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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

From America I have gone home to Africa
I jumped the Atlantic Ocean in one single African hop and skip
Then I landed to Senegal at a point of no return
Where the slaves could not return home once stepped there
Me I have stepped there from a long journey traversing the
World in search of dystopia that mirror man and his folly
Wondrous dystopia that mirror woman and her vices
I passed the point of no return into Senegal, Nocturnes
Which we call in English parlance crepuscular voyages
I met Leopold Sedar Senghor singing nocturnes
He warned me from temerarious reading of Marxism
I said thank you to him for his concern
I asked him of where I could get Marriama Ba
And her pipe ******* Brother Sembene Ousmane
He declined to answer me; he said he is not a brother’s keeper
I got flummoxed so much as in my heart
I terribly wanted to meet Marriama Ba
For she had promised to chant a scarlet song for me
A song which I would cherish its attack
On the cacotopia of an African women in Islam,
And also Sembene Ousmane
I wanted also to smoke his pipe; as I yearn for nicotinic utopia
As we could heartily talk the extreme happiness
Of unionized railway workers in bits of wood
That makes the torso of gods in Xala, Cedo
As the African hunter from the Babukusu Clan of bawambwa
In the land of Senegal could struggle to **** a mangy dog for us.

Any way; gods forgive the poet Sedar Senghor
I crossed in to Nigeria to the city of Lagos
I saw a tall man with white hair and white beards,
I was told Alfred Nobel Gave him an award
For keeping his beards and hairs white,
I was told he was a Nigerian god of Yoruba poetry
He kept on singing from street to street that;
A good name is better tyranny of snobbish taste
The man died, season of anomie, you must be forth by dawn !
I feared to talk to him for he violently looked,
But instead I confined myself to my thespic girlfriend
From Anambra state in northwestern Nigeria
She was a graduate student of University of Nsukka
Her name is Oge Ogoye, she is beautiful and ****
Charming and warm; beauteous individuality
Her beauty campaigns successfully to the palace of men
Without an orator in the bandwagon; O! Sweet Ogoye!
She took me to Port Harcourt the capital city of Biafra
When it was a country; a communist state,
I met Christopher Ogkibo and Chinua Achebe
Both carrying the machines guns
Fighting a secessionist war of Biafra
That wanted to give the socialist tribe of Igbos
A full independent state alongside federal republic of Nigeria
Christopher Ogkibo gave me the gun
That I help him to fight the tribal war
I told him no, I am a poet first then an African
And my tribe comes last
I can not take the gun
To fight a tribal war; tribal cleansing? No way!
Achebe got annoyed with me
In a feat of jealousy ire
He pulled out two books of poetry from his hat;
Be aware soul brother and Girls at a war
He recited to us the poems from each book
The poems that echoed Igbo messages of dystopia
I and Oge Ogoye in an askance
We looked and mused.

I kissed Ogoye and told her bye bye!
I began running to Kenya for the evening had fallen
And from the hills of Biafra I could see my mother’s kitchen
My mother coming in and going out of it
The smoke coming out through the ruffian thatches
Sign of my mother cooking the seasoned hoof of a cow
And sorghum ugali cured by cassava,
I ran faster and faster passing by Uganda
Lest my elder brother may finish Ugali for me
I suddenly pumped in to two men
Running opposite my direction
They were also running to their homes in Uganda
Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek
Taban wielding his book of poetry;
Another ****** Dead
While Okot was running with Song of Lawino
In his left hand
They were running away from the University
The University of Nairobi; Chris Wanjala was chasing them
He was wielding a Maasai truncheon in his hand
With an aim of hitting Taban Reneket Lo Liyong
Because him Taban and Okot p’ Bitek
Had refused to stand on the points of literature
But instead they were eating a lot of Ugali
At university of Nairobi, denying Wanjala
An opportunity to get satisfied, he was starving
Wanjala was swearing to himself as he chased them
That he must chase them up to Uganda
In the land where they were born
So that he can get intellectual leeway
To breed his poetic utopia as he nurses tribal cacotopia
To achieve east African thespic utopia
In the literary desert.

Thank you for your audience!
Valo Salo Aug 2015
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principles ideas possibilities priests creeps american sensitive jews humans reset americans **** genetic dna diapers ******* muslims idiots optional companies ******* ******* christening jihad imbeciles reincarnation ***** who's what's teeth's self-righteous inside jeans gone **** hello goes smile seconds walls does minutes fun lies lick wet things score dreams thirst hold cheeks taking pull forgot secret dust soldier skin finger son pocket long star shine moon fast earth day stand year sleep peace house need spend comes mind help lie reading count fall hips close disappeared thing rude rust stir sky power family crave surely grow angels truly helpless smell hand driving nail thought created suppose believe personal tune feelings sharpened building messages paper worship word lunch force souls future kind times trail path days record open means perfect distant thousand youth write attention figured famous dj fly offering promise gently high excited enter ecstasy endless faded laughing dreaming short boy sure rain ice bond lip loves man humanity genocide wars food water families corrupted fool gun sorrow ghost buildings wonder step suffering roam bones stained knows delicate suicide catastrophe lab completely marry kitchen read secrets circle grave hunger waters inner filled suffocated ending veins crying deeper stopped insignificant slip non throat explodes gloom stare burger drown mirror endangered cup ears bear shirt voices sins saviour birds sorrows treat selling young crack necessary ego historic symbols travel volcano game scratch ******* confuse spill scream melts following *** known mama speed dress smelly highway speeding washed coat drop absolute intelligence mountains speech wheels father wants rip stains ground save pale surrounded swimming final miles motion sing confused sons sprayed wall swallowed road poets nightmare ***** brains commit possible language golden key useless bombs sake raw john changed takes animal replied stories content track locked drives pit soaked honest everybody horrible gates hall worked understand control meat miracles sheer fed message goodnight split commitment claim knife fur folk madness monks tricks holes creatures terminal idea cracks books diamonds smashing stripped pleasures flowers utmost openly grim bare monstrous weaker everlasting drank banks weather raven hang birthday scar gravity ******* ******* sunny snake yeah square serve sewer odd stiff stem shiny knocked noses duck troops chinese necks uncle stark dig service faster prince bold public utterly plane layer seriously powers strike heroes seven disaster slice trash eternally lawns sowed wife issues lasting kings crawls event diamond significance swallows prisoners bleeds russian friendship oceans matters piled dish cell ******* dieing trains milky haunted fuel lumps seats owned pollution systems vanity champagne degree pump command daughters fortunately talent carpet foolish leg carrying virgins hosts lump dangerous license cleaning crucial cells wedding musicians greater genitals china responsibility knot jet weapon rottening slaughtered decent stolen goat absolutely tool limit possessions snakes righteous ozone happens illusion bounce shabby producing tumbled equal neurons insect biscuit notion link staircase fulfilled chewing ordered gadgets transporting craves stunned strategy damage fragments borders insurance jerusalem panda lasted cultural sluggish ****** member coins eyebrows contains buddha pointing clever virus overwhelmed acts solve classical fluid media mcdonalds widow cloths russia reported babys collapsing tom homeless nearest calculated humour ravenous boiled depend reject phones earthquakes discuss **** ****** misconception prodigal social jane nasty eats president sipping propaganda super electricity fathom spilled carrots liver bored behaviour fault similar ethics commercials sells boiling mortgage donald tons directly apes gruesome civil french passers theory construct crashes abnormal pleaded hack clan eaters delusions flaunt gonorrhea vegetarian taxes rockets leash ripping rational pirates embarrassing dolphin nationality shipping ****** thanksgiving goods deals hopefully nephew flounder kennel ****** communists erupting haircut gays ku klux chins justin draped cerebral usa ***** puke ***** fraction neutral warren fornication belive batteries stoning chopped buddhism tolerate enlightened antibiotics dependence mae apocalypse irrational vise pets comedians sympathies somalia crises terrorists breakdowns peppermint biological ***** disobedience ****** vandals hippie fakes mac bombing nosebleed mafia infamously lesbians berg stylish pr dubai burgers production cruise commander embryos presidents clones gluttons chock ******* illegitimate iphone philosophical yucatan refuges celine inclusive spam dion sanitary waddling mullahs nationalism karl ***** remix sensationalism psychopaths techno disney www punks bombay pomme rappers stucked elixirs bjork mutilations allright lagerfeld enormously elton rabies damien hirst capitalists ravers idealism salaries allready freddie zeitgeist dictatorships invoice asmile berlusconi scarified subjectivity riped ozzy snobbish bnp mcdonald we're you'll we'll beethoven's god's men's arseholes queen's feet's elizabeth's putin duck's einstein's poppop puppy's pig's buffett warhead self-satisfied post-human poo-poo 15 2000 fannie pictorial laundries ****** mahmoud caliphate woodworks biebers frites wonderfulmeaninglessness mujahedins fwarhols pseudo-subjectivity anti-document exstraordinary ahmadinejad behavelike muthafukas somethingeverybodyreally yourlanguage crucialenemies sayevil alicense yourselfwear thatyoudon'tlike someheavy reallymeancontrol andindulge swastikasneversayaword oneincludingyourself yourselfagunandplaywithknifes eraseany heartace parkistan bashra iq's entertanier 28000000 märsk mc-kinny möller onepays isharshand muthafuckasdrop representingallthat toyesor ifno hintsaboutyour tosmallviolentgroupsin societylet andbeseenamongsymbols ifasked cremaster nothingofthisworks andstrangereligiousbehaviours automaticgunandpoppop getdrunkand oddpoint friendswithodd spreadrumours notunderstand ofviewspicksome intosomeviolence yourselfintooblivionaboutyour surroundyourself behavioursand disrespectfuland dotcom
Mark Addison May 2016
After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of


YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:


For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.
Sometimes when you get drunk and write you're able to reach levels of truth and realness that are elusive to the sober mind. This was obviously not one of those times, but I think the result is sort of interesting. The poem sort of depended on a weird format which is not possible on HelloPoetry, but it was intended to have the same effect as the 'B  r   e
           a  t
           h  e   '
or whatever in the middle.
O, why but I am like t'is! Hath I, since t'at last sober night,
as th' wan, dull clouds crept nearby, been bequeathing
tragic, credulous insecurity to myself. Like t'at frail moonbeam
disturbed by starless rain! And a turbulent voyage
didst I take, alongst my dreary sleep, into th' grounds
of scythed lands-full of horror, nightmarish leaps,
and dire-some terrors. Why didst I do so! I hath come, to comprehend
not, why t'is turbulence of brave grossness seemeth like nothing else
but perniciously irredeemable, as though I accidentally, or even
consecutively-inflicted it, without the wakeful knowingst
of my brains. Indecipherable! T'is vacant delirium of mockery, and its abysmal hearth
inside-set alight by invisible flames-torches of hell, and gruesome
shrugs of untimely malevolence. Insatiable deployment, indeed! How
miraculous it would be, should I be free from t'is inconvenience
in th' course of some upcoming days, but still, doth I hope so!
Waggish remarks, jests, and playful turns of ancient riddling-
areth but exchanged outside, with airs so snobbish, from t'ose
pampered youngeth dames, blind to t'eir silenced world's grievous
suffering, and laborous perspiration. How unfair t'eir fiendish hearts areth-
once and againeth-sneering at th' pure, stoical beds of t'ose airy rivers,
andth t'eir dim solitude, with t'ose rings of presumptuous laughter!
Spaciousness in its holy sphere, untouched by th' turmoil t'at lingers on it
surface, neither driven away nor shaken by ungratefulness. Toil
improperly apprehended! And insulted as it might become, tenderness
shalt it leave behind, insolence but be crafted along th' insidious rims
of its face. Marvelous in wild ways! Wild, devilish ways! And unwatched
by th' stomping blokes on its visage, shalt it rise, rise like an unforgiving
tidal wave, soulless in its aliveness, blighting and scratching
t'eir shoulders, with blades unmarred-dormant powers t'at ought not
to be ignored by seconds t'at feebly tick away. And t'eir ends
shalt 'ey meet, granted liberally by t'eir
deliberate neglect, and repulsive indulgence.

In th' nothingness of aggravation I am but naturally not a hard-hearted creature,
too of a stony appearance I possess not-intimate and even, t'at should be how
my being is paraphrased mercifully! With t'ose perpetual-and even limitless-
replenishing jewels of ardour, flawed only by harmless faults, I would consider myself treasured
by nature, o t'at precious creature whom hath so adorably vouchsafed t'is
spring-like life to me; warmth can I gratefully feel in t'is winter every day,
in my prayers, studies, and amongst t'ose invigorating fits
of my daily perambulations. How truthful, aye t'is confession is made! As I am
but a pious, sanctified child, ye' in spite of being a humaneth as I am, a snake is bound
to dwell within my *****, asleep in its quiet slumbers, unawakened so long
as I unbetray my redolent virtues.
But last night! How nigh my soul from t'at anxious burst of agitation,
melancholiness so undesired but abruptly avenged my silence. My indulgent
silence! Th' one frame of my unresting mind t'at I so fastidiously preserved!
Hatred encountered my countenance, and bifurcated my ******
dispositions; flew into anger then I-so sudden as gripped my soul was
by paths of hostility sent onto me-overwhelmed by t'is ineloquent treatment,
howled in despair, and agony was all I felt within my cheerless heart-
until everything amounted into a blurry shadow-insignificant as it was,
but th' fraud was still t'ere-stupefying desire, so ardent within th' leaves
of my conscience, to slaughter even th' most innocent skins-
'till no more breath t'ey shalt but gasp for. And triumph shalt I procure,
ascendancy shalt be painted onto my palms, and opulent pride shalt I be
endowed with, so unlike all t'is hateful remorse, and slithering chastisement!
Amongst t'ose seas of disillusionment; whilst frowning in desperation-combusting
all t'ose wretched spirits wert all I wasth but able to think of;
and all I conjectured wert proven worthy of my thoughts. Inevitable! Entrenched
was its root-t'is flourishing tiny devil on my inner self, as it is-'till th' morning but
retreated and vanquished t'is gust of little hell, which had decoyed me
and my lithe genuineness like a trivial shell.

O dear! My flawless prince, hath thou but thoroughly gone from me?
Still, a painting of thy kiss roam silently th' rooms of my heart. Now scanty
as to emptiness, roaring fussily as to loneliness, for thy being unhere!
Distorted hath been now its breaths-adored only by groans
of misery-like caprices t'at laid unwanted, abhorred by t'eir masters-
for t'eir yesterday's pricelessness, and valuable crowns! How ungrateful masters,
my dear! And how t'eir proceedings shalt recall
t'ose pristine shines, yes, my dear, (of my golden gems) t'at areth gone,
with unsounding returns t'at are unexplainable, and too unattainable-
and shalt remain dim be t'eir whereabouts, amongst t'ese winds
of fervent, but sultry days. O, come back, my love, come back to my arms,
and hate me not, for my threads are woven alongst thy charms-
ah, t'ose threads of life, of soulfulness, and unabashed mortality!
Clashes of feelings, emotions, and mutual usurpation
of endless infatuation. Chaste, and unimpure, passion! Yes, yes, my love-
t'at's how we ou't 'a be, next to t' fireside, lulling each ot'er to sleep,
and welcoming t'ose night dreams with hearts so dear, lullabies
so near to our ears, of t'at unwavering breaths of passion, and unchangeable
affection, for th' rest of our lives! Leave me not-once more, but stay hereth
with me, and make me forgive
and forget cheerethfully t'is seditious, thoughtless, but most of all
irresolute conflagration.
Eryri Sep 2018
I never come here, you understand,
I'm of a higher social class,
But my washer dryer has broken down
And has left me without a single gown.

