"smuggled" poems
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.
African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.
African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.
Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.
African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.
Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.
African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.
African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.
Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!
Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.
Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.
Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.
Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.
Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.
Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.
Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.
South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.
Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.
African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.
African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.
Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.
Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.
Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.
Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.
#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
smuggled in for a lucrative trade
beaten, bartered
broken in, until i obey
i used to be childlike
innocent and safe
now i’m someone else's treasure
a strangers pleasure
smothered in shame.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Somehow your heart enzymes inveigled a way into my system
I surmise it was your energising tongue which smuggled them in
my pseudoanaphylactic longing to snuggle in vein against your protein
its aim a happy interaction tugged by frenzied polypeptide chains
when your petite triglycerides coil avidly around my pH changes
hydrolysis replenishes steroids to stop any pleasure level plunge
so that functional-group transfers may intervene at all active sites
supervising where coenzymes await love's coursing stem cell sights
that photosynthesise my eyes to sensitise to you despite the dark
dancing in all my living cells with infectious smiles an epidemic
when your DNA can't polymerase enough of the audacious lipids
pleasing as they kiss the density away of fatty acids on soft lips
that release protease inhibitors in ways not too selective
so our hearts find their metabolic pathway audaciously live
and offer themselves completely to a frolic in love reactive
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
I planted a mango seed,
Hoping?
Not sure what...
But the mango grew
Out of its context,
Poked shiny green leaves
Looking for sun and surf,
But found itself awakened
In a land of snow and cold.
Seven leaves into its
Exponential Mango growth,
The newest leaf
Yellowed...
Shriveled...
Died.
The Minnesota Mango
Meditates now...
Watered, but waiting....
Slumbering?
Planning a spring break?
Meditating?
Waiting for summer sun?
Perhaps....
Today
I heard about
A neighbor boy
Who smuggled in
A baby alligator
From the Bayou,
South and warm.
At least my Mango
Stays inside its
Crockery planter,
And an alligator jail break
Will leave him
Freezing in his tracks...
We'll see what happens
In the summer.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
Excuse me Miss, the test results are back.
We’ve spoken to your family, and we are
Sad to say that you are numb.
You will start your treatment tomorrow.
I’m
So
Sorry
I’ve been numb for some weeks now
It started at my toes
It nibbled on my legs
It flirted with my head
Slowly but surely tiptoeing in
Numbness is a silent killer
It plays nice and deceives you
Creeping through my body
Then it took my heart
For numbness is a backstabber
It is not what it seems
It uses other emotions to find you
It is covered by fear, for they are good friends
It hides under sadness’s billowing cloak.
And it is smuggled through the heart’s border by anger
But now it’s in my heart
For the soldiers have come out of the Trojan horse
They pillage and take
For numbness is greedy
They start at interests and the hobbies
It makes them seem boring and not worth while
See numbness is tactful, precise, and deadly
It plays with your mind, and slowly eats away at your heart
Hallowing it out, emptying you
Numbness is always hungry
And now I don’t know what I have left that it could take.
Do not worry, for this illness you have, this plague, it is not deadly
And while the treatment we have prepared for you will not change you back
Because once numbness steals, It does not give back easily
It taints your mind, and like wine on a white tablecloth
It does not fade easily
Numbness scars the mind
It leaves its signature with a heart
You will not be who you used to be
You will be faded version of yourself
And a talkative young girl like your self should not be worried
For those who come into our hospital as vibrant and colorful as you
Don’t fade as much as the quieter ones
See you were stronger than them
Your mind did not give up as easily as theirs
But we are treating you early
And you will be fixed, not to worry
Our results of this treatment are stellar
See you will not be fully put back together
Just a little shattered
Not as broken
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
I once almost cursed
the final performance
of a wonderful play I
had the fortune of being
a part of it
The play was Romeo and Juliet on Verona Street
Set in the 1930’s
I didn’t do anything important
Carried two bodies
Got in a fight
Smuggled some beer
Called a mob boss
Delivered a package
and
Investigated two dead bodies in
mime
but waiting on my final role
during the final performance
of this oh so wonderful
production I reached out to
a friend of mine (his name was
Paul but he played the Prince)
and told him
“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”
He did a double-take
Asked me what I said
I said again
“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”
“You mean the Scottish
Tragedy?”
