We will grieve not, rather find
                        Strength in what remains behind;
                        In the primal sympathy
                        Which having been, must ever be.
      
                                                                ­                 William Wordsworth



stunning and stunned,
perhaps even life momentarily,
            stunted  angry but enraging confusion

this notion, stirs a commotion,
primal sympathy, spawns poem

not a broken totem
not a stolen token
hand writ, inked in pen,
no golems in a modem
to assist

this just pure human spoken
an omen giving,
notice total,
this is one true ether,
or either it is not!

this primal essential assertion
a conditional propositional
that it is natural for man
to be deep sympathetic to his kind,
for which having been,
must ever be*

in Syria, snipers shoot children for sport,
in Nigeria, young girls to slavery sold,
the list, matter of many facts, well known,
needs not embellishment or addition,
the history books teach the children well

so vaunted primal atmosphere,
in these places,
are you absent, non-existent?

when primal was pre-creation,
spelled first as primeval,
in the era before the appearance of ratiocination
of life on earth
Prime and Evil,
was a combustible fuel of necessity survival

primeval became primordial,
man essayed to improve,
aging onwards himself to enlightenment

yet rooted in this prime number of humankind
is a cellular tissue that springs to life
in those who allow it, residence of the remnants,
original origin of the evil that can subsume
and assume

do not allow it

I can tell you I
will not lay quiet

for the murderers of children,
I have primeval hatred

the rage of primal sympathy denied
unleashed ten times greater

be wary when the best of us rises up

the snipers and the enslavers will die
by their own weapons

One more day is fading away
as we ride this bus to the city
The storm is coming nearer now
And your bliss will turn to tears

We've almost reached our destination
Countless parachutes in the sky
These mosquitoes are swarming
before your eyes,
Just a moment's time til someone dies

The skies are getting darker now
Not a shard of light in this room
You'd better make good choices now
Or meet your impending doom

I hear your steps from the other room
And I'm already locked and loaded
You'd better get on running now
Or I'll destroy what's left of you

I walk upstairs to higher ground
and hear your cowardly whines,
I look in the eyes of my colleague
And said don't move, this **** is mine

I've made my way to my snipers' nest
and my eyes are set to ****
I've got my sights on your head right now
To pull the trigger, you know I will

1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

Beware the rosy cheeked colleague
passing you in the hall
asking you how you are.
Beware the helpful friend
willing to lend a hand
at a moment's notice.
Beware the grocery clerk
smiling while she inspects your list
sending you off to have a nice day.
Beware
Beware
Beware
All snipers everywhere
False smiles are the turrets they hide behind
Praise offered in an attempt to make you feel safe
Only so they can make their mark
Hit thier target
Finish the job
Bullseye

awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.

I feel like a friend-- a true friend,
is more than a profile on a website.

And peace is more than a handshake agreement
brought by the outcome of a gruesome fight.

I know that self worth is more than someone's opinion,
and in no other dominion but mine own to foster and care for.  

And I can see that happiness is more than having money, sure,
cause most of us laugh everyday here, and come on, we're dirt poor.

And I pray the human soul is more than Casper's counterpart,
somewhere between the heart and the pancreas.

And God, faith is so much more than cryin' and dyin'
over spilt milk between religions.

And in case you were confused, "I love you", is more than
pet names, bed games, and ***.

Music is more than pimps, hoes, and MTV Shows, and T-Pain singin through a computer.

Believe that life is more than grades and degrees,
or drugs and disease,
or the 'ABCs' of success that some old man wrote a thousand years ago.

This poem has to be more than words strewn together
to voice my discontent at the status-quo..

Hell, the word "more" itself is more than a one-syllable statment
that what we lack in the present
is just a larger quantity of the **** "we already have",
and no!

The power of your silent agreement is more than that
of my voice alone, so...

What is "more"?

In many ways, "more" is the friend you never had.
More peace in the world would end all the mindless bloodshed.
More respect and selfworth would bring beauty back to youth,

especially to the women in the world,
that sell their unique souls to look like the cover of Cosmo.

More faith, that grants serenity in the times of hardship,
will be the soothing hand of an Angel on our shoulders as
we say, "I love you" to our enemies, martyrs for a better world.

More positive music will inspire us,
to be the change we want to see in the world, today,
instead of, "Waitin' on the World to Change "♫ ♪ ♫♪

So ladies and gentlemen, make a decision: if you want to be
critics and vipers,
war mongers and hope-snipers,
ignore my intention, and live with more division.

But, if any of you are artists starving for meaning and inspiration,
if you envision a world of more than... THIS...

Then let a word change a feeling,
change a thought, change a meaning,
change your mind...
And get more out of life.

Tethers that prevent flight
from shaken swollen tears
feathers spent in woeful plight
and a snipers cross-hair sight
amid muffled explosive cheers

Brothers in Arms
never lost to forgotten years
and the sound of a distant gunshot
is all that he hears.

