English girl?
n'ah, wouldn't have worked with the master slave antics -
a Polish girl? **** me, no! well, it just ended up being
a love for the people... which is a lot and nothing at all
come to think of it... whenever i said Cyrillic
was the new Greek i was right... shame though,
i could have had a marriage correct my deviant bachelor years...
i would't have written anything at all...
and it would all seem like the perfection of life: problem here,
problem there... but that's all i remember
from the days when youth allowed  my body to be buff and me
staging  a dumb way out of having a body of a model,
but hardly the vacancy to accept it... god it takes such a
large chunk of manoeuvring a Zeppelin
to land a paper aeroplane equivalent -
               i just didn't have the vacancy
to keep at the gym routine...
         went back to the bloated lamb belly,
and felt all the better for it....
                 starting drinking professionally -
because soberness was  a bit of wasteland -
nice name, that lover's pet name: kakasha:
or little ****, or mice pebbles, don't you think?
sometimes that's what's needed to
strengthen the memory, when memory
overpowers imagination,
it's not a case of lingering on the past,
utilise phonetic encoding well enough
and the symbols reveal a lacking need to
move forward and take into consideration
triangles and squares...
          images...
      you just forget about the future...
you're not stuck in the past,
        it's just about how everything's encoded
and where you place your primers -
        but of course i'm not nostalgic
as in hoping for a revision or a revival:
i just mean: it actually happened,
i can't reverse it from having happened -
what i can do is treat memory as the most
private event of cinematography -
nothing the forward looking imagination
might breed - what imagination lacks is the
fact that symbols can't change... they remain
intact... all imagination can do
is use the same symbols of encoding that
memory otherwise decodes, unravels and
makes desecration of... imagination is politically
correct by comparison... memory really does
become the perfect cinema, provided there's
a life worthy of cinema, however simple...
i know i bankrupted on imaging things as
they'll never be... but memory?
i already knew they happened - hence
the counter-imaginative response:
memory, alter-cinema -
                     which, in another framework of
sentences is a second rebellion,
counter teeny winy annie mo - of how they
framework educational models,
stuffing our imagination with fall-safe mechanisation
of know techniques: akin to arithmetic -
and how we were taught to remember what
would readily become forgotten come the next year...
                   of what i understand:
i think             i imagine                 i remember
                   precipitates into           being
                     - thus the three prime faculties
  and akin to the rules of prime numbers:
               no positive divisor greater than 1 or the
           stated faculty per se-
      later she slanders me with the nouns schizoid
and autistic: because we didn't have the picnic
  and didn't raise a family... a lonely world indeed.
i feel: and indeed the many loves, and failings of
    the heart's housekeeping standards -
             after that it just becomes a guess-work
   pattern of competition and incompetence -
                    or how language can become anti-journalistic,
  as it often does, it never is a scenario of
             Wednesday, 6th of July 2016 a.d.
                                        and credits akin to a movie:
             like you'll never talk to the background of things
and the people who move them while you pay the tax.
right now i have a 9kg Maine **** cat trying to
escape the house during the night, a cat turned
Pavarotti - meow meow, meow ******* meow,
meow meow... Lombroso should be near... this
is really starting to bug me... he might have a case
about a cat that never shut up and the person that
strangled it...
               so, indeed, three basic faculties of the mind...
i kept them as: imagination, thinking, memorisation...
                which means i went against the
Cartesian model of denial thought and doubt -
because i found them too emotionally entwined,
and therefore less puritan in consideration -
            and also less scholastic by the looks of it -
exams...                     for me the three prime
faculties are imagination, thought and memory...
they're antidotes of what later became the existential
revision of the Cartesian inspection: how
                              namely the notion of denial
as the antidote to good faith (doubt) - i just didn't
like the kindergarten of adults playing childish games.
ajit peter Sep 2016
A tribute to a master

Auguries of Innocence
By William Blake

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thr' all its regions
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear
A Skylark wounded in the wing
A Cherubim does cease to sing
The Game **** clipd & armd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright
Every Wolfs & Lions howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul
The wild deer, wandring here & there
Keeps the Human Soul from Care
The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers knife
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity
He who torments the Chafers Sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief
**** not the Moth nor Butterfly
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar
The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat
The Gnat that sings his Summers Song
Poison gets from Slanders tongue
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envys Foot
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A Truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the soul divine
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made & Born were hands
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity
This is caught by Females bright
And returnd to its own delight
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of Death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands
Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole Nation sell & buy
He who mocks the Infants Faith
Shall be mockd in Age & Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death
The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons
The Questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to Reply
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown
Nought can Deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply
The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will neer Believe do what you Please
If the Sun & Moon should Doubt
Theyd immediately Go out
To be in a Passion you Good may Do
But no Good if a Passion is in you
The ***** & Gambler by the State
Licencd build that Nations Fate
The Harlots cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse
Dance before dead Englands Hearse
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day
Let me squeeze life out of thy hand
And watch thou cry in duly pain
Writhe in agony whine in vain
While thy soul just begins to drain