I held my mouth in shock
I knew better
That name was cursed
Paul told me all was not lost
there was a way to reverse the curse
just listen close he said
Take your fingers in a peace sign
Spit between them
Swear (I said “son of a *****
Turn around one,
two,
three times
Then leave the dressing room
And come back
I did all
and Paul was relieved
but Romeo chimed in
“well you know we have to circumcise you right?”
Paul added
“Yeah, with a Claymore!”
Don’t ever wish me luck,
I might break my leg!
I still want to direct MacBeth
and to show I’m serious I even
bought the script!
All that’s left is to get a stage,
and some money, and some
actors and maybe some talent
to go with my almost obnoxious
amount of luck
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
When I looked upon Persephone
Lying next to the Styx,
My heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds.
I dug them out,
Smuggled them past the spaces
Of my ribcage,
And handed them over.
She swallowed them whole.
They took root in the pit of her stomach
And a branch grew out of her stained mouth,
A fat pomegranate at the end of it.
She plucked it before I could,
Pressed her fingernails into the skin
And squeezed.
The juices ran red like the Nile down her wrists
And I felt the twist of a knife
In the center of my chest.
She smiled.
Spring blooming from her throat.
She had left
Before I could wrap my fingers around her sunshine.
In her place
She left only three
Pomegranate seeds.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Snow falls before Spring.
Ice laughs amidst freezing air:
the sky’s confetti.
Or torn love letters,
once smuggled under pillow.
Now bitter on tongue.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 6:38 AM UTC
Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!
Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle
That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.
Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.
In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!
4.3k
*Your heart brought with Amnesia.
To study it ,
I slid into your heart ,
making way through your tears
it was dark.
Placing a candle at the grave of your sorrows,
I stitched up your battered ,bleeding heart.
Tendering to the grave turned gardens,
I smuggled sunlight to your dandelion soul.
Drugging you 3 times daily with comfort,
was what I prescribed.
Nothing stays forever , so didn't your illness
and you don't remember me any-longer.
Happy laughter of love echoed ,
in the skies of your fist sized heart.
Wished you a healthy heart ahead,
only with the desire to treat it again .*
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Verily this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a boy and girl using razors as allayments, making veins as paintings.
Verily, this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a mother holding her young one in ashes, guts with limb's sketch the war-torn scenes.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a father toils on concrete and soil, breaking sweats for a dollar-
Fifty.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a fiend shoots fire in their blood with syringes, whilst kin makest family arrangements for other's to
Come visit daughter's and sons
In boxes whilst they sleep.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a poet and poetess write, O' how their word's do excite, whilst they
Dieth daily from secret pains unseen.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a young woman's locked in
a semi trailer, smuggled by men from foreign labors, O' how her life shalt be
In a room with many strangers; she
Seeks to die yet wants to live.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's a broken child in
Many ghettos, whilst elite buy wives stilettos, dope dealing is the only survival, just to put some food in malnutritioned
Mouths.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; theirs a soldier in many lands, making wealthy men richer, whilst their bullets fly, they come home with the images they've seen, devastating guilt-messed up heads.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's God Almighty who's been with each of these people, in their souls he dost seest through, passed their skin, and flesh and bones. He knoweth
Their pains, hurts, he seest their loves,
Loves lost, though none of these people
Once hath stepped into a church. Though
God is not about religion, just for all to
Know his son; who took all of their pains
Two-thousand years ago up on the cross he gave his love. As each of these many spirits from all walks and ways of life, were all just the same, perfectly made and beautiful in God Yahweh's eyes. So his arms wilt always be open to those who hath that feeling of not wanting to live, for he sent his son yeshua hamashiach, (Jesus the Messiah) for God's own son for mankind's salvation didst he give. For poet as thou doth read mine words please do know this one thing, thou art not alone, for dear God Dost love thee, his arms art open for thee to come home to him.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
*For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...*
Beyond the blackest cotton glove,
the compulsively edited manuscripts,
unmentionable lines untrained ears love;
beyond the satin lining of a human husk,
the failing engine or cooing soul
nightingales smuggled in the dusk;
beyond asking how giraffes like to die,
the moon's waxing through a kaleidoscope,
eyes hollowing before hearts tell a lie;
beyond the manifestation of a mental illness,
the coffee spoon having no coffee left to measure,
an overwhelming sense of an unseen presence;
beyond where the orchard truncates its blossoming
is renewal of equality like an unmapped sea
spilling its welcome to a choked wish.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
A birthday party,
I turn as I lift this velvet curtain
unveil this night for you,
Sixty circus freaks unravel down the hill
like a coloured handkerchief
of liquid laughter,
all singing the circus theme.