R.I.P. Sgt L.J.

in our
besieged republic

snipers are
popping up
everywhere

taking ***
shots

ending lives
with a well placed
head shot

active shooters
star in
world premier
events

jokers
rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens

sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood

others
head back to
school
still ******
about missing
recess and
excessive
sentences
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters

they’ve
come back
to even the score

leaving
bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged  
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****

these
urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
fulfilling
PATRIOT ACT
duties for
10 bucks
an hour

and
last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction
script

he grew
up as a
Highwayman
in Teaneck

a former
classmate
working
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid

he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself

legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day

Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun

Oakland
11/5/13
jbm

Always in the background
He doesn't think it's fair
No one really knows him
They don't know that he's there
But soon they will all know him
The world will know his name
He will share with them his message
They will remember that he came
At work he's just a number
They ignore him at school
Wearing plastic Buddy Holly glasses
But, not the kind that's cool
He's determined in his mission
They'll remember him for sure
Like those that went before him
He'll shake this place right to it's core
A shadow in his movements
No one really knows his face
Not many recognize him
By either name or face
But, once this day is over
The world will know his name
He'll make sure he ends up famous
The world will know he came
At work and school...invisible
Like a picture you don't see
But once he spreads his message
"They'll all remember me!"
Four months or so preparing
Making plans and making lists
All things are in order
There is nothing that he's missed
He heads to school that morning
Just a little after eight
He doesn't get there early
He plans on being late
He enters with two backpacks
Then he chains and locks the door
Before he sends his message
He chain locks five doors more
There's no one to disturb him
To distract him from his way
Today he'll become famous
Today will be his day
He heads into the mens room,
Leaves the empty backpack there
Now the doors are locked tight
The truth will come to bear
He opens up the other
And takes the contents out
Once he builds and loads these weapons
They will know what he's about
He heads up to the office
Takes his list out to be sure
Then he fires off the weapon
Blowing holes into the door
It's the first line of his message
"HI....it's me ...I'm Here!"
The staff just stand there startled
"It's okay...the end is near!"
He herds them down the hallway
Past the classes to the gym
Around the school the word is out
They will remember him
He opens up a classroom
Sprays his message there inside
They won't find out till later
From the burst....nine kids died
There's screaming in the hallway
Kids are running from the class
He turns and mows five more down
"They forgot their school hall pass!"
He gathered up three more here
Moved along and shot two more
Then he came up to a classroom
And he opened up the door
The students here were cowering
In the corner, by the wall
He was smiling at them sickly
He was having quite a ball
He went over to the window
Saw the cop cars all arrive
By the time that he was finished
They would not all leave alive
He knew kids would have cell phones
And they'd be phoning right away
They'd call the cops, their parents
But today, would be his day
His Buddy Holly glasses
looked askew upon his face
But he didn't care about them
And he put them back in place
He took them to the gym now
He'd already chained the doors
There would not be any windows
On his way he shot three more
News crews arrived directly
They already knew his name
They'd all tweaked on to his message
They didn't like his game
Phone calls from survivors
Told the police who he was
they didn't know his reason
They didn't know his cause
They went to his apartment
Found the note there on the wall
"Today, you'll know about me..
I'm gonna **** them all"
The SWAT team broke the first door down
And they went from room to room
They hurried out survivors
Past the ones who met their doom
Before they chose to venture
Down the hall into the gym
They had to find a method
To try and contact him
They knew that he had others
He could use as barricades
And they wanted them out safely
Before they tried a full out raid
So they called on one kids cell phone
Got him on the phone to tell
The reason for this slaughter
The reason for this hell
"No one here remembers me"
"I'm a zero, I do not count"
"Before the day is over"
"The numbers, they will mount"
"I'm a cipher in the background"
"I'm the one that no one sees"
"But before today is finished"
"You will remember me"
It was obvious to the SWAT team
He had chosen "Death by Cop"
As a way to spread his message
They would have to make him stop
They kept him on the phone to talk
While they worked in through the roof
He would find out from a snipers gun
His was not the only truth
A small hole in the ceiling
Gave the line of site required
And it only took five seconds
Before the snipers gun was fired
It hit him in the forehead
Threw him back against the wall
And as he slid down floorward
They burst in from the hall
That day he left his message
People would not forget his name
And it's ten years after
And they still all know his name
Outside there is no statue
They built a fountain there instead
On the floor in cobalt tile
Are the names of all the dead
His message reached the world that day
He murdered twenty two
They all know all about him
He got what he set out to do.
It's sad we know the shooters
Victims names to us are lost
So, please forget this young mans message
And remember what it cost.

Poems of Remembrance

War is defined as a form of political violence however I rather hate to like the following quote by this Prussian military general in 1832

"War is thus an act of force to compel our enemy to do our will."

We vote in our leaders to refrain from such yet allow them to use us as pawns in their world.I will be remembering and thanking all those who have will and do give up their life's so that i can at least be free to make such thanks

............................................
Lest we forget

The stench of decay hung in the air
Along with the gases from the badlands
Rain had turned the trenches into another bog for the day
STAND TO LADS !!!
the Sergeant barked his mornin song

Spell broken by the first shell of the morning
lucky day ...BOOM .....lucky day
Breakfast usual as the new boys showed no fear
Hide ya head son as another disappeared
Snipers doing their work already...
A scream now silenced short

The morning hate over
Patrolling life began
SHhhhh!! no gunfire
The 2 sides master plan
Machine guns a ready shall cut you complete
Hand to hand and man to man
Bayonets flash besieged

Returned to base to lick their wounds
A fight amongst the rats
Black and brown did rule the roost
A feeding frenzy plan
The lice did all they could to help
Trench fever did its dance
Another day
STAND TO!!! he barked
We stood with baited breath

This was what they signed for
A short war all at plan
And what did they all die for
This life I thank you man

Lest we forget

.......................

A Poppy Remembered

A flower held hand as the young girl
reaches up for her mothers grasp
The reddest of velvet's reflected from
her tears on eyes as her poppy
stands proud and straight

Remember their sacrifice
As you join in their stand
An honour to hold one
Red poppy to hand

She knows why she's standing
She know no return
Her father not here now
His never come home

He fought for his country
He fought for his life
He fought for his honour
His family
Our life

Remember this girl that cries every night
No father to hold her
Is gone from this earth
Yet she is the proudest
A daughter could be
Because of her father
Gave life
For you
...and for me

........................
Poppy day

In between the hills lays a land of green green grass
Where the heavens made their love of life
And gods sung of such sight
Be the lands that they did fight for us the green green grass

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

In battle times and truces found the land did best it could
Yet all of them who fought for us they knew and understood
The green land see found their place to die for poppy's blood
A land we wished we all could live a world of peace and love

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

Someday the land will fill our souls and peace will win the day
The green green land will be our rest god bless to all we pray
In those who fought so we could see the green green land this way
We praise and silence once a year remembrance poppy day
.....................