My dishwasher works fine and my wine rack is full,
But still, expensive washer dryers can breakdown
And make a lady frown.

I've got someone coming to fix it
(We have our washer dryer insured),
I should really get a new one but it's been really rather good...
It's always washed away the stains of fancy food.

Fellow launderer please understand -
as you look rather tough -
I won't judge you if you don't judge,
So let us wash our clothes in unspoken harmony
And make my inconvenience as unawkward as it can be.

But to my shame my snobbish mind assumes the worst;
That every rushing washer
Is thrusting clothes into the machines hurriedly,
Because they've all been on a killing spree.

Now the drying is almost done,
I can leave you with your dreary woes of working life and sleepless nights,
And go right home to dispose of that gun.
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***,
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***,
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***,
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***...
Rai Dec 2011
She wove baskets for a living
Simple lass
Not a penny to her name
But a heart so free
She found her happiness
Floating on the breeze
That held onto her memories
Of a time when

He came full of wealth
Missing something all his life
He saw it in her eyes
A heart so caged
Waiting to be set free

Whisper on the breeze of understanding
As you looked  into her eyes
Sapphire glances
Sadness so complete
As strangers do pass
A match of a kind
But he was so blind

He saw kindness
A face porcelain laid
Dark hair cascading
In ringlets
Dancing onto her shoulder’s so bare
He wanted her too much

When he looked into those diamond eyes
Her rags became another’s disguise
But when he awoke
His mind played a snobbish joke
How dare she look upon his face?
Tantalising
*****
Fool
Fake
How dare she tempt him
With her sapphire sweetness
And pureness of heart

Poor child
She saw his fear
She saw him
Caged
She felt him
Poor child
Who had fallen from a moment’s grace?

Some day she will wear diamonds and pearls
Someday this child will rule the world
One day the noble man will fall a fool
Never to stare into the golden pool

She was an angel
Come to test
The rest of the tale is now
Laid to rest
Overlooked so many times when I was ~wings~
I've passed briefly across the sea of your poetic
Endless streams and rivers; your upheaval way-
Snobbish smart butterfly ties grew your head up.

Without suffocating without any pause, you were
Gentle-man once ~ giving me the 'credibile' break-
Down the lane in Athens where Partenon resided
I saw your unfavouritable pilgrimage to awards.*

*The guitarist at the dock played for herself, dreaming.
Impeccable Space
    Poetess
~
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
Maybe after sighting
Each other buck naked
That ends the fighting
About whose is bigger
Or whose are real.
There ceases to be a trigger
Of envy, or competition,
As being clothes free
One is in no position
To hide behind frippery.

It is difficult to be snobbish
About your fabric and style
When all you are wearing
Is a sun hat and a smile.
Acting like you are a ****
Of taut body and shape
Wearing nothing but a sock
Makes you a target of japes
About getting over yourself
And maybe even getting real.
It really is that kind of situation;
That basic kind of reality deal.

Most of what is artificiality
Disappears when you’re ****.
It gets easier to face reality
And much harder to be rude.
We quickly see that we are
We are sisters and brothers
And we do not need to live
By rules of fathers and mothers.
They were taught to be afraid
Of body parts called ‘naughty bits’;
Words like ‘nasty’ and ‘stop that!’
You adults can say, ‘I want none of it.
I’m through with thinking my crotch
Is something evil, sick and twisted.
Take my genitalia out of the book
Where you have sinfulness listed.
I exist as nature has made me
And it is wrong of you to correct
The natural person as I was born
Being a ***** is just a side-effect
Of being raised by people who
Were never raised quite right.
Maybe if everyone were ****
That would end the need to fight.
Jack Turner Oct 2013
The danger, the thrills, the risk, the chills,
It all combines in wave riding to build
The most euphoric experience around.

It doesn't matter whether it's ten-foot or two-foot,
Nor whether I'm body surfing, bodyboarding, nor surfing - longboard or short.
Hell, even a stand-up board will do the trick... if you know how to use it.
Whatever you've got to use to gain that thrill
That comes with harnessing Mother Nature, even against her will.

Some might be snobbish and frown upon those
Who happen to ride only upon the foam,
But in actuality it doesn't really matter
So long as you're out there having fun, because in the end,
That's truly the one who wins.

And to tell you the truth, I believe that's me.
Scratch that. I know I am.
When I am out there I know I am having the most fun.
I'm whooping and hollering and exuding the raw exultation of being in the water -
Of being at harmony, of being one with Mother Nature.

That, that is what matters, and
That, that is what I embody.
And yet, these feelings can never be wrong
for it is as tantalising as a melodious song.
A superfluous need urges my limp heart to ****
And thy picture shalt I curse towards infinite ill.
I pray thee sigh not, speak not, and draw no breath;
let fire burn down, and dream it is not death.
I figure my love could **** thee; yet I am satiated
with seeing thee live, beside me and next to the dead.
I would praise thy body as sweet fruit to eat
and some serpent's mouth would find thee sweet.
I would find grievous ways to have thee slain
in amorous agonies and superfluous pain.
I would kiss away the glories of thy day and night
and creep into thy joy terrific torches of fright.

I am weary of all thy words and reluctant wrath;
I am devoted to thy dumb tunes and semitones of breath.
Like a fool besotted with thy soft and strange ways
Or a horse splattered in blood before the deer it chases.
Of all love's fiery nights and imaginary contours
I shalt cherish the remembrance of thy kisses and hours.
Thy shuddering lips make my heart fly away blind
and water my mouth like evening ale and fruity wine.
Thy golden hair sends my spines shivering
and my whole conscience, wanting touches, whining.
Ah, thou art more to me than all other men at heart,
becoming and full of decorous and monstrous art.
Thy amorous girdle, and flocks of thee and thy fair
Just like the unseen lilies cloven through thy hair.

Nay, sweet, for art thou God alone?
To whom I pray all night and morn,
and as thy wrath filled me with warmth
and thy remorse still rocked me away with charms.
Ah, loveliest as thou art among the chuckling grass
Like a young bud of rose betwixt its eager mass.
Hath thou made t'is earth and all centuries of the sea,
and knitted all the finest natures so fresh and free?
Taught the skies ways to marvel, every pore of beauty
and charmed my very secrets of virginity inside me.
Ah, and lulled the sun to its sleep at the lapses of dawn
before retreating back into thy heaven and divine lawn.
Crafted stars as feet for adorable morning dew
and replenishing every day so all are bright and new.

And thus my very soul is bound to thee,
holier than every branch of the exalted fir tree
Then every tear that thou might shed shalt be replaced
With my tempting kiss and its vibration and new taste.
For now thy spring of leaves is all safe but barren
Betrayed by its own snobbish and rueful garment
And thy blood streams are pricked away by agony
Hurt painfully by her contentment and gluttony
But let me save thee and clap those fears away
Then by thee forever I shalt duly stay
For thee shalt I give the kingdom of my soul
and the very mirror to its astounded wall
And wrap me around and over and under me
Thy thick blessedness and insuperable sea.
In the ears of mine intention
and heart of my affection
heavier are thy words
than Mike Tyson's punches:
they struck my feelings
hard, breakimg the chords
and jaws of my passion.