The only tears are drawn on
and the smiles cut up to the ears,
a tap dance in a bathroom,
manic movements,
a tumble back up the hill.
Cherry liquor is juggled, smuggled around the room
to a clown sporting harlequin pantaloons.
I laugh, drink, talk,
like a mime I copy the idea of human.
A sudden disconnection of sometimes weirdness envelops,
I become an audience member,
able only to watch the show,
a speechless mime with my face in shadow.
A desire to shout into empty biscuit barrel silences
I test ringmaster reactions,
to get back in I perform in a freak show.
But my eyes catch eyes, a timed grasping on a social trapeze,
we swing above a net of old ties.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 3:54 PM UTC
A LIFE TORN APART
When I first peeped into the world, I deemed it fit for the growth of my
miniature. When I peeped again, I trembled with disbelieving eyes at the
emergent live labyrinth that stood staring; but then, can an opinion change
an existence? Maybe, just maybe
As our mother packed and left, our father drove away. We remained hidden in
desolate souls. We were striked with a giant of a being called sustenance,
which dwelt in providence. Sincerely our begetters ought to have thought of
our brilliant futures. We deserved a life, to run the race towards academic
heights
Just the other day I overheard, my hemophilic father tying the famous knot
with a fellow MAN. Then I thought, what would become of my ego? Would I
walk with MY head held high facing other heterosexually raised colleagues?
Would I even get the strength to chase after the big price? I think not
As I grew up, I hoped for an illuminated course. Now I walk in converging
paths. After my fore-bearers kicked their ***** apart, I sobbed after my
dressed mother, they say. But who could have thought that I would turn into
a walking stone?
Walking through streets in search of well-wishers, I wished my parents had
held onto their existence. She blamed it on lewdness while he held it all
upon the mistake of an early pregnancy. Was I born unwanted? Was I smuggled
into this existence? I cease to think about it.
As a student, I thought my father’s charm the way to go. As a child, my
mother’s “generosity” to male neighbors elated me. Now as a parent to be I
think, what would my apprehended seed think of my responsibilities? Will I
be faced by delinquency? I thought the rod could do a lot to effect
change. It never did on me. Maybe I ought to mind the examples that I was
given not.
With my Progenitor bidden by the feared misfortune, I still sink in the
memories of my father, taken away by the same old grabber, HIV/AIDS. How I
hate you HIV….I beseech thee to move away from me. I promise my dear life;
that I will always run against the traffic. I will ensure I entangle myself
not, in a creased heart and walk with head held high. With the hope of
giving my bairm, the kind of life that I always wanted
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
this time, when i went
to meet Death at his place,
he showed signs of weakness.
he was watching a cricket match
relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.
yawns kept rolling
in slow progression
towards the boundary.
'are you well?’ i ventured.
'nothing wrong,’ said he.
stammering, i quizzed him:
which one do you fear most?
allopathy, ayurveda, or
homeopathy?
dear wilson,
have you observed sachin
facing the ***** of shane warne?
brian lara, wasim akram?
chris gail, brett lee?
i was thrown into confusion.
death admitted, unwillingly,
that like vivian richards
confronted narendra hirwani,
he was laid low by the
secret herb
of an old tribal man!
aaha! the panacea
became then
a spin ball!
(aaha…Nothing official about it!)
i forgot to ask
how our people
smuggled away by him
were faring now.
he forgot to comment
“you will see for yourself
when you face it.”
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
Just what do we know about
Ward Churchill?
