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A three foot stick to smash up the brick
A Ten pound weight to seal their fate
Fault hearts are just but nails on my plate
"Call me 'sledgehammer' will see my strength"
Swing fast unto forth,
Filter liquids that linger in quarts.......
Did that repetitive swing bust your torque?
Tell me not it was him,
Whom I believed to be was my only friend!
Sledgehammer was it not?
Sledgehammer whom hit the right spot?
Did he come to destroy sandlot?
Please oh lord please tell me not......
For I know naught
But god oh please tell me sledgehammer did not!
He whom hurt you with implicit demand for strength
Steal your mighty molded ranks
You gave him power and sealed your fates
Call him Sledgehammer
"I'm here to forever hammer your fates!"
Don't mess with sledgehammer
I don't admit it
I play it cool
But every minute
That I'm with you
I feel the fever and I won't lie
I break a sweat
My body's telling
All the secrets I ain't told you yet
I struggle to contain
the love that's in my veins
the way it circulates
If you could take my pulse right now
It would feel just like a sledgehammer
If you could feel my heart beat now
It would hit you like a sledgehammer
You're taken over the beat of my body
You just don't let up, don't let up
You're taken over the beat of my body
But you lift me up, lift me up
If you take my pulse right now
It would feel just like a sledgehammer
I whistle for the Scarecrow to lead the way right after Neur decided to leave. It begins to form a black mist/smoke like essence in the middle of where I stand then it unifies and creates a Scarecrow with red eyes and it makes noise and flies slowly in front of me. Finally it lands in a mysterious cave where I stand in awe as I see ...there the Scarecrow stands on top of a crystalline rock emanating from the entrance of the cave itself. I walk in and I feel an eerie feeling go down my gut...something tells me to look immediately to the right. So when I do there it is the mystical impenetrable rock Aziel was talking about. Then just then I feel a sense of ease and Aziel says telepathically..."So my not what are you waiting for destroy the rock and retrieve the relic." So all the sudden I feel a sudden deepening defining feeling in my chest and I acquire the powers of Darkness for the first time in my quest for revenge is paying off. I command my whole arm to become a sledgehammer and hit the rock directly and it cracks in a half...there stands a beautiful glowing base with a fancy top on it ...made out of red diamonds and showered in Gold. Then I am relieved. "I got it" I tell Aziel telepathically. Then Aziel responds worried ... "Come as quickly as you can because I believe the Goddess is onto I cannot sustain you with the power of Darkness only 45 more minutes. Therefore,  come friend for you will be handsomely rewarded. " As I am getting out of the cave I hear galloping coming up the path I came. Then to my bewilderment Boom there stood a huge 32 ft tall ElderGloomTree It looked at me and it had a sweet berry like strawberry like scent in the Air it smelled beautifully nice.
The middle of the tree there was a mouth like sideways and it opened inside it slowly took out it's tongue and there was a small what looked like a mustard seed with rainbow like colors all over. There that little seed grew before my very eyes in the matter of split seconds and formed the shape of a beautiful glowing young woman with beautiful green skin and black hair with blue red and white stripes on the hair color. She spoke to me kindly and softly her breath smelled like fresh mint...I was astounded. Frank: "Yyyoouu...mmuusstt....bbb..e..." I stuttered... Nabyah: "Yes Young Mortal I am Nabyah many call me the Goddess Of The Forest Of Whispers. What are you doing here...what is that your carrying and oh one last question...I heard from Neur you was seeking me." Frank: "Indeed I am Frank Deltoro and I am here to request something from return I'll do something you want done. If it's under my power and will to do so I will aid you." Nabyah: " I want to aid my tribe of centaurs and the remote Cyclop  village of Vlakazamuk & Chalekathan *
  We want to stop the killing of Centaurs and the human captures from capturing Cyclops and making them work enslaving all Cyclop population or sometimes brutally **** them and practice known as
Davalkaj Shamanism.

You humans and your inventions to destroy our home-world and natural habitat. Tell me what makes you think I'm going to help You? Should I **** you for trespassing my forest?" Frank: "Well... I didn't come to fight but if i must we can clash but I would rather we handle the situation like 2 Grown up adults here well you for one am sure have lived thousands of years now but me and I will do my best to remove the curse." Nabyah: " Fine but do come ...come close to me I will kiss you in the lips once and you shall have my blessing..." Aziel shouts telepathically: "Use the power of the Dark to see if she is giving you a curse or a blessing...if you take the kiss and become enchanted well since the power of Darkness is in you it will be removed. But if it's a curse I shall take it and renew your power by some. So either way it's safe go ahead kiddo...I know you want those lips. Get em" I just nod. Then wow I kiss the Goddess and it's by far the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me in my 25 yrs of living. I felt a holy power showering over me then the power of the Dark was immediately removed.
Then all the sudden she makes a beautiful hymn comes out of her mouth and a fairy about 3ft tall with 6 wings flying in mid air hands Nabyah a gorgeous engraved Vial of blood. "Here is what you seek warrior; proceed carefully not only benevolent souls and entities linger here. I leave the area as soon as she hands me the vial of blood. I get about 50 ft away from the area and the power of Darkness consumes me I transform to a Giant Bat and head back to Aziel.
In the Castle am greeted with pleasure and I hand him the vial of Goddesses blood. There and then he drinks the elixir of blood and before my very eyes he regains his youth and full power. Then there stands 5'7 Sharp look young man about 20 to 21 years of age. He disappears and reappears behind me tapping me on the shoulder. Aziel: "Frank I am in complete debt with you for only and even though we do not agree nor do I love him any but thanks the helped me regain my full vampiric power. Ahhh it feels amazing. Hahaha  he embraces me in a warm hug.  Now what do you desire my mortal friend?
I think deeply..."I want to help the Goddess remove the curse from the forest." Aziel: "I usually don't meddle in human affairs but I am making an exception I'll help you as long as your willing to help me destroy the Order " Frank: "Does this mean I must look for the Relics Neur Blackthorn asked me to get ...since I got the vial I don't really need to do it no more right?" Aziel: " I'll let you borrow the power of Darkness for 6.5 more hrs till morning comes" Frank: "Thanks Aziel once again for letting me gain more power and knowledge."