Remember

Remember what they fought for
Remember why they fell
Remember all the killings
The living life in hell

Remember what they did for us
Remember who they were
Remember all the people
That they did fight and fall

A day to show our pride
A day to bow our heads
A day to mourn our family
Lest we forget

I was born on Sepetember the third of 1998.
I was born two weeks early,
but I, to my mother,
was always a week late.
I've always been in-decisive.
You see, some people are born
holding AR-15's,
But I was born holding a
bright red bubble gun.
Maybe it's just that I'm
a girl, but I
barely know what a gun is,
much less
how to fire one.

My brother was born
three weeks early,
his gun was fully loaded,
stocked full of ammunition.
He easily fires round after
round of laughs straight
into the crowd.

When I was little, I
couldn't tell when people's
ammunition was real
and when they were
just firing blanks.
whether all people had
bubble blowers like me,
or if I was peering down
the barrel of a long bellied
rifle-snake.

my Father tried to warn me,
but my mother re-assured
him this was a
"phase I would grow out of,"
my brother tried to prepare
me, even
gave me his dart gun
full of laughing gas,
but I couldn't get the
hang of it.

It wasn't until later that I
learned if you wanted
to shoot straight,
you couldn't shoot up
first.

On the first day of
third grade, I
brought my bubble blower to school.
I thought that since
guns were illegal,
I would be immune.
I didn't know that
even a dull
toothpick is enough
to penetrate
a bubble that I
used to think was stronger
than steel.

But you.
You were always different.
You know how they always
say, "Don't bring a knife,
to a gun fight,"?
Well you brought yours
anyway.
A green jagged dagger
with your name engraved on
the side, Jaiden.

On that first day of third grade,
we were brand
new insurgents.
We lacked the right kind
of ammunition to survive
in the jungle they
called third grade.

I've always been a quick learner,
but. You
stuck out like a sore
thumb.

You see, you talked
a little funny,
and hitched your pants up
when you ran.
And you weren't exactly
what they called,
"pretty."

Sometimes differences
make you more alive.
But mostly they paint upon
you a big red bullseye.

Some people,
are born with snipers
in their hands,
Jaiden

And the snipers, they
didn't have a hard time finding
the big red target painted on
you.

I lucked out, you see,
I've always been
a fast runner.
And somewhere along the road
to fourth grade,
I exchanged my red bubble blower
for a black ****** rifle.
And it wasn't that much
different for me to
Run and zigzag.

Jaiden! Don't hike up your pants.
Just run and zigzag.
Jaiden, Please! just Run and zigzag
Jaiden! You won't survive this!
Just Run and zigzag.
Jaiden, Please just
run and zigzag.
Please.

We loaded guns full of ammunition,
well placed taunts
aimed directly at her flaws.
We picked her apart.

Jaiden Bailey moved the next year
We made her life a living hell.
When given a choice,
Be a bully or be the bullied,
with much shame,
I admit I chose the opposite
of Robert Frost.
I chose the road more traveled by
And that has made
all the difference.

It's an army I'm facing:
A hundred marker-wielding,
Bespectacled preacher-teachers
With a set process, a formula
Defined by science
And tried by no child
Without consequence. It's
A national army, banners waving.

I pledge each morning to my
Country. (Thank you, great army,
For my life as a free child!) Then I
Sit in my assigned seat; I finish my
Assigned work. When the lesson
Ends, my friends and I discuss
(Thank you for amendment two!)

Our distrust of double-meanings -
Our distrust of everything - too
Many contradictions in a day.
All this while the snipers aim, (like
Strikebreakers coming to claim
The rabble-rousers) (Thank you for our

Peaceful assembly rights!) they remind us
To work hard for faraway and free days,
College parties with dean( drill sergeant)'s
Iron eyes over our (soon-to-be) soldier
Shoulders. (Thank you for privacy rights!)
We are reminded to
Complete our assignments quietly.
(Thank you for free speech.)

As a child
I wasn't really afraid of the dark,
There weren't really monsters in my closet and the feeling of checking under my bed was never something that I had to fear,
But as I grew older,
I learned that the monster was always in a far away place,
I learned in school that monsters didn't really exist and there was nothing I should have to fear,
I grew up in a Christian home
Learning that in some way I needed to be saved and I accepted that protection
Learning that living in hell for eternity was worth being saved from
But in my innocence I forgot about the monsters that live here
As planes are crashed into buildings
And snipers in cars
Inciting terror upon innocence
As a child in a free nation is oblivious to the fact that there is something to truly be afraid of
Something that's hidden
The cracks in the glass of this facade only seem to spider across the dark crevices of my brain wishing to...
Wishing to be free
Clawing their way up my throat
Asking for forgiveness instead of permission
Wishing to let go of their bonds because the only thing that's keeping them there is the thought that they could be kept at bay
Brittle chains with keys in the locks and the only thing that stops them from being set free is us
I've been told the eyes are the window to the soul
That if you look closely you can see their thoughts and desires
And demons
And as it turns out I'm blind to the fact that when I try to look in the mirror
That monsters won't chase me in my sleep and claw away at my soul

That no one is in control of the monsters
The monsters are in control of me.