That radical agitator,
That Colorado college professor
Most famous for calling
Twin Tower 9/11 dead technocrats
Little Eichmanns.
Noteworthy is the fact that
The United States Supreme Court
Denied certiorari,
Passed on hearing his claim of
Unlawful discharge.
Unlawful discharge?
Sounds felonious and vile:
Like pus laced with *****
A criminal secretion, like mucus
Smuggled past Customs:
Vaginal contraband.
Sorry, Ward.
We just don’t give a ****
Your fake Indian pedigree,
Your bogus Vietnam fairytales,
Your phony combat record,
Your forward ops recon
Way out in ******* Cambodia,
Fall flat like Buffalo turds.
You’ve been slick, Ward.
Hired originally to fill
Some gratuitous affirmative action quota,
Denied tenure in two legitimate departments,
You create some ******** academic discipline
For campus freaks & geeks.
Self-appointed Department Chairman,
A fraudulent college professor from the start,
Once tenured, a courageous warrior for free speech.
Describing Native American history as genocide.
Summing up American history as Holocaust denial.
Professor Churchill was all of these things,
And less.
But using the Holocaust metaphor
To anchor one’s fakakta politics?
That was the proverbial last straw,
The camel buster, if you will.
Especially since most of the
Stockbrokers & market analysts
Crushed in the rubble were Jewish.
Hava Nagila, Babaloo!
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
153
Dust is the only Secret—
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his “native town.”
Nobody know “his Father”—
Never was a Boy—
Hadn’t any playmates,
Or “Early history”—
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest—
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
1.9k
I rode the crested waves
that graced the coptic sea
And crashed into the shores
of North Africa
The water was as warm
The blood hotter still
No one went on living
unless they had the will
You never made a friend
nor aquaintence by the hill
Life was sweet and short
Too easy to be killed
Your best friend was a bottle
A cigarette would do
And in emergencies
a colt 45 was too
We smuggled guns and roses
across the white hot sands and dunes
We bartered in broken languages
while whistling a softer tune
With a third eye looking back
where bullets would fall as rain
On our way to Gibraltar
One dip salute , rev the engine of the plane
There is no water to quench you
To wash away the sins
The waves of guilt run over you
They bring the sharks with fins
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
Sophisticated creations created in sophistication
Humbly stumble your rocket ship upon us
Show us the ways of wisdom
The gears to greatness
Greetings from above…
Indescribably intuitive taking part of our tuition
Relaxing everybody with your percentages
Because everybody loves your mathematical mysteries mingling with minds mistaking us monitoring the minutes of our total misguidance
You guide us through that too…
Tactically tyrannical, democratically demonizing our demands
Demanding our demons
Because without the demons dictating our lusts as districts for us to be in
You are but a simple voice
Maybe so inhumanly loud and annoying
But incompetent
Powerless…that freaks you out…
Notorious nuzzles nurturing our children
Not so new of an idea
Because were used to getting
Tips of our rights smuggled through the windows you chose to open
Then smile and wave from up there
Because being like us is too mainstream
Becoming like us is an impossibility possible only when you become wood
Stiff wood
Moving around on shoulders
Standing in line on
The borders
Of dirt and human form
Following your followers with flowers on top of you facilitating your families fascinations that yes, youre gonna be alright down under
Flashback to the fudemental moments of your life
And you’ll realize
It’s when you killed the father
Suffocated the mother
Ripped the brother apart
And told the son…hey let me help you
But this is when you die…
If we all **** you in our minds youre dead
And only then…would “up there” be nothing but a shameful figure
Rather than a worshiped emblem of total **********
And only then…would we gain life…
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,
By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.
“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
[Passed down from one generation to the next,
Dating back to an invaded India,
Surviving six hundred soldiers,
Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
Stories etched in souvenir gold].
“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
[Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
A physical furthering,
From my immigrant ancestors,
Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].
How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
What if sound was robbed,
Held at gunpoint
And smuggled away
From me
Into a duffel of contraband.
What if songs became nothing?
What would I
Do? As the bus
Bounces up and down,
When the sun hasn't
Yet stolen it's kiss.
The window yields
Bland scene
And I would recognize
The silence
In the detestful
Way I do
When I forget the wires.