~ *Meanwhile

At a very remote location deep in the heart of the Forest Of Whispers lived Bethilda Wood. She has lived in a old ruined cabin for 700+ yrs also she is known as The Elder Witch *Empress Of Darkness
known to bestow powerful spells and hexes but also with the gift of healing and releasing souls back to the Almighty One. A young Wiccan woman comes up young in age her skin tan/white heading toward the old rugged cabin...then pauses whistles a delightful melody and a staff appears.  Having been trained in the field of magic this young witch is been taken under Bethilda's wing. Bethilda:  Adrianna  darling come I have a surprise for you. Follow me to the pond of *Greater Enchantment. Adrianna: So... I heard you became the High Dark Empress 1200 years ago. Bethilda: Yes that is true I been a Witch for the past 1600 years or so. I survived the middle ages the dark ages and the years of enlightenment.  It's something I been willing to be all my life for I meet the man who carries my heart a young man known as The Count Of the Night. Dracula! We fell in love and I bore 3 of his children who so I have heard inherited the gift of becoming a vampire and they inevitably became vampires, more like the 3 princes of the night. Vladimir my first born Aziel my middle child and Uriel the youngest of the three. I been on the quest of finding Jesus Tears a small opaque flower the color of silver to complete my spell and relinquish Vladimir's soul to the mortal realm fit it into a red diamond and transfer it's soul essence into a freshly dead human body. With that he will come back to the World of the living and redeem himself and take revenge on the Order. Adrianna: I will help you. I will find this flower you'll see. So then they practiced spells from there on out.

~ Meanwhile

Its 1 a.m. and Frank heads out to seek the Ancient Relic. With the complete power of Darkness at his disposal he sends out 3  scarecrows to look for areas of interest in the Forest Of Whispers. Two of the  scarecrows come back one doesn't so that last one got killed by someone's power. Frank communicates telepathically to Aziel. Frank: I think someone is onto us Aziel guard the Castle it might be the Order. Aziel: already got it covered buddy. Then Frank feels a very strong power slowly emanating from the Southeast part of the Forest Of Whispers.  Frank transforms to a bat and heads there. As he gets there the small village of Chalekathan...
He who has been destroyed there stood a mysterious figure in the middle of the havoc a mysterious strong power could be felt from him. Mysterious Man: Hello adventurer my name is Navarro Castle-worth I am the Warlock of the *Tower Of Frejoird
where I was trained to use magic and rituals to summon strong deities into this plane of existence.  I got here too late someone had destroyed the village before I got here. Frank: Right name is Frank Deltoro and how do I know your not the one who destroyed the village? Why should I trust you? Navarro: Young friend...I do not desire battle but if it's necessary I will satiate your thirst for battle...Navarro Summons his staff and says some words and a Huge Nightmarish Creature that looks like a dog with a fog of Darkness surrounds the Creature. Frank summons the power of Darkness and since its 1:33 a.m he gains the *Wings Of the Desolate Count which makes his power two fold. There Frank stood looking at Navarro in the eyes and him looking at Frank with perspicacity. All the sudden a trembling can be felt and a Huge Cyclop comes out of the Wilderness. Mysterious Cyclop: Hold one moment ...this man is telling you the truth young Mortal. Frank: Woah a Cyclop what how did you get here? Frank loses his fighting stance and so does Navarro...My name is *Jhino Velvermount I am from the Tribe Of Chalekathan* known Village Of the Largest Cyclop population. "Come I show you what the Witch Of the Tavern Of Doom Dragons* done her name is ...whispers Bethilda N. Lement. Raised originally in Sweden in the small farming town of Wrellender* learned Martial Arts Of Taijutsu and Ninjutsu. Able to control Lighting/Air/Water/Fire/Metallic energies. Coming from a family that practiced Zetzou Buddhism. Who are thought at a very young age to control the Chi* Energies of the body how to practice Re-Vitalizing and Re-Energizing the Chi to be able to stay in a meditative/active blending of consciousness with the subconscious to make Ninjutsu possible. She is known to have rested 1322-1555 A.C. about 250 not been too active but her Great Grandmother. Nayya M. Element who was born 1119 A.C. in the same village one of the co-founders of it who placed the curse on the Forest Of Whispers and it's being sustained by her Great Granddaughter Mrs. Lement. Now me and Navarro follow Jhino to the Village. We go thru extensive difficult paths that leave me tired for an excruciating 5 hrs of walking. Finally arrive at the village... and there is about 30-40 Thousand Cyclops gathered around the Village to hear Gromm ElderLord of the Village Of Chalekathan. Gromm: My stance stands I am here to protect my people from the evil that has left this village wrecked record in the past 300 years. I will NOT allow Bethilda to wreak havoc here no longer. There Me and Navarro and Jhino stand behind the large crowd waiting for the speech to end. The speech finally ends and strong Cyclop incense is burn to allow other high ranking tribe members to know the Elders speech ended. <br>
~Meanwhile in Aziel's Castle~
"Hello" a young woman with Long Red Hair that hits the ground as she walks White Pearl Eyes with Black Pupils and with a Long  *Black Ceremonial Dress known as Akashaic Black Tunic Of the Dark Empress from the Land Of Necromancers.
There appeared in a Dark WindAziel Governale in a White Taxedo like Suit Welcome Home... Iris Senteno ...Oracle Of the Shadows Of the most powerful Magicians from the Tower Of Frejoird. I have seen your prodigal human who's name is Frank Deltoro...handsome young man who encountered Navarro in The Forest Of Whispers. Will he be trouble? Or shall I eliminate his presence?"
Aziel: No he is working for shall have him without delay at the end.