Humanities greatest lie is that we can save our selves.
The monsters won't be free because we won't let them take control until they do
And this great deception has conceived this monstrosity that nobody has seen because everyone is afraid to look inside ourselves to see how awful the wound really is
We can't see our own glass houses caving in
The monstrosities of this world are our own creation
With homicidal tendencies
and a Picasso like disposition
Spraying our own blood upon this ripped apart canvas and calling it art

As a child I was told monsters didn't exist
That, the monsters were in a far away place
They couldn't attack me in my sleep and that there was nothing to fear in this world
I just didn't realize it was all in my head.

As children we are afraid of the monsters under our bed
Asking our parents to look under neath them for us so that they can prove that it's just our imagination,
"There's nothing to be afraid of" they tell me
Running to the parents room in the middle of the night to ask to stay with them because we don't grasp the reason why we are scared to begin with.
I wonder if nightmares are from the monsters trying to be free
Breaking out of their shackles of our parents lies telling us that monsters don't exist,
That there's nothing you have to fear because the monsters can't touch you.
And you as an innocent young child convince yourself that they only tell you facts because you can't comprehend that,
It's all in your head,
The greatest lie that the devil ever told was that he didn't exist,
The second is that there are no monsters,
Lying to ourselves cause we are the monsters
And they lie to us so we put them off as non existent
It was all... in my head.

I'm gonna ask you to look in my eyes,
I wonder,
I wonder if you can see mine

Like ******* a **** and you can't get hard,
Like rolling a blunt that's full of glass shards,
Like a bowling stunt where the pins are yards,
Away and you must stay put loaded with gin and not on guard,
While there's jaywalkers walking cross the alley and snipers far,
Up both sides, moss covered camouflage dilly dallying,
Falling comets, planets and stars while you ***** black tar out your scars, Sick spurting **** out the pit of your face and tripped on a lace falling down along with Mars.

Faster than my **** grows when I'm hitched, race-cars, bullets, and the suicide of a suicidal emo ***** with a mullet, grab the **** and pull it off and roll it up like the glass when you rolled it in the paper faster than a rapers hips going twitch twitch twitch, ***** you know it, she's on the list.

But you're soft and no fist can fit and what the **** is this about, just **** I coughed up and spout out my mouth, if it makes sense, even a little, I am not dense with my rhymes, raps, and riddles, there's meaning to it all, whether its beaming or dull, but I guarantee it's full and fits and flows when I say it to a T, you say my **** blows, well that's just mean, you say it's great, my confidence ovulates, so use it as bait as I eat off this plate, this 5 star rated treat elevated to six star cuisine meat.

I'll continue later in few poems that are greater and like haters, I won't stop planning and plotting out **** like these lyrics, I'm a creator.

The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.

It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.

And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.

Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.

Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.

****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.

it's a paradox of yevgeny zamyatin, that the true rebellion is caused by a stress of the necessity of dreaming... talk to any schizoid individual and you find they're the dream manufacturers... dreams happen in the safe environment of the laboratory of the unconscious... they're the socially acceptable hallucinations... it's even socially acceptable to interpret them... which i find very odd... why should unconscious hallucinations be socially acceptable and profitable and career crafting and conscious hallucinations be socially stigmatised? ah the safety, the environment of the freduain interpretation of dreams: well... he's ******* asleep, isn't he?! ******.