Truck of snobbish display . . .
. . . plight blighted . . .
       crestfallen.

Should the sis linger more
in my marooned mind,
who hath belittled my person
and social worth?

Though i'm no Knight--
matter of fact, truly--
neither a nobleman, Miss Beauty,
with riches and a badge
of honour to show forth
my position, eminence and prestige:

wheeling thee about in a Rolls Royce
to diverse paradise of your choice;

yet deserve i no scorn of lips,
high lady,
even if belong nay to the gentry.
Mazen Edlibi Nov 2016
Let me be selfish!
Let me be snobbish!
Let my ego shouts out!
Let my whole being be free from those silly norms!
Destiny might have other plans than what I hope!
Maybe I'm not part of your dreams or world!
Maybe I'm not in anyone's agenda!
Maybe I'm bringing Confusion!
Maybe my Shadow and the Dark Side still there and has its agenda!
                                    If I say "I Love You".....
Am I violating your Values... Your Freedom... Your World!
                                    If I say "I Love You".....
Am I breaking the norms of universe or peoples' or Community's Rules!

I am only voicing what is crying inside me!
I am only voicing the instinct that created by God!
As I am one of his Sons!!!!

Do I still need to care about those Norms anymore!
RW Dennen Jan 2015
Moments of total nothingness,
you don't deserve it, just because you're unknown
Your greatest virtue lies within
your inner dialogue between one
Your audience smiles at your achievements,
as you look into a mirror applauding a reflection
Prolific insight woven and painted by your pen
is sadly wasted, unraveled and sloshed by bias
esoteric and snobbish, the twins of bias,
sit on high poetic mountains of celebrity,
while filing away your non-read thoughts into
deep, deep trashcans
Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you?
Your body was found puddled,
In blood that oozed out behind your head,
In your car you slept humble as in life,
Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi,
You were smiling in death as you ever did in life
Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed
Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads,

Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful
Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind
You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect,
The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never
Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience,
As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty,
In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible
Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed,
Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home,

Only to work at home with vintage discipline,
Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth,
Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you
With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal
As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if...
Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark
Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and
Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced,

Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you?  was it a man or a woman?
Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso?
Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich?
The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth
You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car,
God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living
For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how,
You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair,
In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos,
Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists,
Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt,
Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town,

Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity
An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven,
An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers,
Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son
They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow,
They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,
By Alexander Opicho
(From Lodwar, Kenya)
This poem is written in memory of my intellectual friend, Jacob Okisegere Ekirapa, he was killed in August 2015 by being bitten to death and left in his own car in the road-side gorge at Kanduyi, along Nairobi –Kampala road, his killers have never been known, but work-mates and tribesmen from Teso community, Bungoma County are the key suspects
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
horror movie tactic: or the abrupt / concentrated
                                                                              crescendo -
                              the shrill -
the chalk on the blackboard -
                                  all there, horror prime is
not the images,
                       but the music,
                                                  horror is defined by
music - the the lack of -
                           as are epics, with humanity being
inspired rather than ****** -
                and i dare say, i made my first collage worthy of
the aged Matisse: exhibit (a) a newspaper,
(b) a packet of cigarettes,
                       (c) a bottle of whiskey
and finally (d) heidegger's pondering(s) ii - vi;
i told you i was mad enough to buy a copy instead of:
when books are concerned, it's hard to imitate a
taste for designer ware, for a:
        my great grandfather invented / founded so and so...
how easily you can become elitist with books,
a bargain at £30 when usually $60...
                                        and, honestly?
i do feel less snobbish and more powerful,
                 i wield a variation of Egyptology's term:
precious artefact, something from the Third *****,
an intellectual output that doesn't bother Schindler
and the cinematography of the kamiński
red, amongst all the obvious bloodshed -
here's me, some years from the devastation,
feeling insecure about the need to call them Jews
(when they were primarily Poles) to anti,
  to anti justify when the two labels are considered
with variation on the pristine assumed nature of
Israel's policy -
                      sounds different when you consider them
Poles rather than Jews -
                           and here i ventured into the complexity
of thesaurus rex stomping ground the dictionary
keeps reverent - i'm not an Catholic escapist artist,
you won't find any argument to suit my awareness there -
          Jesus can have my writ of concerned antisemitism -
i already said that the tight-rope event by a Frenchman
was and will forever be more spectacular than
the crucifixion -
                                             he was a prophet born
without a conscious involvement in the three magi
and the star of Bethlehem -
                                       i don't believe he was born to be
recipient of a pristine banking on the matter:
         that all depends on how we behaved later,
evidently the Romans respected Jewish c.v.
none were handed down to Roman authorities to
build the coliseum - they were left pristine in their
Pharisee guises, and then the supposed "god" (level
it with the existentialists, the ditto means ~, approx.
or ambiguity, passed down, like a neared concern with
mythology) usurped the religious movements
the Roman respected and never employed the rites
of passage prescribed by Ramses and Nebuchadnezzar;
          or as i continually say:
you rather hear the word ****, or your face being
punched by my fist?
                                       why not, why not talk
***** and keep the *** acts pristine in accordance with
the rule of life? you think that not talking *****
will keep your ****** ******* haloed?
                   for the case of life: i rather talk *******
and **** with effectiveness than
                 put my tongue into a ****** and talk
pretty pretty, and **** like an imbecile...
                                      because i need to become a fuhrer
when she's doing her bit, and i'm doing her bit...
                i equate censoring peasant cordiality with
the things that destroys us: famines, earthquakes etc.,
   with the rise of ****** perversity -
to not talk oath words is as much as talking ******* pretty
and engaging with paedophilia -
                    or something quiet similar to it.
          **** me, talk *****, you don't even have to eat
shellfish: the grand scavengers of the depths -
                      better talk ***** than throw punches
or engage in unspeakable blasphemies;
so why are they trying to make you talk pretty
when you're bound to stuff that **** in your mouth?
you think that will resolve the matter,
thinking *** is ***** thereby enforcing a pristine way
to say hello; really?
              because that's where it's heading -
and it won't do much good when you say:
i can't say akin with the lark what the hell i want,
because another force is rummaging in the same area
saying: i can do what the hell i want, with or without
****** annoying lark singing me onomatopoeia(s)!
              sure, a mind that feels caged will flutter into
ambivalent freedom with the tongue,
       as will a tongue that feels caged flutter into
ambivalent freedom of the tongue:
enter?           a Rothschild -
         have you noticed how things have changed since
Descartes equated the dualism of thought and doubt
as the medium of being?
         apart from Heidegger, the finite increment posit
of what's the centimetres of a person's lifetime?
i think
                1 centimetre
                                        i doubt
                                                       1 centimetre
           precipitates into
                                                i am
                                                                 also, 1 centimetre,
existentialism took the i doubt from the equation
and replaced it with: i deny -
                                                and so called it bad faith...
denial is a subtler version of lying, or perhaps: a more
eloquent expression of it:
       god, i acknowledge the fact that the thesaurus is
an enemy of logic - i.e. close proximity synonyms and
                                      extensively divergent synonyms:
the first tool of rhetoric exposed,
i.e. say red ten times... sure!
      crimson, burgundy, wine, rust,
                      ruby, dahlia, geranium, maroon,
              scarlet, titian
                                               (nouns are primarily synonyms,
their existential purpose is to be synonyms,
   to compensate the existential flaw in Darwinism in
terms of the high tier of variant evolutionary consideration
        and investing in / creating a manageable vocabulary,
kindred of agricultural expertise / -ease, not as suggested
       aesthetic; tee off, a variant wording: games aside,
    but truly a word game, or golf; mankind has staged
the greatest war with its communicative system:
politics v. crosswords: two games - and none are enjoyable,
better leave the games to the symbols 0 - 9);
oh right, d'uh, back to the Rothschild "problem",
                you confront someone like that,
you won't hear a word of doubt, you'll hear the words
of denial... the point is: stunted emotional withdrawal -
just put the whole dynamic into a school playground,
                     people like that can't doubt their actions,
they can only deny them, which is why existentialism
exposed an very emotional variation of cogito ergo sum,
       the sentio ergo sum, or what one calls the Cartesian
extension: c.c.t.v. - like any viral infection: mass paranoia
stemming from a dichotomy rather than a duality
imbued by thinking and acting according to a balance.
the worded confrontation is a summary of a delayed reflex
of the staged confrontation, hence the need for the status of
"the shadow people", to deny and then exert force is
to deny and then to later manipulate certain factors into
an equation: bomb a place, **** anonymous "a", etc.,
             the fact is: it's algebra incorporated into language,
the general concern being about: the nonsense of
a Mr. Smith class system incorporated into all the brickwork
layers of the pyramid...
       sure, a Rothschild will feel vulnerable when question,
and he'll deny rather than doubt, and he'll think his
***** is 1 centimetre tall when ***** and is protruding from
his forehead... but that same person will react with
the "doubt" part of the equation:
                           he'll invest in an arm's deal that will
slaughter ten thousand Colombians over a kilogram
of *******... and he'll then doubt whether those ten thousand
Colombians had social security numbers or passports
or whatever it is they actually had...
                     courtesy?      sure: doubt they ever did anything,
keeps you thinking...
                        deny them the idiotic lie of proxy?
oh sure: they're into higher powers too! don't you know
that evil also works miracles?
                          there are proxy miracles,
are there are immediate miracles of: well, why not be
a saint for the day?
                                 my advice is:
doubt propels thinking, it's an instigator of thinking
  which some call: non-being...
                                but i consider thinking to be a variation
of being:
                                 as in: an aversion to watch a football match
and join a herd...
                       negation? the existential alter to coupling
thinking that's to translate into being?
      &
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
could this interlude, have possibly been
an a.i. experiment?
             let's face it,
   i can't remember the last time i played
games, drunk...
    but then i did grow up with playstation UNE
and didn't concern myself much further...
but i was in a waiting line for
the past week or so...
    and i thought that i'd relax...
    well: esp. if it's a multiplayer game -
WAR ROBOTS -
                     and while everyone was
fighting - and the prize was:
to hold the beacons for the majority
of time...
                    so i walked my Galihad to
an empty space...
            and, well: we won...
                i'll say another thing:
                my mother loved Tetris -
which probably translates as Candy Crush
saga these days...
               i don't mind...
               gaming used to be a very Saturday
morning ritual for me...
              i even did homework on Friday
nights, ****!
        - but gaming has changed so much -
for one i don't remember playing
games drunk - with a backache -
soothed by 250mg of Naproxen -
               but then again:
last time i gamed was when i was a school...
     but it started bugging me -
  the 502 & 504 errors -
   so i bid on a gamble:
               is this about filtering automatons?
you know, like entering text akin to:
no grammatical structure?
           i said to myself:
   you've been waiting for about 2 weeks
to finally get that white piece of pixel -
do something that is counter-intuitive...
   so i read about the 502 & 504 errors...
timeouts... ah! wipeout!
         a playstation 1 primer...
   when did i last play games drinking?
    i was already Colonel Kurtz in the game -
because i can't even remember if i ever
played a multiplayer game online
  with other live users
              since... never...
                         back when it was all about
Tenchu and Final Fantasy VII -
and the bedroom's worth of a Saturday morning...
so i was probing the past few days
with generic entries to bypass
  the 502 & 504 timeouts...
turns out "a.i." feeds on content worth
storing... worth on banking:
    a complication, stuttering of tongue...
and why is it that i'm listening
to a live-stream of FAMA radio?
          https://radiofama.com.pl/?
  well... i've stopped being snobbish
about music... pop is: bubblegum and
                        ice-cream scoops -
              the radio concerned?
   after 10pm: minimal adverts -
                  maximum music...
                         i already have a snobbish
music collection...
                         i can listen to it
on a ****** concern -
          but as snobbish as it sounds:
    if you really want to appreciate a radio -
might as well collect some of:
  actually remains other peoples' tastes:
to invoke - wine and candle and a girl
impressed...
               probably 2nd from how
impressive it is with a husband, father,
wife, mother - sitting silent in a room
  with the t.v. off, two candles burning
and each to their trance of:
  give me a chance to recreate with you
by procrastinating...
           and of the monk son?
   he has been silent for two days -
is he making whims?
          to prove a point he took out
the trash, fixed the gabbage bags to
the trash cans...
                            lay in bed,
               smoked only two cigarettes
through the day...
                       abstained from talking -
because smoking is really coupled
with a good conversation...
   plus he always wanted to become a monk...
cries when he hears templar chants
if he's in the right mood...
               but hey,
   the 502 & 504 HTTP conundrum was solved:
the robot needed to understand
a human was working in the medium...
because? the last entries waiting
to be published / saved in draft looked
like the following list (title, followed by text):
     T, T
     L, L
         500, 500
                    Ere, Lot
              Aye, Scot
          Spa, wet
             Lob, 'edder
        Jeer, Fancy...
             now i'm actually fascinated
when a problem can be solved -
   without actually having to contact
a webmaster a 2nd time...
              some weird offshoot of
playing a game while drinking...
               weird: as: ****!
Bruce Levine Oct 2018
My internal clock is set at Manhattan
I face the world with a jaded point of view
Manhattanites are chauvinistic, snobbish, opinionated
And relentlessly focused

Manhattan energy drives our universe
Like the taxies forge the streets
In a frontal assault

Art, history and multiculturalism
Remain the melting *** of stew
Brewed from micro to macro
But always after the brass ring

Always reaching upward
Like the skyscrapers of today and yore
Clamoring to be the tallest in the world
Yet knowing that we already are
Simply because we’re Manhattanites

Faith in our own destiny
We’re Manhattanites after all
And being a Manhattanite
Is all that needs to be said
Amabilis Lucidus Mar 2014
They speak without words
They feel without touch
Stare a bit too long,
you’ll give 'way too much
More than six seconds,
he’ll think that you want it
But don’t stare at all
he’ll think that you’re snobbish
Mmm, I’ll stare at you all day
till you see what I’m doing
I want it, right now,
and it’s you I’m pursuing
dead bodies moving dead bodies
you know the theme, the scheme,
the thought and the idea

the bodies, dead, paying the bills,
moving dead past the dawn
eyeballs rolling up as windows
closing and doors close and open

the bodies, mass production,
lots of bodies
Monday, Tuesday, Shitday
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and Christday

Neighbor Allah never greets anyone
and he talks to himself in echoes
Buddha is all smiles and virtues
but no muscle, Buddha's daughters
are out clubbing tonight ******* their
oriental curves, selling their oriental
scents and cold white skin
to Allah's *** deprived sons

Christ is the only father and
he disowns his nieces and nephews,
I knew years back that I am a distant relative

just dead bodies, yours and mine
produce, corporate livestock,
labels from the heaviest bills handed
over in sinister alleyways,
sinister exchanges, hitman to hitman,
extraction to extraction, fraction by fraction,
bodies serves as platforms,
nonliving chopping boards for the butchers
dressed up as elves

the bodies, limb by limb, sagging skins,
rivers of hairfalls, scratch marks,
Ms. Universe stretch marks, the *** tapes
of the cheerleaders whom silent and wise
boys yearned for all through years of fading
innocence