                         ~To Be Continued
Work in progress.
Nicole Dawn Jul 2015
It's like my mind
Has a sledgehammer
And every moment
That I'm conscious
There's a new memory
To bash me in the head
It's been a rough few days
I took something away from you
It could have saved your life
Or made it more bearable
But I snatched it away
I crushed any hopes you may have had
That it could have helped
All the well knowing, even myself
It would have

Why was I such a *******?
What did I think I was saving?
Some barely recognized cruelty
I'm loathe to acknowledge
But knew even as I weilded fear
To set you back
Reinforce the notion fixed in your mind
That I am a tyrant
I think you are probably right

And if I am a tyrant
The weight of my offense haunts me and drags me down
I only wish I was strong enough to recognize
DO something about it, usurp my power
If all it is good for is destruction

The regret nests in my chest
Squeezes my heart tightly
Pulls tears from my eyes
A secret agony, a transgression never to be confessed
What have I done?
I cannot, no matter how hard I try, convince myself
That I've done the right thing
Like a good father taking away a favorite toy
To punish
God, I pray somehow he can get it back
Even if I'm not the one who can return it
I would let my trespass fester, rot inside me
If only someone else would give it back to you
Or something better

God is getting tired of hearing me pray for forgiveness
For my persistent petition betrays my lack of faith
His forgiveness was granted the first time I asked
I'm still begging after 3 days
Impossible, it seems, to forgive myself
With this regret crawling inside me, will I ever be able to?

My son, take this guilt from me
Spare me my life
That I might be able to live again without this black hole in my heart
Quickly, cut and dig, yank it out
Resurrect my hope, let me dream,
Before it's too late, before I lose you to the world

Son, you are my hero

Why am I sitting here writing this ******* poem, nothing but a ******* poem, do they have such power? I don't remember poems breaking me down, let alone a poem I'm writing a poem I'm not even finished with a poem that hits me hard like a ******* sledgehammer in my heart, hating myself for writing something so ******* pretentious as "sledgehammer in my heart" and wondering if I should have written "sledgehammer TO my heart", every bit as pretentious and with not a whit of power to stop the tears from flowing and oh, my god, I think I'm speaking in tongues this brutal truth, who do I think I am, is this my reward for taking it away from him and yes I deserve this and a lot more and I fear that I will get a lot more if I don't let it out in some other manner than a ******* poem, a ******* impotent poem a ******* poem that has broken me and brought me to my knees, ******* impotent poem, I should leave the poetry to you because YOU are the one with the gift, YOU are the one with the talent, YOU are the one with the heart and mind to create something worth bothering with and I never meant to take THAT from you, but I took away your paper and I took away your pen and I took away one more shred of respect you may have had left for me, and Oh God I Miss You, and Oh God I Miss You and I can't wait until you get home this afternoon so I can be reminded of why I miss you or no, no, that's not quite right, just trying to sound poetic, what a laugh, what a joke, I Miss You when we're in the same room, if I didn't know that there was a little love left, or if I didn't think I had reason to hope there was a little love left in your heart for me, I would find a way to sleep. I'm settled down now. It's okay, no need to call the cops. I'm done with this poem. This ******* poem that has

Opened my eyes
Made me realize
The weight of my offense
My transgression in need of confession
(But to whom?)
That God had better just get used to my prayers
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!

you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
You're an inspirational exciting jolt
Like an invitational lightning bolt
I'm suddenly shocked by the results
When I am blocked by your revolt

You have my beating heart in your hand
Holding me hostage where I silently stand
Staring at your ****** butcher's cleaver
That morphs me into a landlocked ******

You're a two-hander
Like a sledgehammer
Or a radar jammer
I start to stutter and stammer
When I see your weekly planner
And the lack of my presence
Because I'm incessant
You hold a pencil and an eraser
You delete when I become a tracer
And start to draw a better replacer

You hold the scales of justice
Though I claim you're unfit
You say add that to the list
From the throne where you sit
And there's no avenue for any recourse
When your other hand holds so much force
I must deal with your actions
So I can stay in your faction
For my heart's attraction

I am never right
So we never fight
And we never might
Understand each other
When we're taking cover
From exposing vulnerability
An exploding soul is filling me
Because the cold mist killing steam
Between us until you are only a dream
And my mind starts bursting at the seams
Until there's a monster barely mentally caged
But the bars shake when it is constantly enraged
When your saccharine emotions are cynically staged
My bustling brain will unfortunately always be plagued
By your neutral reactions which I'll never be able to gauge

You hold two hands behind your back
Will it be an attack?
Our two hands should meet
Instead I'm trampled by feet
Erin Atkinson Jun 2015
Dear Sledgehammer Heart,

You are tough as nails,
        and you are also soft as silk.

You are wildflowers
         blossoming in the spring,
         and again in the summer.

You bloom more for yourself,
                                                     than for anyone else.

You are both student and teacher
           with fistfuls of love,
    clenched for those that hurt.

You taught me
         the importance of a good porch:
The Foundation Must Be Solid.
                              A Home can be built anywhere,
as long as the Foundation is Solid.

You taught me to announce myself,
and to be proud of the songs that come out.
                                       (Even when the sounds are sharp,
                     they must be set free somehow, right?)

And you taught me
         how to handle a heart
as delicate as mine
     pretends not to be,
                      with soft hands and gentle love

Stones smoothed into little pebbles
at the bottom of a river.

     I can only hope I have learned
               to hold your heart
with the skill and grace of bird wings
And to lift you
                                        as you do me.
It is the only way I can think to return
the lightness
                       you gift by existing.

Please remember,
                                My Sledgehammer Man,
             you must simply exist
and the universe is lighter
                 for it.
A love letter written to my best friend, who calls himself "The boy with the Sledgehammer Heart" in his own poetry. No one has ever held my heart quite like you, Lex. I am forever thankful.
b e mccomb Jul 2016
Words have always been an effective method of construction. In fact, if I ever wanted to build a wall, I would use nothing but my shoddy verbal and written constructs, and it would be stronger than my willpower and higher than the same wall you've built for yourself.

I keep saying I'm just tired, but you're disputing that fact and I'm sleeping at nights as if nothing were wrong, but when I sleep like that, I know it's all wrong. I don't miss the way things used to be, I miss the way I used to be.

I've got this ridiculous theory that you can love someone without being in love. Call me crazy, right? There's got to be some kind of distinction, but with you, the lines don't make sense. And I can't imagine a world of mine without you in it.

I'd like an out, a kind of escape from the harsh truth that you're a boy, and I'm a girl and our skies don't line up. I've got a long driveway with a lot of trees and stars above them, and you've got a life trajectory that doesn't include me and never will. The second you realize there's a hole in your pocket is the second you know that you lost your hope.