after my usual walks drinking, i tend to enter the
realm of heat and christmas tree
a little bit too brooding,
i just painted a picasso or a kandinsky,
burnt it, and then am told to "plagiarise" it...
i don't like the approach nietczsche had
taking a notebook with him
and writing his thoughts written,
i like the way my faculty memory
eats the immediacy of thinking
as counter to the translation of descartes'
theory equating existence with thought
as if thought could prove i exist
thus uncoupling it from the original:
thought and doubt.
memory is central by comparison,
i have the revision from the miscarriage of descartes'
aim: memini ergo cogito.
it makes sense, given i started the night off
buying three san miguel bottles at tesco,
buying five beers at the turk,
spotting russell the schizoid-affective man
huntched in a corner...
told him five minutes max...
started talking with him
about the ol' sailor's narrative... turbulent noons
and midnights with a bottle of jack...
wide eyed russell every time i speak to him
reflected...
i remember drinking my first coffee aged 7...
i was born with a heart condition...
i shouldn't have... live dangerously though...
drank it... magic!
i remember the taste even now.
the cognitive me is not the existential me...
odd, isn't it?
i should have kept the original kandinsky,
but i burnt it and kept the plagiarism...
why is it that the function of memory
is paramount to mental health?
this prof. of psychology itemised this girl
who's north mania south an airplane descending
from the height vector with the ears popping...
why is it that i can remember me aged 7
and most people got cheated into total engagement
in life in the orientation of satisfied or dis-satisfied
expression of puberty?
if the faculty of memory is not defended
then diseases enter...
not one of the diseased is like an original adam,
like translation of original adam, i.e. mozart beethoven
einstein...
good enough to be without plain jane as narrator
and puppeteer...
let the strings do the talking, please!
i'm in love with ****-****** literature...
take that **** of yours, that suitcase
of ***** stockings to your mother to give it a eco-friendly
spin of the washing-machine...
**** that crap should that crap enter my heart...
you heard of ****** latin? i think you have,
it's not church slavonic, it's rude latin...
the type of thing that adds oil on the cogs
and makes you adherent to the philosophy:
pause for thought or pause for fake vocabulary?
i sweat with oaths to add fluid...
if you're offended by **** and not fck you
must be really appreciative of pronography...
so they said: we must rid the word of a vowel
and expose the people with **** corn bits between the teeth!
well... it worked...
i didn't tell you remember the pythagorean theory
you were taught aged 12... i told you
to remember you aged 12... like i remember nathanel
with his briefcase in year 8 in math class...
like i remember this english teacher's legs
when i dropped the pen to loon inside the stash-load
of pooddles and *****...
like i remember racing a guy from bałtów
to ostrowiec and winning: he on a tour de france bike
with anorexic model tires and
my on mountain bike fatties...
i told you memory is crucial... given our thought explored
inanimate things as the perfection of our knowledge,
given our thought explored animate things
as perfectly categorising man and animal alike
thus mis-interpretating ourselves, oh the sacrifice of
the perfectly catalogised atom among the toothbrushes...
a convo of assortments...
it's perfect knowledge in relation to inanimate things...
the sort of thing which is question:
but atoms are animate things... calling them inanimate
just because they're invisible doesn't give you a
right to driftwood clung to in robinson cruseo's shakespearean friday.
hence the passing inspiration... so dull now
that i only feel inspired to pour myself another whiskey
and justify the meaning of relaxed.
associate yourself with the world,
hardly many of us will end of with the genius score of don juan,
we're in an environment of strict biology,
we're told that memory governs our world
with the world being on the quest to repeat...
and it does repeat... sounding the encore of biting frost,
sounding the encore of delighted shadows of summer
having postponed snipers to shoot them dead with night...
the world that inquires per se via repeat
only divinites man's faculty that's memory,
and quickly attacks it in revenge by dementia...
imagination is left to the murderers' who fancy
all the hues of red on the face....
this world is not pleasant to those who think,
to those who couple thought with imagination,
and to those who couple thought with memory...
alas... such few increments are left to re-discover
after being taught the uselessness of centimetre
when no centimetre knowledge is used in their
mechanisation of a profession.
that bit monkey less than man already happened
contradictory in theoretical terms
given the diversity whereby man's diversity
per se cannot explain the diversity of each thing
using evolutionary relativism, niche by-product concerns...
penguins will always make it to antarctica...
no banker or plumber on antarctica... just
scientists who started the whole expedition as
worth anything by counting penguin eggs...
indeed... ah this is going nowhere...
i don't believe in evolutionary relatvism
like socrates didn't believe in moral relativism
theft is punishable with the cutting of the hand
that stole... ****** is punishable with the cutting
of the head - it's all really related)...
and the aesthetic relativism is as true as: beauty
is in the eye of the beholder -
to that girl in the night near the church
walking with a concerned friend
concerned by her attractive panda-eyed mascara expression.
most of the time i find the inherent vice of jungian
interpretation of poets
to be a case of narration: poets don't write enough
to be valued! i respect fictional occupants of the
equivalent hammer of a labourer writing long paragraphs!
well, true enough... any idiot would suddenly exclaim
a symptom as: i differentiate that i'm a constant inspiration
for a non-existent narrator, and the symptom i differentiate
from true to fake by the fact it hinders my faculty to think...
pronoun shrapnel i call it... auxillary pronouns
that benefit me to expand my thought on a levelling
that did not want to see in monochromatic divergence
of continued with linear-ism akin to horse blinders
that only exposed a corridor where a valley could have stood
for the eyes to be inspired by.

I was celebrating as normal I'm not sure why besides oh yeah duh I'm the most awesome writer in the history of this site .
The bar was empty as usual the old crowd had been abducted by aliens and replaced by children whom seemed to believe I truly gave a **** that there five day relationship had just fallen apart yeah live on your own bust your *** to exist then tell me how ******* hard life is okay kiddies.

It came through the wire a message that read.
Dear Gonzo I just read your recent co write and wow was I impressed
It's so great to see established writers giving new writers like yourself a break.

It appears this juvenile hamster had smoked a little to many bath salts today for they had no clue as who my ego fed **** was how dare they.
Yes kids isn't it a shame when all the kick *** drugs were discovered by your grandparents ?

Look don't reinvent the wheel if it gets you ****** up stick with the **** that hopefully doesn't make you trip ***** and lock yourself in a closet with a butcher knife .
That's why I stick with the mild stuff like herion.

I was just about to write this writer wanna be a long and thoughtful response telling them in a mature way to go **** themselves when yet another message came in .

Hey Gonzo loved your co write I always wanted to co write with a true writer any chance you could ask Helen if she would write one with me ?

Dear lord man these kids were higher than Justin bieber's  over inflated ego yeah he's going to put out a new album yeah you been warned .
.
Another message came in in one after the other it was like I was driving a ******* ice cream truck on a hot summer day every bed wetter and ****** picker running down behind me with there snotty little dollars clutched in hand didn't these children know I hate kids .

Well all except for barley legal hot ***** with low self esteem cause I truly love helping misguided ****** yeah I know I'm such a thoughtful ******* aren't I?

I couldn't take it I slammed the laptop shut and turned up the jukebox as I poured myself a stiff drink .
At least here at the bar I could escape this insanity .
But the nightmare was far from over .

As I herd the squeal of airbrakes as a school bus came to a stop outside the bar ****** I was being invaded **** why hadn't I infested in those rabid coyotes Lilly Mae  had tried to sell me .

The little ***** hit the door like invaders across are unguarded boarders yeah do you know how many millions of those ******* Canadians slip through every day .
Yeah if only we had snipers then we never would had to listen to Nickleback.

They jumped on the pool table laughed played and really started to **** my buzz as they played there modern crap they called music .
It was like being ***** by a ****** clown and the rest of his fifty buddies that could fit in one car I swear those  *******  can pack a car better than any Mexican I've ever known and for my fellow Latino friends out there I truly meant no disrespect please don't stab me or bounce up and down on my skull with your low rider  .


Hey Gonzo the leader of this dwarf cult spoke up we want a co write with you.
Um like hell I will Frodo just take your sawed off *** and return back to the shire  okay.