Closeted gay professionals keeping their pointed ******* when nothing's wrong with them until consent turns from probationary to mandatory and hate and red and blue and green and yellow flags and pedophiles and bigots and white supremacists and Allah whisperers and Allah fanatics and Buddha hypocrites and China takes over the world and feminists, and third and fourth and fifth and so on genders and Trump and memes and Filipinos and mental health and memes and mental health and memes and literature and literature and activists and who ****** who and politicians and what Americans, Australians, Chinese, Japanese, British, Candian, Irish and and North Koreans and K-Pop plastic lips and hips who young girls and boys from isolated islands gets ****** for and hipsters and the nine to fives and the ***** to give and the snobbish *** girls in parties, in clubs, in alleys who wants to get ****** by all the celebrity status ***** all just becomes a tiny pinch for the dead bodies not to see and point the flower and shoot the gun to end the human war.
powerlessness is the fuel to either create or destroy.
Narnord Oct 2013
I am lost
Am I a loser?

I failed
Am I stupid?

I love someone
Am I loveable?

I careless
Am I cared?

I am forgetful
Am I forgotten?

I am shy
Am I snobbish?

I am weird
Am I crazy?

I have friends
Am I friendly?

I am lonely
Am I a loner?

I am sad
Am I depressed?

I am happy
Am I cheerful?

I love foods
Am I fat?

I am on diet
Am I skinny?

I have pimples
Am I ugly?

I hate to study
Am I a bad grader?

I love studying
Am I a nerd?

I am thinking
Am I a scientist?

I am wondering
How can I make your day?
Estherzz21 Sep 2015
I saw this world as a beautiful place,
one that welcomes me everyday,
but apparently that's not the case,
cause nobody will ever have their say.
Parents, oh no, not those terms,
because it definitely does not suit them,
instead they abuse and neglect,
to their child they'll only wreck.
Let's not forget those childish harassment,
that people in general gives to others,
also the society with errors of judgement,
which lead to many trails of ashes.
And just as I remembered what I've left out,
is the ******* of what we named 'grown-ups',
their conservative talks that they shout,
shutting out imperfect ones that drowns in tubs.
Humanity? What loads of *******,
naming beings that they refuse to acknowledge 'monster',
how ironic and may I say snobbish?
when beings of their own kind they will slaughter.
Rejecting, exterminating, stigmatizing and resenting,
huh, monster, they say.

Heading next to the well-known bully,
this cycle will never ever cease to exist,
cause for generations it will always sully,
this immature charade that'll seem to persist.
And you ask for me to be positive,
when I live in this world filled with negatives,
it's fine if you wanna be all judgemental,
cause I'll say you're obviously mental.
read the title backwards
WJ Thompson Jan 2021
I’ll mimic Matterhorn or the worn ways we window gaze and swipe left
or turn right on the green light of another cliche
If you swear gray is all the shades you’ll
put on lamps to match the grayscale duvet
Then catch me if you cat o’ nine tails
a swallowed whale,
We swear with chapped lips a waterworn promise
Maybe the Amish had it right and we’re a little bit snobbish.
I’ll Jack O’Lantern your etch-a-sketch erotica,
Not much scarier, these days, trick or treat.
Q-tips got your tongue? I’ll Question where you Came From 4 as long i Chan.
You don’t leave the house anymore except for groceries.
Catch me if you cat o’ nine tails
a swallowed whale,
Nineveh won’t wait, it’s time to break bread with danger and death.
I feel a bit obligated to explain the general aim of this poem seeing as how most of the phrases seem nonsensical (and to be honest I didn’t ascribe meaning to them until after I had written them). This started as a flow of consciousness poem, where I was really just playing a word association game with my subconscious. I was inspired (positively) by a poet on HP who has a similar abstract flow to his poems. I wanted to write something unique, out of the ordinary, and in doing so I connected with a combative energy towards laziness and cliche. I should point out that I know cliches exist for a reason, in that they capture common thoughts, feelings, or wisdom in a succinct way, and there is a certain bravery in clearly stating your feelings for all to see. I just get a bit bored by it, it’s not intellectually stimulating. On the flip side, if you hide your feelings behind too many levels of abstraction, it’s possible that neither you nor anyone else will understand what it is you’re saying.

I also have a personal annoyance with poems which are thinly veiled erotica. It’s probably a bit petty, but I’ve seen so many ****** poems on HP. The “etch-a-sketch erotica” line was about that. My exact criticism is levied at erotica which leans towards the dark, grotesque. I have genuinely seen some clever erotica poems, but I generally avoid reading such material for religious reasons.

There’s a final annoyance, other then laziness and cliche, which is political in nature. I wonder if anyone sees it?

Lastly, I haven’t thought of a meaning for “mimic Matterhorn”. I just think it sounds cool.
KG Nov 2020
Easy will I give blood to thee
My love of anger simmering.

Tough mutts and breezy gates shut up while I'm walking up the paved path to heaven.
My shadows carve depictions of their home across it's border, until the time that obliteration comes preceding daylight.
Presently, the senses tell stories of alleyways, bending, screaming, dark, and hollow niches where cells holding cretins feeding on easy cons, closely eyeing the greasy pawns that wobble across rotting paper, voodoo art a secret guarded closely hidden in the hole a beating heart long ago vacated. Robbing rich snobbish ****** their childrens life of ignorance concerning newfound addictions.
You know the type.
You know that I know you too, and how you prefer to shape the ghastly forms these predators take, turn them into your thralls discarded soon after rehearsing the parts of your play, writtin precisely to incite your own addiction to probability gamble gaming intuition. trashing skits naturally reactive to exhibited patterns laughing mad at the victms thrashing quiver, stashing films of the accidents in your pack to gift the sadistic mastiffs  attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt to accept the last thing you truly fear.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
I
The morning traffic settles down
When the smell of chips create a haze
By the arts block.
Squawking fills the passageways
And now a familiar face taps
Your weary back
While you are drowned by stomping feet
And despite the try your mind clots;
The name deletes
And you’re left thinking it is Scott,
While all this time his name is Pete.
He didn’t hear it through the stamps
And we sit lakeside by the lamps.

II
Morning: you arise from consciousness
And faint stale smells of beer
From the night on Dublin streets,
A night you won’t repeat, unless
The moon reclaims the lands.

And of course the Paddy’s day parades,
That, one naturally assumes.
Just thinks of all the hands
Raising pints by the spades
In a thousand bright green rooms.

III
You stretched your arms above your head
And yawned at a class you’ve never hated
You dozed, and watched the screen revealing
The thousand boring images
Of which World War II was constituted;
Their burning qualities weren’t appealing -
They stung until the world went black
But the light crept up between your shutters
And you heard the backgrounds snobbish tutters,
Despite meeting them on Grafton Street
Where you exchanged drunken demands.
You awoke and cringed as you were aware
Of the tuft sticking up about your hair,
But instead of a fix-trip, to save your feet,
You covered it with your hands.

IV
You stared up at the flawless skies
That fade behind the Newman block,
Or often watched insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
Or watched the fountain-spewing pipes,
And watched the swans watch life’s disguise
While you recalled wild fantasies,
Of walking down a college street
And opening your eyes to receive the world.