Mowers that bump and buses that jolt are two things that cause anxiety. Sometimes the only way to reach me is through my poetry, my cracks and chips. Hand me a sledgehammer, we're all crumbling anyway.
Copyright 8/28/15 by B. E. McComb
“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more:­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | ( Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, ( Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ...

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,

Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.
Bryan J Powers Nov 2010
Tick Tick Tick as the time goes by. At one point I would have believed to finally discovered how to deal with the feelings inside, to come to realization and to have come to understanding. Hiding the feelings of one’s love and tucking it to a box deep within ones heart. Becoming a mere figment of a ghost than anything to resemble what once was or might have been. Hoping only that during the next twelve months to come my judgment will have been correct. I sit now no longer on a soap box preaching right from wrong. I have been named the ******* not by choice but by status of coincidence. Trying to piece together life as it is, as I want it to be, and what it will be. We have no idea in life how things will appear before us on the path. We know only that we have each other and God above us. Yet more than once we have seen that not to be enough. As I sit in staring at the ****** knuckles of a defeated broken man only slightly realizing that man is myself. The bottle of Southern Comfort standing tauntingly on the countertop promising a relief or assurance and freedom from pain. The guilty pleasure to be had is but tempting to sin against yourself….myself. To find pleasure in solitude knowing that it will never truly make me whole. Solitude has become the hell I have wished, hoped, begged and prayed for to end. Our characters are all that we know. We will be judged equally at the end not by the words we have spoken but by our actions and deeds. I have tried so hard to move through life with ease and always failing horribly. None of the days to pass in the next few months will be easy. I am so far gone down this same road that the only thing I can do to make anything in life seem new or to bring change is to change lanes, having passed the turn- around point long ago. As much as we all look back in life and wish we could push the REDO button and relive a part of our lives to change the outcomes of life. Sometimes we don’t see how certain things are meant to be. So we try and change everything without ever letting anything play out. Hell most people would change the cereal they ate in the morning from Coco Puffs to Lucky Charms if they truly believed those delicious *** little marshmallows could have made their day better. I don’t yet know if I am included in this sentiment. All I know for sure is that every day that passes I feel a little more in the dark. I know now who the light is in my life and the only thing that makes sense to me anymore. I am unbecoming of myself to see the end of something that never fully launched. But stuck in a stalemate of temptation, happiness, guilt, and misunderstanding. Like an incurable virus are my feelings. A constant sledgehammer pounding on the walls of my heart trying to crack into what would seem an unbreakable resounding dream. What weakens me the most is not the fear or the wall to come crumbling down, nor the pain of that sledgehammer as it slams me down with truth, but simply the realization that from the light the most simplest soft spoken word is enough to turn the walls into powder blowing away as the winds of breathe that escape the lips. Frustration bleeds into my soul as I see what others have any it burns inside me. It is not jealousy towards the lost souls searching for their own way but frustration that sometimes other people have everything that others want but never seem to have and what is always out of reach. I see it everyday. I pass into the void which becomes our existence. When we throw ourselves into busting our *** at work. Others not understanding our motivation at work thinking but undeniably knowing that we must be outgoing and hard worker. Far from the truth we cry in our hearts. Where we break our bodies working out. Running so far and long the miles a blur into one long journey of escape. Hoping without hope there is a *** of gold at the end of our rainbow. I know that when the winds in the desert blow the strongest and the dust blots out the sun I will always carry a light with me. When the bullets are as thick as bees and the bombs erupting with sounds from the depths of Hell itself I will carry with me my light. I will carry my cross. I no longer care what happens in the next year of my life. But because I don’t care doesn’t mean that I don’t have my dreams and prayers. It is the very essence of these dreams that keeps me going. That fuels my soul. And one day maybe if it is the will of God, or the luck of the hand we are dealt I will come home. I don’t want any flag waving or cheering, no tears, all I want is the hug of reality. I want to come home and pick up where everything left off a year before. The sad reality is that I do not have the fortitude nor the strength inside my soul to break it into my mind and accept that everything will change. That everything has changed and continues to do so with increasing speed. I know all too well the role I am to play. The person I have to be. A man apart the world will make me…has made me. I will always remain the loving guardian no matter what the world brings down my road. Nothing but God himself could stop me. Not that as that I wouldn’t put up a fight against him as well. Some would say that blasphemous to say. I don’t see it that way. He made me what I am. I will never change. But a man apart I live. I see a day when I will become unrecognizable. When the world will call for a warrior and all I can say is God have mercy on their souls because I will not. I am tired of seeing those too naïve or too innocent to weak to stand on their own two feet against that which brings evil. Evil has no bounds. And a time will come when evil will realize that a man apart has none either. A man apart has only the love for his light. The will left only to protect it always. To bring the full terror of God down on those who would wish to dim that light. Those foolish enough to think they might try and blow out that light. God would never have let me find my way down without giving me the love that keeps me going, the hate that makes me fear nothing other than losing my light. And that no matter what happens which each passing day that I will remain a man apart able to separate war from love. And to keep that light always aflame seeking only for the betterment of what was…what might have been….what could be….what is….for a man apart.
Brandon Mar 2012
Put down that pen
Relax your hand
Please quit writing
Smash your keyboard
With a sledgehammer
Please quit typing

I’ve had enough with the compliments
On your half assed verses of antiquated love
On your verses of woe is my childhood babbling *******
On your verses of epiphanous enlightenment
I can’t believe that you’re what passes for good poetry
All that praise must be going to your head making you loco
Thinking that you can get away with writing that utter crap
I can’t believe you have so many admirers, so many followers
Hanging on to your every unsurprising word
Mad-Lib poetry, paint by numbers
It’s nice to see that that thesaurus and rhyming dictionary
Are working wonders for your writing
Like you’re some ******* messiah
Writing the perfect words for how they feel deep down
Like you're some ******* prophet
That speaks the word of the masses

Listen to the masses speaking from my tongue:

Put down that pen
Relax your hand
Please quit writing
Smash your keyboard
With a sledgehammer
Please quit typing
apathy Oct 2013
bring a sledgehammer
i know you're going to break my heart

you broke me,
you broke me so easily
i'm broken
and its because of your ignorance

you ****,
i hate you
your the worst

why don't break my heart too?
you already broke my trust
so finish me off

bring a sledgehammer,
bring an axe
bring anything,
just break my heart
but you've already done enough to **** me

**** me,
break my heart,
you know you want to
Andrew Rueter May 2017
Somebody call Ben Affleck
We got phantoms in this *****
This endless haunted mansion
Their presence pervades
No company
In this lonely labyrinth
Only phantoms
The only figures resembling humanity
Are the corpses of those before
Who couldn't navigate this torturous structure
And of course, the masquerading phantoms
My soul they aim to puncture

I tried closing my eyes
But I just kept running into walls
I tried sleeping through it
But I just sank deeper into the basement
When I attempted to join the phantoms
You were there
You waited until I was hanging there
On the rope
And eviscerated everything
The rope in shreds
Your heart then fled
Leaving me alone again
Lying in my exhausted blood
The phantoms sensed my desperation
And took advantage of my disorientation
So I ran to the darkest recesses of the basement
To retrieve my blindfold and sledgehammer
But is my hammer powerful enough?
Will visual impairment abstain the trickery of ghosts?