**** that stupid lord of the rings joke dork don't you know harry potter is the in thing *******.
The little man had said a mouthful there and being he was a Harry Potter fan I could tell he was probably used to having his mouth full of assorted things like his nerd friends magic staff .

Look sparky or ******* or whatever the hell you name is note to anyone if you don't have *******  I probably wont care what your name is .

I truly hate kids okay and there's nothing in this world that would make me ever write anything with you so just carry your *** cause I'm sure you are missing out on some kickass time to sulk in your room that is more furnished than my entire house and post your bleeding heart sonnet all over your ex girlfriends face book wall alright.


Okay the little hamster replied .
You know Gonzo I'm real sorry you feel that way cause I was going to overlook the fact that you offered me and my friends ***** and tried to get my underage sister to flash her ******* .

It's a real shame I hate to see such a talented co writer go to waste sitting in prison but you don't want to co write with us so I fully understand .

I couldn't believe this little **** was going to blackmail me it almost brought a tear to my eye how demented he truly was .
Reminds me of myself at that age when I blackmailed my sitter into showing me her ******* ahh the preciouses memories .    

I weighed my options co write masterworks of true demented genius or play basketball with guys who had been in so long that they let me win cause I was a hot ***** .

Hmm I had to ponder that one cause I never was very good at basketball duh I'm white and slightly bad humored with racist jokes that if do offend get over yourself it's called a ******* joke okay.


Okay sparky you got yourself a cowriter but can I ask one thing first?
Sure Gonzo shoot.
Well being that I was going to be falsely accused of seeing your sisters ******* maybe I could actually see them?


I don't have a sister you perve I just said that to trap you into co writing for us and finish this stupid *** write cause it's drinking time and I got places to be people.


Until next time hamsters stay crazy Gonzo.

It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns --
It's the MUD,
MUD,
MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet --
It's the RAIN,
RAIN,
RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the ***-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze --
It's the COLD,
COLD,
COLD.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the RAIN,
THE COLD,
AND THE MUD.

The bullet was made by an expert
discovered when removed.
At the autopsy of a young guy
one of several just arrived.
Not a gang war it was known
but a ****** working alone.

The public scared out of their wits
the police under pressure.
Three dead this boy the latest victim
attacks in varied locations.
Was it by somebody from the military
an expert with a unique ability.

No clues was not good to hear
the public afraid to be here.
Tall buildings made them easy targets
when would the next strike be.
Though summer the temperature cold
through information they trolled.

As another victim was gunned down
more evidence was found.
Two teenagers saw a man with a case
get into a city works van.
Contacting with what they had seen
a new image came on the screen!

Every law officer was instantly alerted
a face found to fit description.
An ex soldier with traumatic stress
caution the critical word.
Quickly a sighting was received
the entire force relieved.

A gun battle ensued policemen hurt
not killed in the line of duty.
A swat team eventually shot him dead
in a disused ammunition factory.
News soon spread of the snipers demise
the gloom factor began to rise.

You can never argue with a bullet!

The Foureyed Poet.

“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
I know snipers target medics with
a corpsman's pouch in hand.

“It’s Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.

Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.

A ******* wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.

Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Forty eight Stars on high.

Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.

The lines have been jammed
Very difficult today
Horrific violence from the voices
That are coming out

The brave people going out to protest
Randomly shot in the street
By snipers in buildings
And planes from above

They have no choice now
But to continue
I think the Libyan people
Now have nothing to lose

They are willing to die
To get rid of a repressive brutal regime
And also you should apologise
It's fine to say you made a mistake
But he obviously doesn't believe
They made a mistake
You welcomed him in
You made him respectable
And sold him the weapons
He's using on his people.
You made a mistake
Say that you made a mistake.

- He doesn't believe that he made a mistake.

My world came crashing to a stop
Thirty four  years ago....on 8 December
I can tell you all just where I was
And I'm sure that you'll remember

I mourned the loss of a legend
I sat and cried for he who died
And like people the world over
Our emotions could not hide

Three years before, another
Died, but it didn't mean the same
He was found dead in his bathroom
A brand new image for his fame

I mourned the loss of a legend
One who died, but at what cost
He was a victim of his excess
I didn't feel the sense of loss

Two Men of peace in Sixty Eight
I was not yet seven at the time
Assassins changed the world we knew
It changed direction on a dime

The King of Camelot in waiting
His brothers shoes, this man would fill
But, for a bullett in Los Angeles
Would hit their mark and get the ****

The other man was destined
To die, because he had a dream
But he united those who heard him
It was a surreal as it did seem

Five years before in Dallas
A President brought down too soon
Was it a single snipers rifle
Or another on the knoll there in the gloom ?

For each of us, a moment,
When our world did change it's way
When we asked why did this happen ?
There was nothing left to say

Imagine or Remember
We all have that certain date
Be it November, or December
It was not ordained by fate

Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray
Sirhan Sirhan, Mark David Chapman
Elvis Presley, John F. Kennedy
Martin Luther King Jr, Robert F. Kennedy
John Lennon....ask which ones we should remember.

Oh, brave new world,
What the **** is this
Phenomenal metamorphosis?

I was cocooned by Kafka in Prague
Drank too much absinthe
Shocked by Tesla in Budapest
Shot by Serbian snipers in the rabbit hole
Saved by Jesus in Rome
Had a hell of a time with heathens on a party bus
Walked the rim of Vesuvius
Met a gypsy princess

Came home to mama's basement
Finished reading The Names by Don Delillo
Went back down to Florida
Where I lived with grandma in Spring Hill
Fell deep for a siren
An angel who saved my life
Had a nasty fever dream
Hell broke loose and I wrecked my car

Flew back to Los Angeles
Went to church and prayed
Stayed and worked for the family business
Explored Hubbard's cult, smoked *** and played

Too many sins to mention
I must confess the motherlode
No human here is much like God
How sad it is to know I'm in control

A butterfly pinned down in hell
You can reflect your face or soul

Lip locking over the fishhooks in our cheeks.
I would have bled for you
Even if you never asked me to.
You love feels less like torture
And more like a special type of ****,
A type that transcends a fleeting ****** high.
You keep me high.