And now my eyes have been unfurled
And I feel like a god, a king
For I have seen an infinitely mental,
Infinitely wonderful thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
And treat the worlds like you treat the women
And hopefully both will give you lots!
Before you bite my head off this is obviously a complete poemnapping of T.S. Eliot's "Preludes". I stole the rhyming scheme totally, but it was just for fun. I wrote a poetry journal for the first week of me starting college in UCD. This was the first entry. Enjoy ;)
A sheep and a goat once
Got locked in a fracas

“Off you go!
Don't you know
You are an embodiment
For an idiot!
How dare you trample
On the leaf down
From the stem of an apple
That dangle
And which I was apt
To cut and eat.

I really hate
A sheepish creature of your sort
With alacrity to a dictate
Going to an altar is whose fate
And that no offense on others inflict
Or none contradict.

A wet -blanket
A ****-joy
Or for the witty
A good toy!”   said the goat.

Dismayed and sad
The sheep replied

“In a futile bid
To satisfy your greed
With your horn blind
You scratched my feet
And began your complaint
To hoot.

Watch also what
You talk about
On doomsday
The likes of me stand
By the right of
The presiding judge
Jesus Christ.
While the likes of you
Cast to the left
Your lot
You shall lament.

An embodiment
of the devil
Indulge in all evil
It is your wont
Oft to rebel
Also snobbish, than
Labor fault in others to identify
Why don't you try
To see the bar
In your eye?

***** got, I also wonder
How come you care not
Your private part to cover!

You must not
Also forget
It is the addle-pate
Who are prone all to manipulate
And  call the poor- folk- in -Christ
An imbecile or
An idiot.

Though
'Don't be a sheep in a goat's age
Is what is encapsulated
In today's adage,
You and I
Will never ever be
On the same page!

An Ethiopian
Will never ever
Change his skin,take note
Nor could a sheep be a goat!”
To the fickle who compromise their integerity!
Valo Salo Aug 2014
war
let's have a war
and this time
a real big one

a star war
a personal war
a virus and a spam war

an a, b and c war
a die hard laughing war
a bleeding, burning, ****** war

a religious war
a self-righteous and
a self-satisfied war

a snobbish war
an honest war
a social, moral and lonely war

a civil disobedience war
an embarrassing war
a sad and useless war

a perfect war
of course a world war
a final war to end all war
.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i mean, i'd love to have an English girlfriend... if she could cook.*

elitism? no, hardly, it's because you're
not someone walking past a beehive
dressed in flowers, doesn't mean anything,
it's not elitist, although poetry naturally
became a snobbish artefact drifting
among easily recyclable material of fond
farewells and petitions to vote and whatnot.

me? i quiet like the gay bitchiness of
Frank O'Hara's poem about the health of
Ginsberg - i imagine all those performers,
the umbilical cord cut from their essence,
having to entertain, repeat, entertain,
repeat, memorising their works
for a rapping cascade, mm yeah, mm, yo,
mm, yeah, *******, mm, yeah, in da'h 'ood,
mm, yeah... i can't forgive them,
they entertain and pulverise their one
potent act, then repeat, Stockholm (repeat),
Paris (repeat), Berlin (repeat), New York (repeat),
to affirm yourself like plagiarising
puppets - it must be horrid - to have
a plughole in you, in you that you require
to block - art becomes more like boxing,
dodging punches of the new, comfortably
sofa, artistry pre-readied to entertain,
no stumbling blocks of a **** poem,
just the continual revival of the true one,
the only one - lost themes of conversation,
no conversation at all, poetry lost to
Spartacus addressing the feeble minded
but eager in heart to ride an elephant for
Hannibal - Aesop biting his nails rather than
cutting them - long live the memory of
a few odds and black sheep -
Frank being ****** - mentions
Auschwitz symphony no. 1 a# of Adolph
Deutsche in that poem *fantasy
-
hey, my pride is on the line, every show i turn
on, after Pope John Paul the 2nd became a
traitor i hear of Eastern European ******
everywhere - by god i too like to ****,
but ******* became a 110m sprint with
scaffold to jump across - prostitutes eased
the problems, no rabbit chase -
i ****** then played Monopoly to ease the flirting
mechanism - categorising man as mammal
breeds man categorising himself elsewhere,
a woman: mantis, a woman: black widow...
once you start categorising yourself as a mammal
and then build a telescope or shove a satellite
into orbit you'll be slightly confusing -
so what's what?
i just bypassed the printing press, nullified editors
and publishers, no one could experience such
freedoms in the 20th century, there's no question
of profit, it's... A MAY ZING...
it's a multiple ****** just now... who gives
a rotten egg's worth of omelette these days?
you see what's getting printed? you've seen the ****?
it's not even worth the softness of toilet paper,
i'm not surprised it's written like a tonne of lard's
worth off heaviness, there's no sprint technique
in the writing, it's a marathon of procrastinating...
a volume concoction of ADHD uno having a trip
flicking a lampshade switch on / off / on / off / on / off
for a month or a week... a real page turner...
well, that's that... sarcasm is dry gin and tonic
with the humours... self-indulgent, but i like that...
i'm just waiting for the trained monkey
to read me the encyclopaedia while cartwheeling...
so if you hiccup that saying: all eastern european
girls became ****** once the iron curtain was lifted,
you're probably right... and being a castrated ****
more or less i'm getting the giggles...
like that time watching a Dutch boyfriend spitting
in his Polish girlfriend's face...
well... if these girls are ******... western men
are *******... leech kiss my entry with this point,
leech kiss more clingy that Judas' -
wankers wankers... wankers.
Alexander  K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


It is moral duty of poetry to throw away ***** power
Often formed by political snobs out of selfish extension,
Poetry without arms and ammunition have been there
Ever creating social and political power un-violently,
Planting moralized empires that cannot away be washed
By the snobbish currents of constituent powers that be,
Show me all the social powers formed by poetry
That ever oppressed the poor or the weak,
You would have given me glorious pedestals
On which I will firmly stand and stretch my arm
To show to the world a blind philosopher,
Even Rudyard Kipling in his prime of colonial poetry
Had the Indian kidimadiggar, sorriest of all coolies
As the constituent pith in his racist hearty
Where blended colonial urge and poetical altruism
Into humane conscience for destituent social power.
Terry Collett Apr 2014
Jeanette was by
the wire fence
leaning against it
her hands

in front of her
resting one
on the other
she watched me

as I came out
of the school door
leading from the side
onto the sports field

her friend Angela
the blonde girl
had gone home
for lunch

why did you kiss me
like that?
she asked
as I went by her

your cheek
was tempting me
I said
so I kissed it

you should have
at least asked
she said
I will next time

I said
looking at her
taking in
her thin frame

and arms
what makes you think
there will be
a next time?

she said
her eyes were dark
like small currents
in cream dishes

I feel lucky
I said smiling
she didn’t smile back
you hang around

with that Rolland boy
don't you?
she said
yes he's a friend

I said
I don't like him
she said
he doesn't like you

much either
I said
he says
you're a titless wonder

she blushed
and looked away
but I like you
I think you have

a certain class
I mean the way you
sit there listening
to all that classical stuff