I put Sisyphus to shame
With the determination I utilize to demolish these walls
But the phantoms are devious
They ***** new facades
Thicker, sturdier, with odder textures
I destroy them all the same
It just takes a bit more time
And time means nothing
To a man who's sole purpose is knocking down walls
And cowering from apparitions
Yet a man means nothing
To a time ruled by phantoms
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
Ellie Apr 2014
a zit—(white iceberg tip

a heart (yours was always lipid-
                                                      ­  slippery)

an ember (firefly abdomen
                                                exhaling in black velvet)

a full bladder—(toilet-bowl relief:
                                                            a temporary prescription)

a bag of hot chips (extra habanero
                                                             for a spicy explosion)

a sink pipe (domestic artery rupture
                                                             ­     of your sledgehammer swing)

a water balloon, (concrete-spiked,
                                                              insoluble rubber jigsaw)

spaghetti in the microwave: (blood
                                                               stain pattern analysis of metal walls)

a seam. (sewn ending
                                       frays: leave the stitch, re-exposed.)
Lora Lee Sep 2015
She has had enough
Of looking through the keyholes
of her own apologies
observing  silently
like the tiniest of dust particles
that nobody truly sees
She has had quite enough
of being that shadow that lurks within her own soul
She is sick and tired of the flag of "sorry"
Flapping high above the breeze while she is stuck
down below
just waiting as the world passes by
She has had it,
so sick of hiding within that small silent room
as the colors fly in whirls outside the tiny window
gracing the touch of her fingers
as the flutter of butterfly wings
She is ready to break down those walls
with the one sledgehammer
that she now
discovers is in the room
Rusty, standing up
In the corner
Unrecognizable but for the cloak of dust.

Dust and rust aside somehow,
she can feel it and it is unstoppable
pushing back the cobwebs in that prison cell
that she herself created
She is ready to unfurl
Fly out into the light
The horizons of her world
are already exploding
Shards of glass fly from it…
from where she's not sure
The walls pushed back through an invisible force
that simply was there
all along.
Here, feel that dance of multi-colored
Coming in with each breath
As the heart and soul expand
Now there is no way
but up and out.
Timid hands open the door a crack
And like a magnetic force
She is almost ****** through
The time tunnel of freedom
Like the tiniest of snails slides back into the
comforting shell
But then she wields it
taking charge.
Pride is on the shelf
and courage large
Sledgehammer roars through the air
and smashed walls
lead to freedom -
not slippery as the black ice she once tripped on
but as smooth and graceful as the stride
of a delicate wing
as it licks the sky
in her rising.
b for short Jun 2014
Brick building my wall,
Remove one, you put it back.
Unprosperous me.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2014
Courtney Lyn Mar 2015
To even think you want me
Is wishful thinking done to death.

You just don't want to be the one to break me.
But you're what breaks me best.
Skendong Apr 2015
Open the gate and let us enter,
Or we’ll wrench the lock and kick down the door.
If it doesn’t drop, we’ll sledgehammer through
Forcing our way into your homes.
And bring up the dead to eat the living –
And the dead will outnumber the living.

We demand the precious ring عيسى بن مريم
Now show us the secret place:
We bomb the fiery doors of Hell –
Our slain disturbed they rise again.
Sleepers awoken from their beds.
They sing for the dust gave up it’s dead.

The whipping spur of mercenaries greed,
Roaming, ******, take souls for the cause –
Casually pledge for the Leader’s sake
Whole heart and mind was taken –
They stroked, caressed and kissed her.
Marked men turned into wolves.

Now woe to whom you honoured!
The fickle god paid you back cruelly.
Passing you by as a cheating lover,
As if fairy tales can be heard.
He guided you from above the sky?
It’s fallen in and you pay dearly

Enslaved by things of worldly nature,
Your vigour was lost, vision unsightly,
Now history’s gone, snared –
The traps you fell into laid,
Manufactured by slick rulers,
Your nobles are now lying down.

Sandy graves have been prepared,
Rows of seven, Jannah, Heaven,
For proud in battle we never falter,
Whips flashing and blades to the ready
Hear AK-47s shooting idly
And dare you not squeal:

“My brother, do not let me perish!”
For this day the vocals of our song
Smother the kaffirs weeping
Women lamenting sacrificed children,
Slapping their faces because
The dead will rise and inhale the stench.

Are you sleeping paupers of the globe;
Rich folk feast yet you are fasting.
Who is there to help on these wretched streets?
There is no relief. The wound is incurable.
Some around the world hear and rejoice,
For this evil is transmitted continually.

Open the gate and let us enter,
Or we’ll wrench the lock and kick down the door,
If it doesn’t drop, we sledgehammer through
Forcing our way into your homes.
And bring up the dead to eat the living –
And the dead will outnumber the living.
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
Edna's Special Recipes No. 4:

"Le pit bull à la français"

By Edna

At this festive time of year, why be boring and choose a turkey? Especially since the poor creatures have been reared intensively, overfed and fattened artificially, kept in a cage or in a filthy shed, never having seen the sunshine.