Let me breathe in all thy last strokes
Before thy voice ends in one choke
Write the last poem 'fore comes the night
While thy last glance slanders the light

Let me put an end to thy love
To this eloquent morning dove
Let me have it before thou die
So that I have to no more lie

Let me kiss thee just here and now
Say my last words and denied vow
Love that I but hid in despair
Love that filled my life warmed my air

Let me caress thy cheek once more
My sole indulgence my chest's core
Let me hear but thy last joke since
My heart's darling, my flawless prince

Let me cherish just this last glee
Hug thee beforeth thy soul goes free
Recall our chats and old songs
Love poems that have been burnt for long

And just now before thou depart
For thou'rt the kingdom of my heart
Though thou would never be with me
I love thee, I love only thee.
PK Wakefield Jul 2010
h
the night came a lady,
swooning her opalescent skirt
on the vertebrae of the earth!
and the shingles of stars were
crusted on the velvet belly of her
thighs) between
              whom
              is
the fragrant notch of dawn;
a babe waiting crimson skin
to wail softly in the crevice of
darkness and come immortally
dieing every eve. resurrected
in her womb who did slay him.
anon the coming morn.

but should
i have a say i would say i love her more.
the night. she slanders upon and kisses
my tepid flesh, inviting my eyes to
glaze her still frame. she doth love
me well. and i too do love her. the angles
of her skin. and her cool hair. stretching
or whispered. an arch tremulously. desiring
my fingers.

she is wet. the night. hither little magic. i will love you.
Oberon Feb 2015
x
the foolish thing about me is that
even in the most starless of nights
i swear i see your face in the sky
thin contrails define the contours of
your face and the faint luster of
the quarter-moon is
your sirenic beam
illuminating

my lonely castles in the air
this solitary heart of mine
can't bear to scatter the stones
for my feeble soul will only gather
each and every last one splintered
my fingertips under your vicious spell
like in a catalepsy i cannot depart will build
myriad statues; columns of tributes chastely paid

down to your fangs crooked, eyes black,
hair crimson gossamer, $2 acid green leather shoes
and cigarette fixed between ghastly ripe lips
uttered infinite slanders and sins then
the swan song sang way too soon
i am tethered to your morbid grandeur
prisoned by your hard-bitten disposition
such enticing torment i revel in
i hate this poem.
Alexander Isaiah Jan 2015
I proclaim myself as a strong individual,
Someone who has battled long and hard to be standing here today.
You all see a boy with a strange personality,
Quirky and fun.
but I see a boy with scars- inside and out.
I see a boy who has lived a rough life, one not to remember.
A novel where the chapters seem to get longer and longer,
and I’m just sitting here; typing away.
I see a boy who has been ravished left and right,
Being held down by strings and torment.
Touched by the cold-bitter hands,
Taught that my lifestyle is against Will,
Treated like a grain of sand caught under life's shoe.
I see a boy who has fought back from rubble,
to escape from the rumors and voices that were placed in my “narrow” head
Shadowed under alcohol, knives, and inner-depression,
Chased under the slanders of "You’re not good enough."
Then those who speak, “It'll get better.”
I see a boy who is confused about what his true intentions are,
Being marked as different, being marked as the same.
I see a boy who is confused, who walks the halls and runs miles,
with a fake smile and a pumped up chest.
Just like the man who took advantage of me.
Just like the man who follows me till this day.
I see a boy who stands here today with these battled scars,
who just tries over and over again,
but can never get fulfillment with this audience
With these people I call my friends.
I see a boy who is tired.
A boy who is bruised, shamed, constricted and marbleized
Into what you may ask?
This boy has no idea himself.
Tyler Zempel Dec 2018
The Historian

Rain falls steadily, wind torments the trees, thunder cracks the sky and lightening dancing paints the earth as I pull up and park outside of my boss’s home.
Tonight, is not a good night to be caught outside on a roam.
A positive note, my boss’s house has a front door made out of chrome.
His front yard is littered with creepy gnomes.