Miss Graham plays
to us in lessons
while we
are bored brainless

you sit there
in another world
actually enjoying it
she looked at me

I love Beethoven
she said
his music moves me
her eyes settled on me

she played with her fingers
but you ought
to have asked
before kissing

she said
have you told anyone
I kissed you?
no of course not

she said
shame it might do
some good
I said

in what way?
she said
other kids might not
think you so stuffy

and snobbish
I said
she looked
at her well heeled shoes

and white socks
it was only a peck
she said
not a real kiss

it was lips
on cheek skin
I said
wet and warm

she said shyly
there you go
I said
BENNY

Rolland called out
from the sports field
COME ON FOOTIE
best go

I said
see you in class
and I ran off
towards Rolland

and other boys
kicking a ball
maybe a kiss tomorrow
she had said

as I went off
up on the grass
I nodded
and turned away

the sky had brightened
blue skies
had moved off
the dull of grey.
A BOY AND GIRL IN SCHOOL IN 1962.
Sayer Mar 2013
No one cares I am not okay today this is not okay I look at what I love I want to destroy something rip it to pieces and never let anyone know and maybe then I shall be happy I shall be at peace because I’ll know that the snobbish will have been destroyed not death but life I will grant her Life the worst disease a disease incurable the only disease we will never be able to cure no matter how far science comes and that’s why science is ******* because it will never cure what kills the most
and no death is not a cure for life because they say life keeps going afterwards and I believe that I think I do I think I am I am I am true to myself that’s why I protect my faith will God grant me heaven or is there more on Earth and nothing can ever be perfect since if I die in an awful way how will I know how I died in heaven if heaven is a place with no pain and if I can’t remember my death how will I be able to remember my family and my love how I loved her I did I loved her very much but I am afraid of her now because she cries at night and hates me because I loved her even though she desired love and that’s what I gave unto her I blessed her with love but she hates me and everyone hates me and I take walks to know I am okay and that’s is why I must get rid of beauty not her beauty but of her life’s beauty and she is her life not herself but Her her she is what made her not love me me but her and how crazy I drive and I take walks when where who what why why could she just not love me there is nothing wrong with me I will stomp I will roar calm me mother calm me sing me a lullaby
the fan screams as the clock strikes five she screams she screams she screams hateandlove
I love her with the passion of one million suns
From my "work in progress" novel/novella. Tom lets out his anger by talking to himself at night.
We are afraid
As we give you aid
We have the liberty
To maneuver your head
To the extent your are
Deprived a go ahead
To tend
Your  self-development
And self -reliance
Seedbed.

"When money speaks
the truth is silent"
If you want to continue
Our client
Remember you're macilent
So  try not to be violent
Fighting back  with" Though
I'm poor I 'm somebody!"
'Cause, snobbish, we may prefer
This budy from that budy.
Don't be naughty
There is nothing
As such inviolable
Sovereignty.

A budy
That does not
Help  better optimize
Our advantage
Shoddy, could not
Come to the same page.

Note also
We could pull strings
And  to loan givers tell
"When we speak
Wag  your tail!"
To Trump and World Bank///

Pat Ethiopia on the back than stab it in the back

Intolerant of a crushing poverty that bound Ethiopia hand and foot,   the country is dead set on escaping the daunting scenarios its citizens across generations had suffered. Members of this generation too have known the brunt all their lives. Population boom has been exacerbating the problem.
Despite the bounty and plenty the country boasts, for aeon, it was forced to go through the throes of poverty perplexed by its inaction.
The calamity of inclement weather such as droughts and subsequent shortages of food had been souring the country’s fate.
To add an insult to injury, Ethiopia could not get its economy off the ground rocked by internal turmoil that went on unabated fueled by struggle for power and also disturbed by the proxy wars and revolutions exported by those who want to emasculate the country depriving it the power to use its resources like its trans-boundary rivers.
Hence it was coerced to heavily lean on foreign aids, which resulted in dependency syndrome. As such, in molding its fate the country had no option than remain locked in the doldrums of inaction. True to the wisdom-packed saying “Give a man a fish you feed him a day. But teach him how to fish you will feed him the rest of his life!” it was this point international donors were laboring to ram home in lecturing Ethiopia and others. Ethiopia’s developmental ****** to feed itself and illumine the region is in consonance with this silver bullet.
But making 180 degree turn and contravening the aforementioned ideal more often than not they uphold, hypocrites in this set are forcing Ethiopia to compromise its national interest and brush aside its developmental drive simply to cheer up their pet country, depressed out of jealousy as Ethiopia is outstripping it in geopolitical importance. Hypocrites want to support those who sow the seed of terror abroad spoiling fifth columnists in Ethiopia, envisioning socioeconomic take off beyond its perimeter.
“When money speaks the truth remains silent!” runs the adage. That is to say the pauper and the feeble turn vulnerable, when the affluent wield power. This does not work for Ethiopia that never ever compromise its sovereignty even in the face of war inferno.
It is cogent that an enemy of your friend or your handyman is your enemy. With this mentality white supremacist that spare no effort to optimize their advantage are seen trying to twist Ethiopia’s arm “We could underwrite developmental aid to you if and only if you show alacrity to what we blindly dictate to you. There is no room for taking what we say with a grain of salt. If you fall out with our pet country a punitive measure expects you.”
Hypocrites and their pet country also leave no stone unturned to lure the rational minded countries to their side so that they fall out with Ethiopia. The pendulous behavior of the riparian and neighbor country, which was a votary of the truth up to recent times, testifies this disposition.
International donor organizations to which hypocrites attached their apron strings are revoltingly echoing the stance of hypocrites creating pretexts not giving a second thought to the fact that their action could be weighed by the global community as a double standard. Such tail wagging goes a long way in eroding international trust. Here, it is no wonder if one alludes to the true farce of Barban and Jesus. Hang the votary of regional growth and release the exporter of terrorism is the modern version of it.
Such a subtle attack is unfair and unjust. Besides, the donations of hypocrites were meant for mutual objective—maintaining peace in a strategic area of global importance. As such, the negative impact could not be seen as a unilateral one. Where is the picture perfect love of hypocrites to democracy?
GERD is  Ethiopia’s  flagship project that is reminiscent of the victory of Adwa that threw into shambles white supremacy and showcased colored people could square up to any challenge. Is it because of this,  for want of due protection, we are witnessing attacks on our flag in Europe in sharp contrast to the etiquettes of international diplomacy? Crime by omission is no less than crime by commission! The international community must heed this as put it emperor Hailesellasie before League of nations “today it is our turn tomorrow it is yours!”
Averse to the trend international donors wait on Ethiopia hand and foot, the country is harnessing its resources to its and regional benefits. In so doing, generating electricity it is garnering foreign currency. Extrapolation shows that if it presses ahead with this noble task the country could beef up its muscles to the extent of seeing developmental aid as something it could manage without.
Ironic as it may sound, lately the lower riparian countries are inundated by the water of Blue Nile though they were crying foul the first phase of the filling and subsequent filling of the dam could cause a dearth of water in their lands. As a kid cowers imagining a bogeyman, lower riparian countries must not shudder imagining unscientific and farfetched things. Besides their heart tells them Ethiopia is marked for considerateness to others.
Let it be known Ethiopia is not a pushover. It is a standard-bearer of bootstrapping. In cognizance of this fact the rational need to pat it on the back than stab it in the back.  //
We all know life is for living
yet we all do die in the end

So I lay here thinking of this
some of the best ways to die

Well the first that comes to mind
is that of giving my life
so that others can live
sacrifice for the betterment of man

The second is that all of a sudden
whist having *** I get a heart attack
but for the adrenalin in my other
with all my other donor organs to give

The third is rather absurd
to die whist I struggle with snobbish clods
that write as they release from ****** wet turds
oh such sacrifice against insurmountable odds

The forth that I would to be a tempest
as a true ruler of the great wild seas
and when the green fields after the sand
does die on the rocks of a tender land

The fifth would be for me
making people laugh
a juster in the court of fools
seeing the king plotting my death by poison

The sixth would be most honoured
to sit there bathing in the sun
swaying in late summer warm winds
with the sweet swishing voice of the scythe

By Christos Andreas Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

— The End —