So Edna says: offer your family something rather different this Christmas, something a little unusual.  Had you ever considered an American Pit Bull Terrier?  A Pittie may not be the first thing which springs to mind for Christmas dinner and I admit there are some drawbacks: they are difficult to get hold of: neighbours' pets are a dangerous option and modern intensive Pittie-farming methods don't work as the brutes are far too savage for most farmhands; also they have relatively little meat on them, being mainly muscle and hatred. However, these negatives are offset by the joy any fun-loving chef will gain from killing the ******* and you, as hostess, will bask in the happiness of your family as they contemplate what they are about to receive.

First, it is important only to use a FRESHLY killed mutt as Pit Bulls do not freeze well (they struggle and bark for what seems ages once shoved into the freezer) and the pre-packed, pre-gutted ones you will find in your local supermarket are likely to have been battery-reared and force-fed in order to put a bit of extra flesh on. Believe me, nothing quite matches the texture of a freshly killed Pittie. And of course, you get the head as a bonus for your pet cats to play with.

A stranger's pet is my own preferred animal as a neighbour might see you skulking round their back garden with a pick axe and twig what you were up to. So, off you go in the car and seek out your dinner. Once you have found a suitable four-legged meal, follow the owner home, wait for the right moment and then get the chloroform pads in action. One for the owner and one for the dog. Pop the zonked-out mutt into the strong black canvas bag you brought with you, shove it into the back of the car and off you go!

So now you've got your hound: what's the best way to **** it?  We gourmets have argued over this for years: decapitation, drowning, hanging, electrocution or beating to death with a sledgehammer? My own favourite method is to drop the drugged brute into a large tin bathtub of warm water and then add the 240v power cable. The expression on the dog's face when the volts kick in is fabulous but you need to be careful in case it leaps out of the bath and goes for your jugular. Hanging from a high tree, accompanied by extensive tenderizing with a baseball bat is a safer but equally enjoyable option. Two further benefits are that hanging is not so messy as the drowning/electrocution route and the whole family can watch a hanging in safety instead of having to risk the dog leaping out of the tub.

Once you are sure the dog is dead (about five minutes after it's stopped kicking and moaning), take it down and cut the head off with a cleaver.  Carefully remove the ears for use as decoration. If you have no cats to give the skull to, shove it on the top of your Christmas tree to provide a family talking point.

Next, skin the dog and discard, bearing in mind that it would be unwise to leave the telltale evidence for the binmen. My flaying advice is to use a sharp knife starting at the **** and working my way up to the neck. Be sure to remove all the ****** parts, as these do NOT taste good. It's nice to roast a Pittie whole, but few people have an oven big enough (unless you scored for a puppy that is). So, carefully cut up the cadaver into two or three separate joints. The following recipe is suitable for a nice shoulder or leg.

Rub all over with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper; make a series of deep incisions in the flesh at two-inch intervals and carefully insert slivers of fresh garlic. Place in your largest Le Creuset ***, with two pints of Evian water, a half-bottle of a full-bodied red wine, half a dozen French oignons and bring to the boil. Then reduce the heat and simmer for two to three hours, depending on weight. Be sure to check every 20 minutes that the liquid hasn't boiled away! Add extra wine and olive oil as necessary. Once the meat is tender, your dog is ready!

Serve your Pit Bull with mashed potatoes and a nice salad. I find a fruity Beaujolais drinks very well with stewed Pittie à la français but my paddy friends swear by Guinness. Whatever your tipple, enjoy our meal! And think: because of your caring approach to Christmas, one more turkey will live to see New Year and the world is rid of another Pit Bull horror.
st64 May 2013
choo choo

next stop.....perdition

(no, not believes this Stygian opacity)

look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear

rivers and streams
valleys and hills

arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows

into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness

using the eternal sledgehammer
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation

and pardons none.

what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face

once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, ****-like

toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on

life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age

butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight

draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.


mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot

yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour

sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body

hides not
condescends not
forgets not

the glimmer of ....
a time of ...

cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent

then *they
walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot

clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego

now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
carry thee off.

pipe *****-stops are pulled out

(art thee ready?  platform number 5)

S T,  9 May 2013
How age doth touch the brow of one and all.

Looking at pictures of and being inspired by the writing of esteemed Anglo-American writer W. H. Auden (born in 1907, York, UK - died in 1973, Vienna).

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
robin Sep 2013
i'm writing this letter for you.
you in the other room, i hear you through the wall,
to yourself,
telling yourself secrets you never believe.
i have some i'd like to spill,
but every time i try,
the walls soak them up like
white cotton and
black ink.
i'd like you to hear something other than your own voice
and maybe you can hear me when
you read.
you brought me here.
took me with you when you left like
a trinket,
a memento of home,
something to hold in the night when regret is like
a knot of snakes
in your gut.
ibd driving you
to tangle limbs with another;
a facsimile of love
driving me.
i think now it was less love and more addiction.
less love and more stockholm syndrome,
a disorder i cultivated
to have a reason to stay with you, with you,
the most beautiful sledgehammer
i've ever seen.
euphonious dynamite.
you are thumbtacks in my eyes and dry clouds above my desert,
you drop through me like lead:
you are a pneumatic drill and i
am a porcelain doll,
a quail's egg
you shatter me and i know
i never had a chance -
who bets on a dead horse?
who spends all their faith on a pantheon
that rots as they watch.
you desiccate me decimate me and i let you.
you are a world war in the body of a girl,
and i am naught but
cannon fodder
and cotton mouth i read you poetry but the walls swallowed my words
and all you heard was breath
(isn't that enough that should be enough,
a gust of wind
a breeze;
and the spirit is nothing but air,
cavitied and consecrated.
the walls swallowed its manifestations,
but you
felt my spirit on your skin)
but i am not
you are tire tracks on my abandoned road and you
brought me with you whenever you ran and
never believed me when i told you that
(not every problem can be solved with a map
spread on the dashboard).
you don't care about solutions,  
just avoidance and denial and
you treat every vagrant
like god in disguise
you take every hitchhiker into your heart and carry them like tumors,
infirmity is contagious.
a gift the bodies share.
from you i received
an atrial septal defect;
a hole in my heart,
leaking  blood.
from you i received dysthymia and
a martyr complex.
from you i received knowledge:
[one: nobody is strong,
but some have reinforced their bomb shelters
with their own bones.]
[two: a baby doll, baby girl
thick wrists,
sick recurring pain in the form of mirrors,
bathroom stalls and naked form]
[three: a gasmask can't protect you from the poison in your veins.
believe me,
i tried]
[four: the gaps between your bones
will one day be filled
and you will feel whole]
[five: the blue lips of a deep sea diver
should not be idolized.
the only surgeries you perform should be on your own heart
so you wound no one but yourself
when your hands
[six: i tried, i promise,
i tried,
i tried]
you are false sermons and i am a believer you are thumbtacks in my eyes and lightning flowers on my back.
when i perform self-surgery,
i will bisect my heart