My wife gives me a look wondering why we are here and questioning my sanity.
I reassure her my boss is a good man and has a heart filled with love by Christianity.
She tells me believing in a mystical being is a form of insanity.
I tell her to stop with the blasphemy,
my boss is a good man whom has never uttered a single profanity.
My boss is better than both of us single handily.
Three months ago, he hired me into his company after a long period of unemployment and has ever since treated me like family.
He has exceeded all of my former bosses combined actually.
My wife has no need to worry, she needs to get over the delusional fantasy
she’s playing over and over again in her head callously.

I walk with my wife hand in hand up to the front door and knock.
My wife frowns at me and tells me we don’t belong on this block.
My boss invited us for dinner, we won’t be turning that down,
besides, he’s the only person I can truly call a friend in this town.
He picked me up from the ashes and filled my life with hope.
A few more days of struggle and hardship and I’m afraid you would have found me hanging from a rope.
This man saved my life in my most dire time of need.
We owe him more than we can ever pay, even if my wife may not agree.

My boss answers the door with a friendly hello and a warm smile.
I look at my wife and smile to show her she has no reason to be hostile.
***** needs to loosen up and enjoy the night,
but she’s put off by the fact that we are people of color and my boss is white.
Racist ******* she needs to get over because there is no place for it here,
or I will pierce her heart and soul with a slanders venom laced spear.

We walk inside where I immediately notice a large collection of historical artifacts.
Based on the outside, I was expecting an interior with a bit more pomp and circumstance.
Old flags and pictures line the interior.
Still, my home feels rather inferior.

“Thank you for coming tonight Antonio.
Dinner will be ready shortly.
If you don’t mind, allow me to show you a couple rooms of my beautiful home.
Outside of work, things work a little differently deep down in my dome.
I’m an history fanatic and have a large collection of historical artifacts.
My collection is so massive I often feel like I’ve gone slightly manic.
Here, follow me and I’ll give you a brief tour of a couple rooms.
I promise these rooms are fun to be in and are nothing like a tomb.”

We walk into a room where I discover it contains a large collection of American Revolutionary War artifacts.
They are many pictures hanging on the wall, each with a plague underneath it explaining some facts.
George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson,
Benjamin Franklin,
John Adams,
Thomas Hutchinson
Joseph Brant,
along with Thomas Paine and his common sense.
There are old fire arms, books, clothing and flags.
I’m sure all of these items costed a pretty little price tag.

I exit the room and walk into the next room to discover…
A **** themed room and dedication to the holocaust.
My wife walks in behind me, I can feel her heart skip a few beats.
She stares at me and gives me a glare that’s not so nice.
There is a large picture of Adolf ****** hanging on the wall.
I swallow my spit, take a deep breath as my nerves act up and fear begins to crawl
up my spinal cord.
There are many more rooms left in this house, but after this room I no longer feel a need to explore.
Multiple **** flags pollute the room.
This room is a lot to take in and consume.
My boss (Nathan Kline) has written speeches of Adolf ****** framed and hung on the wall.
I’m not sure how anyone would react to this room except with appall.

“Antonio, I see you found my **** artifact room.
The look on your face is concerning to me and I admit that this room can be a lot to consume,
but it’s not to be taken in a negative way.
I’m a history nut, both good history and the bad, what else can I say?
What the ****’s and ****** did were terrible and beyond words and this room is not to honor them.
This room is to preserve this part of our history, as bad as it is, so we learn from it and don’t make the same mistake ever again, that’s the place of my heart this room is coming from.
Listen, you guys must be starving, what do you say we go eat some delicious food and talk about some brighter topics?
Maybe you can tell me about some of your interests and hobbies and teach me about a topic in which I’m a novice.”
My wife looks at me, a fire burning in her eyes.
Once we leave here, she’s either going to rip me apart or break down and cry.
She forces a smile, grabs my arm and tells me it’s time to join our host for dinner.
She knows how to hide displeasure and fake kindness, she’s no beginner.

We follow Nathan to the dining room to discover an older gentleman already seated at the table.
He radiates a warm smile in our direction, he seems rather graceful.

“Antonio, Katrina, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to world renowned neurosurgeon, Dr. James Allen Blake.
I invited him here tonight to enjoy this wonderful feast we are about to share that’s center pieced by a one of a kind steak.
Dr. Blake and I have been friends for many years.
He knows all of my darkest secrets, all of my loves and fears.”