We are poisoned harpoon heads
Biting into each other’s flesh.
We are swords clashing in battle.
We are refracting magnets,
Opposing armies holding atomic bombs
On our tongues.

My ribcage is Hiroshima.
Your hands are Nagasaki.
When we come together we make Chernobyl.
Your radiation setting my broken bones.

I just can’t get enough of your
Post apocalyptic voice singing funeral songs
Over the snapping of embers.
Your teeth clacking together like wind chimes
Reminds of the steady pop-pop-pop of machine guns.
Your eyes are the barrels of snipers.

We love in red and black,
Black and blue.
We love in cracking knuckles.
Scars like constellations telling lost stories in the sky,

You reminded me of a vampire
With the way you licked the blood from my lips.
You told me I was the sweetest thing
You’ve ever tasted.
A raspberry in a basket of blackberries.
We just can’t shake this red and black haze.

Remember when you tore my vocal cords
Out of my throat with your teeth?
Remember when I screamed horror movie
‘I love you”s into your mouth?
Remember how it echoed until you swallowed it
Along with my bleeding heart?

You left me ****** and broken,
Do you remember?
Do you remember your baseball bat arms
Breaking my ribcage?
Committing the burglary?
Do you remember the lacerations?
The scabs blooming in the shape of chrysanthemums?

Our love is a car crash.
Crazy and messy and deadly and sad.
But we just can’t look away,
Just can’t walk away.
Our love put me in the hospital
And I’m happy to pay the bills

By: Cedric McClester

Abdul and the pirates
Often used to boast
How they had impunity
Along the Somalian coast
Taking ships whenever
The opportunity appeared
Holding them for ransom
So the ***** could be shared

Then the Maersk Alabama
Came into the sight
Of Abdul and the pirates
Quite to their delight
So they came aboard
Making their demands
But the unarmed Maersk crew
Took it from their hands

Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall

So they took the captain
Who had volunteered
To become their hostage
As towards home they steered
Hoping they could reach
The Somalian shore
Where they would be successful
In demanding much much more

Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall

A team of Navy snipers
Were quietly on the case
Looking for a target
When the order was in place
Abdul and the Pirates
Unwillingly complied
And that perhaps explains
Why it is they died

Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall

So they took the captain
Who had volunteered
To become their hostage
As towards home they steered
Hoping they could reach
The Somalian shore
Where they would be successful
In demanding much much more

Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Evenually who would fall

Abdul and the Pirate
Aren’t around to boast
How they had impunity
Along the Somalian coast
Quite unfortunately for them
They’ve become burnt toast

(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT

"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush

us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"

"Snipers!"

"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.

"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.

Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.

( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).

Or the *** in
the garden shed

which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.

"The bleedy blighter
got away!"

They had followed him
home from Flanders.

Or just...
never went away.

Mother said he'd
lost his....

but he'd play
marbles with us

kids
all day.

Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce

"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.

"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.

We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.

"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.

He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"

but only when he be-
-came squiffy

which was more
than often!

Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"

But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.

A chorus of us kids
belting out:

"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary

but now I know how!"

"War is all about
saving your skin!"

Most of his mates
lost theirs.

He still calls them
by their names

as if they are
just...there.

"The ghosts of the sofa!"

They sit and watch
the radio with him.

"Manchester Utd 2 -"

He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.

Left his left leg
in a trench

but still loves
to dance.

"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before

no less...no more!"

More and more
often he hides

under the stairs
eating raspberry jam

or marmalade
in the dark

crying now
in English.

Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.

He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"

And loudly the cupboard
it sings.

"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face

is..."

(Fred lost his...)

I always remember him
coming out to salute

surrender to us
as he recites

in a little child's voice.

"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta

you'll never get yer *******
in a corn beef can."

at standard cruising altitude
sipping my digestive
after a quite decent hot lunch
on the flight from Vienna to Athens

I gaze through the scratched
double plexiglass bulleye
shielding me from the outside world
and try to pierce the blinding haze
of a lazy spring afternoon
hiding from me

   the people shot by snipers
   the shelling of suburbs
   the burning houses
   the crowded hospitals
   of Sarajevo, Gorazde, Mostar, Zadar ...

suspended in diffuse light
all I can see is
   the silhouette of an occasional
       snow-capped mountain range

there is no sign
of human suffering

*May 1992

So I hear the word
this Poetic World
has some unnecessary criticism
Not the constructive kind
not building anything
just tearing it down?
Why?

Not anything anyone wants to hear
apparently
maybe that's the fear
Pretty hard to understand motive
when we don't even understand it ourselves
Constant contradictions
Unrealistic predictions

I'm sure you'd cut your nose off to spite your face
Hoping to get their goat
that they are thin skinned
I hate clichés
Doesn't leave much room for intelligence
right?
who doesn't use 'em?
Everything in life is a metaphor
even life itself
truth is only a concept..
the only thing I can imagine is that if you believe it enough it's true
Everyone's version is different
Even swearing on a stack of Bibles
We see things we don't know we do
When choked till blue
A different view
I won't tell you what you want to hear
unless you come real near my ear

I don't pick sides
I'm far from anything but a perfect storm
one that can't be warned to stop
once the wind of calypso blows
And the water shows
I can turn it on like a light switch
strike a soaking match
burn like the fire of your hell
without accelerant
Not arson
You can drag me there but I won't dwell
I've seen the devil face to face
Even he has some poetic Grace
as a fallen Angel might

You don't necessarily have to say anything nice
Can you write it on a grain of rice?
maybe don't say anything at all
or be more articulate
think a little bit before you speak
Or shut that squawking beak,
start talking... there you go.