take it with you when you run
i will stay behind
and speak to the walls.
Born of Fire Jul 2014
And i miss you. You tore a rip clean around my heart. And after several months of ignoring me, the stitches i made could be taken out to reveal the nasty scars. The broken thing inside of me seemed to be breathing properly, and on your birthday you forgot who i was. A knife sliced through the scars, disrupting already damaged tissues. Never before had i remembered hate being a comfortable feeling. Hurt, ached inside of every cell. Birthdays seem to be a trap for us. You left me on mine. You forgot about me on yours. Another couple of months went by, you forgot about me even more. I tried to forget and move on. My hope failed me again. I stayed awake that night, until the sun rose on my sorrow. Funny how a sunrise can give you such a sinking feeling. I cried, hoping the tears would swell me to sleep, they just made the pain seep into my face and my collar bones. I thought about you that night, wondered if you were alone with your thoughts again, letting the back of your eyes rot with the white of the ceiling in your room. Or were you out in a darker place, getting high as your heart continued to suffocate? When they told me about what had really happened between you and them, everything connected. And unlike how i found out you had crawled back to her and she denied you made me happy, this only made things immensely worse. It was largely the fact that i gave you every part of me, salvaged all the small pieces and bundled them for you. You treated me like an object instead of human and i was too in love with you to realize it. But the thing is you can't walk around hurting people every chance you get. You asked her why she didn't care, well what about you? How could you dispose of me so quickly and in a rush as if you had committed a crime? For a time rage consumed me. Washed over me like running water. I wanted to tear you down and watch you disintegrate into a lake of sadness. Every other person in my life knew there was a million reasons for me to leave you. No one cared to save me. It showed me that no one is gonna be there when you're drowning in corrupted love. But i have always wanted to save you from the destruction coursing through your soul. I always wrote about burning the sentiments you gave me and collecting the ashes in a jar as a gift to you. And the twisted part of me figured that as much dust as i collect, equally would be your sorrow. I had only wished for you to stop breathing in so much dust. My mind seemed to go through a fluctuation between hate and misery. There was never an in between. I wished for you to stop cupping your hands to catch my tears so you could wash away your grief. When dejection turned into loathing you made me hurt other people. You lit matches for me to burn bridges and gave me a sledgehammer to destroy homes of happiness. Eventually the chaos got back to me and i ended up eroding myself. I convinced myself i was to put myself in danger to feel alive. Well the opposite occurred and i started dreaming about you. I dreamt of your smile, your laugh, your eyes, with an illuminating spark to them. Waking up was like realizing i had been buried alive in a small coffin, and I'm sure you don't remember how claustrophobic i am.  The fourth night dreaming about you, i turned into the living dead. I slowly melted into a shadow, still frames of you glued into the creases of my mind. Soon enough only wishes swept through my mind. I asked a god for some sort of baptism, and it never came and any form of faith diminished from my eyes. How could one person instill so much pain?
The adventures did change me. Not in the context i thought you meant.
Mirror, mirror
Laced in fear
Dictate my life I'm meant to steer
Consequence in wine and beer
Seek a journey I can't be near
My thoughts of glass
Are limber and shattered
With the sledgehammer of past
To be crushed and mentally scattered
I found the pieces
I put them together
I struggle to remember it forever
The pains of my action
The results of my distraction
The screams of my endeavor
To serve my mindless faction
Draft me
An architectural blueprint
To serve my life in death
And live as a hollow mint
I've done the job
To be ached as sin
To hold the weapon of man
And peel the thought like skin
As a cover of wrong and thought of different
I shoot my thoughts of new and inherent
To be on the winning side and walk away the crow
Is to peck the skin of the dying and reap what I sow
The second half of my military poetry.
I grew up in a family that fought for causes they were paid the believe in. To put that kind of admittance into words in beyond me.
Brandon Mar 2012
The funny thing about life is
You try and try to be a good person
A good neighbor
In a good mood
With only good things to say
But then life intervenes
With the landlord screaming
About uncollected bills
That shouldn’t exist in the first place
Of bosses ranting
That you’re lucky to be working for them
When they’re running the company into the ground
And your only compensation is a poor paycheck
That you take home to your family
So that you can afford to stay under your roof
For another day longer
And put some food on the table
For another night longer
And let’s not forget about the conservatives
Screaming at the top of their lungs
That we’ve lost our way
And that only they can save us
By bringing us back to how it used to be
News flash grenade explosion
We are the way we are
Because we were the way we were
For far too long

And then the conservatives parading
Their hidden agendas like they’re liberals
Pay more taxes than the government is worth
A system that’s failing to support it’s own weight
Should have it’s leg kicked out from beneath it
To quicken the fall and rise of sovereignty
Every day is a new day
And it’s how you deal with the obstacles
Placed in front of you that matters
But the matter of banging your head
On the brick wall
Trying to placate the niceties that we were
Brought up to hold so dear to our hearts
Gets out of control
I’ll grab the sledgehammer
And bash the wall down
I’ll walk around the wall
And find my own path
The one least occupied
By the masses
trf Sep 2018
I'm covered from head to toe in resin, acrylics and epoxy,
Some pulverized rocks my son gathered from the Chattooga River,
Now reduced to a burnt ember dust.
I added silicone sludge and a little baking powder as well,
And once mixed, this dicey concoction is beautifully toxic,
So I waft the air and inhale it.

Painting a colorful sunset is too easy, I prefer black and white,
So with a wooden board the size of a door,
I get to work with my rubber sledgehammer, blowtorch
A gallon of poison and flammable spray.

The passers by have seen this look in eyes,
From The Shining or possibly their preachers,
You know, the same look that's a sight to behold.