“Antonio, Katrina, it’s my pleasure the meet the two of you.
I am a neurosurgeon, that part is true,
but what Nathan has neglected to tell you is…I’m retired!
Just recently actually and now I’m trying to find new activities to do to fill all of my new found free time that I’ve acquired rather undesired.
This dinner is a celebration of my long career and also a celebration of making new friends,
so, cheers to the two of you and thank you for joining us here tonight.”
We shake Dr. Burke’s hand then take a seat at the table ready to eat.
I’m glad to hear we are having steak, it’s my favorite meat.
A gentleman of color walks in from out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of the finest wine.
His eyes are cold, he doesn’t smile, I wonder if he’s mentally fine.
He pours the four of us a glass of wine then departs without saying a word.
Do I bring up his demeanor with Nathan or do I defer?
**** it, I’ll ask.
I want to know why his face looks like he just got done surviving doomsday.

“Not the friendliest person is he,” I mention nodding in the direction of the man from the kitchen.

“That’s just how Robert is, it takes him awhile to warm up to new people.
Once he opens up you will realize his heart is full of love and not evil.
Besides, he is the best cook I have ever met.
I made his acquaintance during a time when he was working 60 hours a week and still struggling to pay rent.
I went out eat at this run-down restaurant over on 9th and hilltop and the food was fantastic.
Honestly, I was expecting it to taste like plastic.
I was so impressed that I asked the waitress if I could talk with the cook.
He came out, I told him how great his food was.  He thanked me then told me that no matter how hard he worked there, every day he was still broke.
I made him an offer to come cook dinner for me five nights a week and he accepted and walked out the restaurant right then and there with me.
When he walked out of that place, it was like a giant weight was lifted off of him and suddenly he was free.
He started cooking for me the very next day and has been here ever since.
He may have been taken for granted at that restaurant, but here he’s treated like a prince.
Sure, he’s a bit rough around the edges but he’s a good man.
Taking care of him like he takes care of me is my plan.
Now that we have wine, how about a toast.
Here is to my new friends Antonio and Katrina, to you Dr. Burke and to our wonderful cook…cheers!”

Katrina and I take a big sip of the wine then set the glass down.
The wine is good enough to serve to the royal crown.
Nathan and James sit their glasses down without taking a drink.
That’s strange…I begin to think.
I go to ask why they didn’t take a drink but begin to feel light headed.
Katrina looks at me frightful, eyes cold blooded.
She tells me she doesn’t feel well, stands up to go to the bathroom but collapses and falls hard to the floor.
I go to get up to help her but I’m suddenly brought down to all fours.
I crawl over to her as Nathan appears over us.
He tells us we have something to discuss.

“Antonio, Katrina, please look each other in the eyes.
Take a moment because this is your only chance to say goodbye.
You are about to pass out and when you awake…
well you will no longer be you.
Dr. Burke is going to rewire your brains to make you perfectly obedient slaves for me.
The life you know it is over, you will no longer be free.
You two won’t even recognize each other after this, you will be complete strangers who’s only objective is to serve me without question.
I’m sorry if you feel like this is oppression.
It was actually Dr. Burke’s suggestion
to rewire *******’ brains to make them slaves again.
I must admit, with Robert, it turned out to be a great plan.
With you two, I’m sure it will work just as well.
Well enjoy the last few seconds you have left to dwell.”

I look my wife in the eye and can see the terror that has overcome her.
Never in my wildest imagination did I think something like this would occur.
Nathan treated me like family, but it was all for show.
He will ultimately pay the price for his actions here tonight after he dies and Satan ***** him in the *** while playing a banjo!
I reach out my arm and hold my wife’s hand one final time
as the world around fades to black.

“James, when you are done and have them ready for me, meet me in the master bedroom with them.”
----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------

I enter the master bedroom the admire the work James has done for me.

“Pretty impressive, don’t you agree?”

Antonio and Katrina appear emotionless and cold.
They are firmly under my control.
I say hello to greet the pair.
They respond with a hello master then bow down and kiss my shoe.

“I’m very happy to have the two of you here.”

“We are here to serve you and satisfy you in every way possible master.”

“Antonio, I would like you to begin cleaning all of the toilets in the house using a toothbrush and cleaner.”
He promptly agrees and departs to do just that, “thank you Antonio I love your demeanor.
Katrina, you sure are you cute little thing.
What would you do to please your king?”

“Anything you wish sir; your happiness is all I care about.”

“That is the correct answer Katrina, now how about you get a little bit more comfortable and take your clothes off.”