You never know
who might be listening
Poison arrow with ****** ink it might be glistening
aimed and ready...sights are steady
covers the view from the desert sand, still can see

You'd rather just send a deluge of hate
Bitter taste you can't get out of your mouth
you thought you'd spate
something ate?
spewing
chewing
Like the **** addicts that were eating the face off a homeless person
or the woman on the news who stabbed her four children to death
I got a knife don't want to plunge
So don't you lunge
Plenty of darkness and so-called evil in the world
We can share the stage
I can listen to your rage
or not
and vice versa
We all can be sent to that address
That Abyss
You think anything you're saying is different?
Not very poetic.

Are you an emotional vampire?
Cuz I'm guessing you're just trying to be a literary one
Do you think you have some emotional intelligence and the rest of us don't?
Some people might have to look up with that means
That is alright
poets strung out tight
you think this reporter won't cover subjects others won't?
Like an unpoetic war....
Paaaalease

That we cower in the corner
Like a well-beaten dog
or a scrambled eggs and mixed messages
Eventually they'll bite back you know
I would just laugh
Not maniacally
Just because I know I'm protected
I'm insured for writing this down
I hate to run you out of town
I'm running out of time
We all are
so stop wasting it

I got a gun it's a 45
Shoots shotgun shells and hollow point bullets
called The Judge
Just gave her a rub
It decides using my hands and words
If they're heard
might help the Jury and trigger the Executioner

I won't to ask you treat me the way I want to be treated
cuz I don't know that myself
And I sure as hell don't know how you want to be treated
Personally I don't really read into any messages from sources I can't trust,
there's tetanus in that crusty rust
Too many big problems
just past twelve
send in demon elves
Be careful who you pick fights with
Even that friendly dog will turn
Not sure you'll ever learn
I hope there's no need for extreme rendition

Some people belong to clandestine services
Maybe recruited really young
Couldn't confirm or deny
Really wouldn't want to make you cry
anything but your own tears
Where do you think all that newly discovered water in the center
of the Earth comes from?
More water than all the oceans rivers and seas on the surface...
So
everything we believed about how this Earth..how it was created, formed was WRONG.

The people who are absolutely certain
are the ones I trust the least
Keep thinking they're going to discover the God particle
is that what you're looking for?
We're not going to find the answers
if we don't stop asking
questioning everything
we die.

get a picture of the force?
so don't make this an outbreak
leave that scab alone
don't touch anyone else
Unless they want to be touched
where the want to be
let alone what you don't understand
agree to disagree
check yourself

There are a lot of Cooties going on
Contagions
and few snipers
got gear
and we got game
You can blame
try to shame
whoever you want
You know the truth just gotta dig a Little Deeper
Listen to the creepers
Or not
Today you got more than big brother watching you

You'll see when you look in the mirror
Better be looking over your shoulders too
have some eyes in the back of your head
Do you see that witch?
A mirage?
Could be worse
you could be deaf and blind.... without those hands,
with no food on the poet Island

Maybe not maybe only in your sleep
Get past what hides beyond skin deep
Look up at the sky when it darkens
Watch swooping blackened wings
guttural things
shadowed figures and crimson eyes
and capes
swarming locusts are a gift

Every fear you have inside
crawling on your skin
Brought up in a Riptide
From the belly of the Beast
Anyone purges in the same
different ways
Today is just another piece of time
another rhyme
Nothing special
Or different....
or is it "the day"?
Anyway..

As I see it All I Got the Magic Eye
So just be careful who you pick a fight with
they might walk softly and carry a big stick
as I drag my baseball bat behind me with my glove and ball caught inside
I hide
Tipping my hat at the winking sun
You hear my cleats Crush against the pavement as I walk
it's the only sound
Until a loaded round
or the sunken broken arrow
taken out by the singing sparrow

Going off in peace
So let me go
Upset enough so you should know
Be careful who you pick a fight with
Tread lightly
Right now I got nothing to lose
The archangels are getting Wild
And I'm their child
not because I'm ugly
I just hate ugliness
Not afraid of 7 years of bad luck
Using that bat on the mirrors
I might be a joker,
a conscience stroker
A poet... you are too and you know it
Hard tellin' not knowin'
Can't get there from here
just be careful who you pick a fight with and I will too
Missiles on standby
Not stand down
banks of your armies clowns
Retreat in defeat
Don't appreciate having to go there
bode

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Several moons before
when we were still strangers
under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain
we lay dormant beside each other
whispering words of white wash
under the cover of a deceiving peace
waiting for the next shell shock.

Dizziness would rise
quickly in as the water in the brain
fizzed like soda
bursting into effervescent bubbles
lining oozing cracks
smelling like petroleum.

And then we'd rise
from our self-made graves
sprinting across no-man's land
leaping over the gorge of death
playing with the volcanoes below
and dancing snipers.

Juggling that we'd be able to
sweep through the next jungle
burn its corpses
gorge on its juices
dismembering the world

and in its infanticide the clouds
would wail in their wake
spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs
while we danced our hollow victory
and onto the coming thunders.

Days and days passed and here we are
lying in graves dug for others
watching the star trails as they pass us by
oblivious in all eternity.

Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down  black tongued roads
Heading to  city centre
Where  others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes

The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and  non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork  patience

The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the  chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.

The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.

The pawns moved on the chess board
  knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew  the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!

The tyres burned slowly
the fires  burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.

The circle begins again today.
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.

The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Septuagint prince scribing on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.