Slamming the hammer down with brute force
And purposed abandonment,
I paint my sunset and wrangle the stars later.
A shower won't do me justice>
Here's Johny
abby Aug 2014
four years ago i became a carpenter
and started to build a wall
between myself and the world.
people came and went
and tried to take out the bricks
like they were playing jenga.
and some people walked up to me
with a sledgehammer in their hand
and knocked me down with the wall.
as the years went by
my wall got taller
and the people became fewer
until there was no one left.
i'm starting to rethink my blueprints
because it's getting lonely over here
and i forgot the windows.

A Mareship Sep 2013
What kind of sleep
Do you want?

The lacy white kind
Where you remember
All of your dreams,
Like glimpsing gardens
Behind cobwebs?
The kind of sleep that
slips on air,
running out of oxygen
like a drowner,
a sleep where
you recall
the hour you
closed your eyes?

Or do you want a
A total blackout,
A sudden death,
Oblivious to fires
And burglaries
And nightmares?
Asleep so fast you
Can barely make out
A marathon of hours

****** or Ambien?
Choose and hush up,
Morning’s waiting.
ryn May 2017
I consumed a small
vial of courage today.

And it got me out of my mind,
my aches
and my bed.

It got me showered,
and out the door.

It helped me on the bus,
through the rumble of
the exhausted engine.
It deflected the stares from eyes
who seemingly judged.

It placed me at work.
Fuelled me through
the sledgehammer ticks
that echo never ending seconds.

And I eventually find myself home...

So I consumed a small
vial of courage today.
And I'm brave enough
to admit that I'm afraid.

Afraid that I may be running out.
Kaylee D Mackey Nov 2010
I know he's going insane
Inside that head of his
And I don't mean insane
With excitement...
Just downright ill
He tries to play it off
Be the cool guy
Wear his mask
And never let anyone see him unprotected
But I do the exact same thing...
If he would just give me a chance...

It's lovely
But I abhor it
It's rather ugly as well
Our minds are like prison walls
Bricks overlayed repetitively
As far as our eyes can see
Towering above us
I don't want to be the
Little Bird Apr 2016
Glass heart
Should've known
From the start

That by the time
We would collide
I'd be left broken
on the inside
With love, kelsey
PSR Apr 2016
A shock to the system
A Loved one is lost
Sledgehammer to the heart
Lightning bolt to the brain

Entombed in a blackness
Unable to move
Suffocating in a thick tar
Flooding my lungs

Suspended in stasis
For what seems like eons
My body in a slumber
My mind round the bend

Now ready for healing
With the passage of time
For banishing the darkness
For reclaiming the light

Things seem clearer now
The dark shadows are lifting
I can see clarity, lucidity
I can see a light ahead

It's turning my stomach
It's crushing my chest
I'm struggling to breathe
It's RED
I think I'll buy a book
maybe an autobiography
of a young black kid
who made it big;
defying odds
and urban statisticians
who had him in the pen
by 19;

a shallow grave
by 29

with pages of preparation
and focus;
when failure became
a formidable foe;
a social sledgehammer
slamming him
back into his basement
with the rodents,
chronic unemployment
and piles of unpaid bills

and diplomas on the wall
framed in gold and mahogany

and photographs of fleeting
scenes of success
and hope


banished by fate?

am I destined to be
old, gifted and poor
like my fathers before me?

what dreadful deed
or sin
has sealed my destiny
with such savage sorrow?

maybe my hero,
the young black kid
in the book
I'll buy tomorrow

who made it big...

will have some answers...

~ P (Pablo)
I wheel it out, my green and black bicycle
The roads shiny and quiet, the grey skies overcast
I start slow, breathing in the clean morning air
The fragrance of wet leaves and mulch, moss and old trees

I hear the morning song of the birds
And see the blossoms heralding spring
I nod to the old woman walking her spaniel
And notice the beating of my own heart

The rucksack a comforting weight
My breath even and warm in the wintry air
My derriere sore from yesterday’s excesses
The road, glorious, wide, welcoming and endless

Crossing the road, I am struck by the symmetry
Of a lone tree, leafless, bare, proud, naked
And the beauty of an old, stone church
And the wheels of the cycle keep spinning

The roar of traffic on the motorway always a shock
As I adjust, I breathe in the manure
From green fields so vast, flanked by white
And pause to see the muddy, turbulent stream

As I rack up the miles
My heartbeat is a sledgehammer
My legs are on fire
And I feel alive
Eva Reid Apr 2016
The freckle, in the center of the back of his right hand, is the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. On it I draw flowers of love and waves of want with kisses and touches. His right hand is the one that fits perfectly into mine, crafted and cut from the same stone to connect at the lifeline on our palms. I notice everything about his hands. The scaly red knuckles and the delicate milk skin between each finger. The dark dirt under each broken nail that never disappears. His hands are the thing that passes over my arm and sends prickles down my back. The hand with that beautiful freckle is the hand that I want to hold for the rest of my life. I love that hand. I love the boy that is attached to this hand. His eyes are deep and bright at the same time. They are the color of a sunrise- dark blue with flecks of orange and yellow. Every day I look in to those eyes and I drown. I drown in the want and the need of him. The hair on his head is the color of happiness- blonde and brown and soft and long and perfect. His lips are average and insignificant but to me they are everything I have ever wanted. They are the color of melted and spun sugar that you get at the carnival. I want to press mine to his, I want to stand on the tops of my toes to reach his lips, to taste him. I want to make constellations with my kisses from the freckles on his nose. I love those freckles but my favorite one is the one on the center of the back of his right hand. The one the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. That freckle made me fall in love with him. The day I noticed that freckle is the day I knew that I was completely, utterly in love with this boy. I was drowning in everything that is him and I was deprived in everything that is not him. But this boy is not mine. He is no ones. He walks this earth with the intent of ruling it and though I am by his side this boy King does not love me the way I love him. I know he loves me but we are platonic. And platonic people do want to press their lips together. And platonic people do not want to wake up tangled in sheets in the morning to see one another. No, platonic people love at a distance but I cannot stand that distance anymore. I want to take my sledgehammer of impatience and dynamite of want and crumble that wall. I will do anything to close that distance because I want him, I need him, I love him. But what does that matter? He is the boy King that cannot be held down and I am just a peasant girl waiting for her Prince Charming.

— The End —