Katrina immediately stirps down to nothing and stands **** in front of me.
This is the way I always want her to be…
Naked and pleasing me in my bed.
I hope she gives great head.
Don’t patronage me for this.
Washington, Jefferson and all of our forefathers had slaves and procreated with the females.
They had many children with them.
Katrina will provide me with many of my own.
She is a fine little specimen.
Nice tight body, firm ***, perky ****, she’s going to be a fun ride.

“Get in bed Katrina and start ******* yourself I’ll be right there to make love to you.
Thank you for everything you have done here James, I can’t ever express my gratitude in the appropriate way.”

“Well when the time comes for you to return the favor I will call on you.
As for now, I will leave you be with your new toy so get busy kid!”
cv Feb 2016
in this stressful society we have,
so much slanders,
                              sins,
                                     scandals
                                                     have been scrutinized over
and over
              again

for the satisfaction of sardonic,
                      scornful,
      "sacred"
­disparagers.

      nothing shocks me more
           than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others
  based on the dehumanizing standards
                                                       ­            of mankind.

shackled
              by the scalding hands of screeching vermins,
why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred--
                                  stuttering,
     ­                                                shuddering,
              screaming
for help
because simple succors are never,
                                       have never been,
                                         will never be
                                                                  enough?

why
       do we keep letting ourselves be singled out
as stigmas
        when "failing" society's endless scans for
superficial perfection?

*(how sickening.)
/just a little thing i made maybe a year ago. i had a lot of fun with this.
(although, i have no idea how this would look like in mobile.)/
Maria Rose Nov 2011
Upon the strand of a beach so fair,
the dappled thread of golden hair,
rinsed and washed by withering waves
seeking to clean its spoils and frays.

Twisted around the neck of a cliff
the sea shall swathe the island in mist.
Only the speck of a hotel white
can bleach the flawless shade of night.

To explore the caves around this shore,
then crawl back home forever more;
to taste the salt-stung ghosts that float
a journey of horrors, entails no note.

In hollow dank caverns the truth reveals,
yet for a young boy it remains concealed
in the tangles of anguish, domestic despair
he’s left quite desperate and prone not to care.

Upon a quest he must embark
to chase the maiden perceived in the dark,
and catch the shadows of symbols quick
become stronger and board this ship;

This terrible vessel will not bear him home.
Firstly, from a clandestine nest he must have flown
to break from the gloom surrounding his name,
to purge all the secrets from whence he came.

Only ghosts he collects, leaving him vexed;
the island yet moans: ‘where will he go next?’
And the wind whips at the hotel’s affairs
whilst the villain sleeps still within his lair.

Impossible slanders he cannot overcome,
his story exposed, nature now shunned.
For what is a Mother who abandons her care?
A quiet reminder of the sea’s mellow stare.
Your eyes are an inferno
I cant help but look away
Slow burning in my chest
It's not your gaze, but what you say

Your words set me on fire
Slowly hushing the embers
Charring what left inside
Pacing your slanders

Every tomorrow will rain
To wash away the ashes
But your words left a stain
And you still hold the matches
Hanna Sep 2018
Your loyalty resides in falseness. You are not a clean slate rather a rationalist, you rationalize whether continuing something will benefit you. Someone slanders you "I don't want to be their friend", a friend of 13 years slanders you,"I have to be their friend for one more year but I wan't things to be normal again." Fake is what you reside in, and the world has made you hard. You have made yourself hard which is the saddest part. In something that you can control you made yourself this person who is perceived untouchable and maybe you are. Because it never felt like I ever touched you.
Ally Oct 2014
Your eyes are black holes,
Concave and parallel to your Convex slanders.
The sockets fill with ghosts as
You spin galaxies of rancor across my tongue
and your thoughts are brutes
that ferment in my soul
leaving a thick film of sour solicitation
And I will taste you for millenniums
In empty bus stations and forgotten highways
In my feculent sheets after they spoil
And you will always remind me
When I eject dry heaves at 3 a.m.,
Just what it means to be alone.
As Plaintive howls hang limp like busted ankles
Pretending to be flickering stars
Their loyalty is embarrassing
And I will weep in sentences
Just as broken as me.
In syllables just as hollow
As your wearied body in my arms
On your last birthday.
I should have never caught your tears that night.
They were meant to sewer through the spaces in my fingers
I could have let them linger on your brims like death
Your cheeks were always landing strips for missiles
I would rather be deaf,
than hear the sound of your diseased sobs.

— The End —