What if his voice
Was gone?
Could I remember it?
Could I fill in sound as his
Lips moved,
God
All I'd ever see
Would be lips.
And I don't like mouths as it is.
But maybe
They'd be my new wires
And my eyes would follow
Their parted
Movements, enamored.
What if instructions were silenced
And I was left to guess at
What to do?
Emergency situation
Stealing my life away
Because I couldn't hear
Anything about
The oxygen supply
Above my head.
I'd perish in silence.
Would I speak?
Or only write?
Would I feel heard
If I could barely fathom listening?
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
The train would leave in ten minutes
He came up to the window where I sat
And looked at me
With his hungry,
Longing eyes
And I at him
With a sudden rush of charity
And helplessness.
He must have been my age
Maybe younger!
With his eyes still seeing mine
He slowly bent down
And picked up his kettle
Which lay on the box full of glowing coal,
And he poured me a cup of tea
In an earthen cup.
He never asked if I wanted it;
Only stretched out his weak arm
Covered by an untidy rag
As if pleading me to take it
As if knowing that I would.
And all i could do was take it.
Then,
He stood there
Biting his lip
And staring at me
And my clothes
And the novel that lay on my seat
And the packet of biscuits beside it.
Catching his eye,
I offered him the biscuits.
First, his hands rose
But suddenly backed off.
He shook his head
And looked down.
Pride wounded.
I looked at the cup in my hand
And then at him
Thinking,"Did he make it himself?"
And then he smiled at me
As if saying "Yes!"
I felt a pain urging in me
And my throat was choked
I wanted to curse this heartless mob.
Wanted to do something,
Anything!
To help him.
I sat there wondering a thousand things
What did he eat everyday,
If he did manage to eat at all
Where did he live?
Did he have a family to look after and take care of?
Or worse..
Was he all by himself?
The engine's alarm brought me back
And I saw him
Still staring at me
Unmoved
Steady
With haunting eyes
That howled with pain
With pleads
And dreams..
And were yet, so hollow
Someone gave him a coin and whisked him away
Asking him to vanish
But he stood there
Staring blankly at me
We hadn't spoken a word
Yet he had become a friend
In just ten minutes
It seemed as if we had been pals forever
I smuggled out my wallet
Stealthily
As if I was committing a horror
And I stretched it out to him
Silently asking him to take it
He looked at it
And then back at me
I nodded
And he hesitantly accepted my gift
Who knows how much it was worth
Pocket money
Of a few months, perhaps
Then the train began to leave
He stood still there
Gaping at me with eerie eyes
A tear running down his thatced skin
His figure getting further as we moved
Moving away as the train carried me away with it
Standing on the platform
Where people came
Paused
Drank his tea
Threw some coins at him
Smashed his cup
And moved on
Banishing him into oblivion
'Drink it.. Or it will go cold'
My neighbour nudged me back to present reality
I looked out
There was no more of that station
Or him
Then I turned back to the man ans sighed
'I don't drink tea'
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
you are my animal, and
I am your whip.
what exists between us
is only dust—a milky
center of blood
tessellating
with
heart cells.
I’d hide in your
briefcase and
be smuggled across
the boarder as
a cheese knife
if only you’d look
at me—your animal,
my whip sending
flakes of fresh flesh
midway
along
magnets…but
be careful.
once you catch
crack of my sting
there is no going back.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
My nervous stomach always makes it hard to **** during a vacation. This isn’t MY toilet. After two weeks of self-inflicted constipation in my friend’s cousin’s tiny pueblo, I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I took a huuuuuuuuuge dump. To my horror, it was so huge it wouldn’t flush. Oh God no.
I smuggled a grocery bag into the bathroom and put it over my hand as a glove to pinch the link into smaller sections. Flush ********* Even the pieces wouldn’t go down. I pulled them out with the bag and threw it in the trash can outside as fast as I could.
I kept waiting, horrified, for the trash truck to come please don’t discover my **** in there please don’t discover my **** in there until the day the trash can got full.
In these little pueblos, what I didn’t know is that there is no trash truck. They burn their trash. My **** was in there.
They burned my ****
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC