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Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Cunning Linguist Dec 2013
Why shan't thou answer to me?
Emburse yourself until wholly submerged in my unholy divergence
Poor form tormented soul
Roll your pain in a j dipped in chloroform
Embrace my urges to purge the remnants of sanity
Spilling and screaming profanities at humanity

Confuddling all posers with my bastardized prose
Please, continue badgering and nagging me
with your buttfucking menagerie of trivial drudgery
I'm in misery go ahead and bludgeon me
Square in the noggin
So I can jog it while juggling nails from my coffin

Cancer-ridden addler babbling mad adages
Scoffing jealous skeptics -
Contort your faces in ghastly panic
As I unleash these dastardly antics
of pandemic proportions
and ******* you

Candid, my penchance enchants
Heavy-handedly inanimate
in suspended animation
Supplant reality augmentation
Machinations of my imagination
Implicating **** ransacking  
and seafaring through crab infestations
Wreaking havoc and bequeathing vengeance
I'm a fire breathing grim reaper reaking of ******

- Off is the nearest direction in which to ****
Dissect my ******* with your tongue
Turnt up ******* plumpies in the ****
Just for the fun of it until I erupt
Remember i'm avid for dismembering appendages
I expect you're exceptional at accepting a barrage of septic bombardment
Chance of success: logistics analysis zero percentage
(Cos I done *******. On those *******.)

Superbly superlative and speculative
So fast on adderal I make Mad Hatter's head spin
Quicker than you can snap
Giving your family heart attacks
Smack you in the face
While fapping my fabulous lap rocket
Thunderously plundering under covers
Springloaded with faux pas' so hot
Make your mother's ***** pop out and say "hello"
like Jack-in-the-Box

& Those foxy grandmas be jaxing off my **** -
Bingo wings beckoning me
More *******; ******* head explodes
Slathered with double entendres
-Staggering!
My passages smooth as laxatives
Brain grinding like acid
Bombastic fat ******* making my **** go flaccid

Valuable, disparaging these **** butts malleable as putty
Barbarically barrel rolling into dat ***
rip it to shreds like confetti
Power Pole extend
Face pressed into your *******
Inhaling the wafting aromatic stenches
of distant French fish factories

Clearly getting dome from your dearly betrothed
Now she bridal and my seeds spiraling virally
Vital signs finalizing
Bounce that *** like jello
Swell; I'm in your hair like gel
Now swallow my jollies and don't bother
Unless you hollerin and giving me dollars
Zealots idol my harlotry

If nose goes go slow grow low
Throwing those yoloing hoes out windows
This ***** simply bonkers
I conquer fear me

***** DON'T HARSH MY MELLOW
SWEAR I'LL MARSH YOUR MALLOWS
Thandiwe Sep 2014
‘Shadow of the day’

Play and play and release the locks of this attraction.

Sway and displace the diamond sealed in the concrete.

It shone and sparkled immense value.

Could’ve never ended and remained in your zone.

An amazing soul, rare and simply beautiful.

Replace this with thoughts known,

You pure gold, wish forces could entwine this desire not a norm.

Came packaged in a lovely form.

I viewed your sense and values and even butterflies fluttered and passed out from your flood of casual injection of euphoria.

Seems too futile…sadly the world hardly awards love.

Will it sub-side, found a real prince of note…maybe it could’ve been groomed and grown with the days.

Is it possible to remove such a being from my rooms of thought?

Will it get better or worse with time?

Hardly unreal when lips only recite our memories.

Make what’s engulfed me in your aura die,

It’s not needed, not happening again.

Why is it now…over and over again.

The stenches of my lust for you,

My longing to be in your presence.

For once, can I be blessed with  treasure like you.

Shiny and rare…beautiful and valuable.

Regrets of loving so easily has now become a punishment.

Again I need to mend the pieces,

The millions of pieces broken by heavy disappointment.

Why did those words you said colour my ears,

How can you have made me feel liked yet you saw past me.

Haven’t my feet walked this hurt before.

Seems things are too heavy…

Never golden or maybe their lame gestures have rusted my heart.

Hardly any good in the possibilities, I hate these realities.

I’m fed up with these warriors who easily pull on my heart-strings.

Where shall I rest?

Find comfort and acceptance from the evil rest.

I saw sanctuary in your eyes,

Pictured a loving soul and felt a honourale being from your touch.

Loosen my grip on what will never happen.

Too raw…yet the heart has become immune.

Now mind and energy drowns in gloom.

20years of living…still I believe in love.

Still I want to believe there’s one for me.

Understanding and equally loving.

But…sadly there’s been no luck.

Maybe, just maybe it’s my fault.

Maybe I reveal too much and have them regretting they laid eyes on me.
cody metcalfe Jan 2010
The beginning of the beginning stage.

In the patterns that my lack of wisdom supports itself with.
Inside of course of my social blinds; and excuse depraved mind.
Yes locked or latched with what you could picture a key,
which has encrypted in its’ gold textures; certainly not pure gold the words, “Good Luck Son.”
Yes a story of unimaginable setbacks, woes, blows, deception so thick that it doesn’t dwindle to meagerness, but yet modifies like a brain being corrected by an assault on the body.
Yes, in the darkness of these patterns a trust in heroes runs rampant enough to muster conquest, and loss, and redemption soured by lust, and open warfare, and crime in it’s purity, in it’s raw form.
Yes, in these patterns created by lack of youthful imagination crucified if you will out of my conscience behavior tracking skills. A light breaks upon my sins,
and yields itself to a pattering method,
and then there is the plot of guts, blood, spit, tears, sweat, beads of dirt from a worked land,
that seems itself to be more ill-tempered than the folks that share its majestic worth.
These patterns only call out to the insane, and to the loathed, and the forsook, and the poor.
I haven’t caught the demons floundering down the dirt road in East Texas with their tails wagging stirring hot dust particles into the sun light atmosphere.
Now when the description techniques take effect in these patterns; the developed story, yes utterly developed in its’ entirety always in content,
and smiling boisterous to the meek,
and ragged dressed in search for their Sunday school Classroom.
End of the beginning stage
Here we are again in this surreal manner seeing first hand a triumph understood and fabled about in the Southern Grotesque shadows that are still apparent at noon,
at noon my good; well, carry on the well, carry on.

The Beginning of the middle.

The young ****** girl we call her a ***** now a days,
  
cause we had the Scopes Monkey Trial once or twice up in Tennessee I think.

She leaps and bounds and then abides to Christ for an instant, like my speech under oath.

She wrinkles her sections of her lips and blow a kiss to the huge white man lurking in the truck a block back.

The white man loves cigarettes towards abatement and then to City Hall.

The young ****** gal,

fell to a seat like it was grace that fixed the radio in the truck or some last twist or turn or **** from her little decreased hand.

The voice of the white man calling back to her,

singled out her emotional distress,

she always seems as if she has be ***** by this white fellow.

Now well I might have lost some folks by this point,

Now well I got to get to the ****** boy,

Yes well let’s see he carries a cursed burden so bad that every acquaintance felt afterward that this boy had picked a fight…

he moped oblivious to the sowed seeds he made desecrated in all truth. No one every pointed out that there is the place where you are supposed to bleed,

No one said, sonny boy right there is the place where you can be saved,

Nothing was delivered to him at Christmas, and it all went to his ***** sister. So therefore

He came upon the scene with this summer rain gesturing fun, and misery all under this sun.

Now well a thunderous voice came out of the church side windows, which were down,

Actually dismissing the pulpit, now well the bigot thundered, “ I want the fire, I want the praise. Stand up,

I want the fire, I want the praise!” The predicament that willowed the **** in the mouth of the skipping

****** boy, in all his glee and grandeur, caused him to straddled the wired fence on the other side of the truck.

Some would call this a grievance to accolades of vengeances long over due, and over due,

The dogs run free in these parts,

that’s just the simple truth.

But this is the beginning of the middle,

The cotton patch circles the road like a rubber tire on its rim,

And trust was never interracial enough to bide the will of saints on the cusp

Of revenge.

The ****** roared, “Get behind thee satan, or some ****, and some **** it was,

The kiddo trip over himself and tangled his way to the feet of the white man,

Who kindly picked him up, and said,

“not only can your sister **** a good ****, she can fix transistor radios’.”

The church service let out in one small horde to the capture the tensions of one of the old American lime lights befuddling Uncle Sam.

Uncle Sam is no pun, he’s a gentlemen to both the North, and the South.

Sos’ with one huge crack the white man fractured the ****** boy’s jaw,

“Good ole boy, get on back to the picking!”

The next stage of the middle

The folklore of shame added to disgrace is looming,
What can one man do when beaten, left for this effect,
“Bubba can’t walk no either,” said a white eyed spectator,
Angels have no trace here,
no trepidation here,
in my lack luster,
Thoughts,
edges of justice tampered torn by impatience at God,
At the Good Lord.
Let’s see I am the son of a clerk,
A nerd to salvation, and more so a nerd in general.
I called for nerves,
In the nerves that were yet,
to be nerves,
and for that fire on the water,
“where’s the,
Hearkening cries that shudder the barns with frantic frolicking of fire men,
and police men,
The, law say psst, where’s the ******* laws!” I laughed to myself I wasn’t in cahoots with the ******,
or the ***** girl who had began to come back for her brother,
but I wasn’t asking a soul to come in and take my place,
if ya, if ya, if ya get my drift hood wink!
Whoa ay,
my indignant monologues must have jived and then shook,
I was to cool for this,
I was to ready to step up in the world,
lo,
behold,
a pale rider,
“The sheriff, from the south, beware Isaac,” I told myself, “beware.”
The girl slithered like snakes to her bother;
her souls bearings were now plastic, and latched under the arms of the fallen boy.
The rain hastened,
then came stronger,
and then the congregation split as the Sheriff took ground.
I scurried like the rodents, and joined the congregation.
The white man, pulled his gun, and shot the sheriff in the stomach.
“It will heal,” the sheriff hands ******.
The truck was gone,
both ******* and all.

The Middle Stage of the Middle.


The river winds and brings enriches through the earth first,
and second in humanly attributes,
Frankness took to front face of the town,
and the outskirts wailed like someone had burned their property,
Dogs still ran free,
cause that is what happens around here,
and I played a harmonica,
and steel guitar,
Serenity which found facets to seep regardless of where the kidnapped traveled,
and the kidnappers force,
spelled a gearing up for a manhunt,
and even possibly a trial.
The mother of the two kiddos that were gobbled out of the town,
worked for a shyster,
and crook keeping his sanctuary wooden like,
and contemporary.
She had the knack that clings to most maidens middle aged and nudged by bouts of,
Grace.
Like a parasite,
which is the whistling you hear,
some hymn,
hymns,
from passed down relics,
called family.
The crime that spindled like the pap she knew setting down to slumber without meaning to,
Was a embezzlement crisis,
piped from the corner store,
to a small methamphetamine lab,
harboring the man Ms. Clawdy worked for,
until the cops were scarce it was hard to grasp for the town,
and anyway the sweet anyway of my sigh as my mother,
and the preacher were in my bedroom making love when I came in from the lake.
It sounded like she was faking it,
I am pretty sure,
but I am so badly endowed that its hard to believe that,
well,
I hadn’t my father say,
“alright.”
I hadn’t heard the word alright,
in ages!
It was poignant,
and disgruntling in the same instant.
By the way,
my mother was having a seizure,
worse than the tiny ones the ****** girl has.
My father a bank manager is his past life,
and a decent accountant,
shut the door on them.
I haven’t whimsical atrophy or empathy at what happens in jail,
what happens to criminals,
what happens to evil persons once exposed pretty well by children of the Lord.
I am old enough to know better,
I let the dog in,
and lead him into the room,
and shot the dog.
My hopes were,
That my ma would snap out of it,
the drugs spilled to the floor,
and I ran out to the tractor,
And got back to work.
I rhetorically thought to myself,
I wonder why I ever attempt to date a girl,
From these here parts of East Texas.
My parts were to be made ***** quite yet….


The later middle stage of the middle.

The Texas Rangers came in cars,
and the blood hounds met and mingled with the townspeople,
This part in the story is delicate,
and stubborn in its youth,
mainly for the dramatic irony I try to forge.
The character of the father of the two kiddos who were kidnapped and battered takes to drinking,
and lays down like that dog in my room.
The sweet corner store elderly sold him a round of beers in a few quarts,
and he says,
“we sure appreciate, you heard.”
“Now Leroy that was a good boy,
and that Vivian was a sweet child.”
“Still is, you’ll see!”
“Our prayers to the saints our with Mr. Clawdy.”
“Yeah ok,
thank you much,
have a good one!”
The Texas Rangers weren’t as captivated by the alcoholic rampage.
They infiltrated my house right off there beaten path….
The fire and praise replaced the preacher and the Texas Rangers ****** him up,
and **** like the chalk coming off the hands.
Ya mean, ya mean!
They spun a tale that half the gang searching for the ******* as they put it,
well two got snake bitten,
and once they thought they had him cornered a tornado mustered up,
Then it was nothing.
How is it nothing?
I wanted to say,
I saw,
how is it nothing,
my mother straightened up,
and wiped her nose,
and put on some make up,
and the preacher or my father didn’t rat her out, for the drugs.
That is when I guess the prejudice, or injustice, or just the wanting,
the yearning to be grown,
or the despair and weird hormones towards women….
I let it out in front of God, and country,
“Tell it like it is ma, ******* it, tell it like it is, that dog will haunt you, in a heart beat,
more than he is going to haunt me,
God dang, tell it like it is, you high, and skipping, cheating, lying, I hate you!
I hate you!”
“Now son,
we are handling this,
seems this little fella needs some restraint from his parents.”
A quid pro quo was in the midst, I knew I wasn’t speaking in vain.
I knew my father was madder than any of them Texas Rangers.
Yes Texas Rangers eww,
I cried,
and search for something more in me,
but there wasn’t anymore to come,
just another day,
and of course the little man in me pretending to be a sheriff like the one a saw get shot,
that I came to know as a piece a fraction of manhood coming of age.
The men later,
sat my mother down,
and she lied time and time again,
and they went to the other streets,
and to the corner store,
and eventually to the ****** side of town.
I came into contact with a passenger of a greyhound,
who was blind,
and his cane tattled,
and ratted,
towards me like the end of time.
“Protect your name, yes, protect your name, and then some!”
“Bless you.”
“Whose that?”
“Yellow belly.”
“Yellow haired.”
“Ah Good man.”
“Two got bitten, you the new sheriff?”
“Sheriff, think again guy, I am the Preacher.”
The crossing cars slowed and crept in splendor and curiosity,
where and who penetrated the ideology of the passers.
“Two steps, and curb, and the name’s Isaac.”
“How do you do. Preacher ***.”
The deception that I spoke about,
and the turmoil that I so to speak promised echoes in the neighborhoods nearby.
I realized he smelled of pickles, and relish like stenches,
but repellant of mosquitoes came out of his jacket,
and immersed us both in a whirlwind of effort.
Gamblers,
ramblers,
antlers,
all part of the commerce spared themselves the grief,
spared themselves the haphazard and soon what was left was lovers,
and bad men.
And Texas Rangers.
The Texas Rangers flooded the countryside,
and snapped me back at the dinner table,
“take us to the house where the drugs are, or draw us a map!”
“A map, gees you guys don’t need no map,
heck,
take a right on Granger,
a left on Tempest,
and it’s the fourth house on the left.
Say the mans name is Jim.
If ya, if ya, if ya catch my drift! Hood wink!


The End of the Middle Stage.

With the Texas Rangers half crazy,
like the people I know,
and the inner thoughts that have came to become an awareness more or less,
the thought that I will never reproduce,
and the thought that I was fallen,
by the actions that broke my wings,
sank beneath my garnered wretched existence,
the lawmen arrested as the heroes,
and the villains came without a fight,
including my mother,
and Mr. Jim.
And Mr. and Ms. Clawdy got into the station with delight,
and exercising emotions about the missing persons,
by the way of a white man.
I don’t ever get dialogue out of this station sequence but I imagine somewhere,
the words we have a lead into finding the whereabouts of your children.
The drug house was linked to other drug house in this jurisdiction and they didn’t stutter in my dialect. Repentance is unlike amending past fights, and arguments.
The harvest was futuristically here,
and danger was trampled by the lawmen,
and peace and order was restored nicely now.
The shyster was quarreled,
and the commercial trucks picked up the slack,
and the Sunday school classes proceeded.
Ms. Clawdy sat one night about a week after the event involving her children,
and she realized that no one could help her, I
n the place where she needed help the most,
and no one would pardon her anger in the night with her husband drinking so heavily.
I went to their place,
and I took the preacher with me,
and I finally felt what it was like to be in cahoots,
or what a partnership is truly like,
short sided to say the least.
I knocked the flap,
and pounded my feet,
and pounded my feet,
like the fire man told me,
once,
“beat feet bub,”
well I did,
and finally Ms. Clawdy answered the door.
“What’s y’all going to do about getting your kids back?”
“We leaving tonight!”
“In the dark?”
“That’s right!”
“I know where they might be kid.”
“Good deal.”
“That’s right.”
“Is he going with you?”
“Yup, yup, now come on let’s go!”
“***** I ain’t going with you any place.
***** I am drinking my sorrows away!”
“Not going huh.”
She was gone into the night like usual circumstances take people away from their homes in the midst of great trusts wedged between wisdom and fault, and to the great beyond murmured as truth.
“He ain’t going with her.”
“Maybe we should leave Isaac.”
But I was already wound,
the good luck key had already been turned in my spine,
and twisted in my blood,
and I watched Mr. Clawdy throw another quart against the wall crashing down in pieces.

The Beginning of the End stage.

Cliché is a muse in the common man,
or if it isn’t well my mind is to thwarted by degradation,
and much to much pride and jealousy to see love work in the most excellent ways,
so excellent it even would make a mother fly out towards danger,
and attempt to rescue her young.
I read about the Scopes evolution trial,
in the tribune,
and bugles sounded at the death of William Jennings Bryan,
and I thought of him disparagingly…
I gulped and supped,
and wanted to bolt in the dark living room,
and tear a piece out of the ole Clawdy for what he really was,
the blind man cause that what he was now,
stopped me,
pulled me back,
“you want a turn,
you want a turn at this mess,
all day,
this whole time you been wanted a turn.
I know,
now I know for the good, so as to end it.
It isn’t anybody place here now!”
And that was it,
we retreated back to the tractor we road in on,
Failure I blamed my mother for,
retribution was only heard by the croaking frogs,
and crickets.
I had seen enough weddings,
and funerals,
and signed enough books,
I was ready to shoot another dog at least.
But we waited.
My father never peered his or reared his head once,
and the morning came the fields were tilled,
and re tilled,
before noon,
and soon the blind man said,
I need to ***.
Yes,
and so we went into the pasture,
and urinated.
When we came back we were confronted
Ayad Gharbawi Jan 2010
PASSION PLAY

Ayad Gharbawi




Location: Desert Shore, Bitterly Cold Night, next to strong waves from the ocean.
Characters: Man ((M) and his Lover, a Woman (W).

----------------------------------------


W: “Search as I forever do, in manifold ways unknown, I seek but to love thee, and the meagre goodness from Life, with steely ardour - my armour faithful.”
M: “Alone I may be, and still, yes I love thee; these days heavy are and beset I am by burdensome trivialities, but I remain trusting, though my corner so narrow remain.”
W: “My Love! Your speech I hear aloud and thine lips I live within and yet, my Love, all Solitude I am. Man! I am unaided! In this journey of sinful thorns, my love, in this unforgiving journey, this blurred odyssey, I stand alone”.
M: “This trial you speak of, but I do know of it well; so, listen then: within the strength of trusted togetherness we can plough on, though everlasting harm shall do its spiteful tricks, warm to our united truth shall we remain.”
W: (Surprised) “O! My love! This thought I cannot hear! My life, my destiny, is but mine. And all have their own solitary roads of jagged rocks to embrace, like it we or not. We heartbreaking earthly sad beasts, either fiercely clutch at integrity, or we do let it go to perish away.”
M: (Confused) “My Love! I do hear, I do hear. But when Times decide on burdening us, what then can we achieve? To face Reality within the frail arms of solitude is to ignore, to refuse the severe threats of repulsive grins.”
(Silence)
M: (Passionately) “O! My sweet! Only in us, can we envelope, through joined, clasped warmth can we be as one united! The screams that so truly are meant to slice us off, only we, our Unity, can destroy. For mine eyes can only find sleep in your ears, and it is so - for otherwise nothing and no one can be.”
W: (Angry) “My Passion too is bubbling for thine bewildered ears. Am I not your soul? Do we not suffer as one? Do we not reflect as one? Am I not your lover true? Is not our warmth not weighty to our fickle bones?”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) “But, Lover, this much ought I to formally declare unto thee: For our eyes, and all eyes, envision unequally at one another. Till eternity, in its casual, indifferent flicker, snatches at us all wretched mortals, the gazes from lords to paupers remain veritably mismatched. O my passion! My woeful heart! These words I thunder forth defines love unfeigned, and what mine eyes do pour out unto thine ears is authenticity true.
(Silence)
W: (Passionately) “What joined mem’ries you choose to caress may possess thee, but your exactness for what love is to you, doth not dwell in mine mind. What tears, what weepings you do, fall stormily upon thine own soul’s wildernesses. You choose to be chained by changing visions and indefinite sentiments of light weight – though so poignant at the moment they veritably are?”
M: (Inquiring) “My love! I cherish thee; where hast thou been in thine mind, for now ye talk of that truth you relate to in your heart. Your pronouncements, what depths I do feel! Can it perchance be that my passion has strayed our winds far from me?”
W: “No, my love! Why is anger, I feel, lush on thine tongue?”
M: (Surprised and Frightened) “Anger! I am too distant from that affliction! But yes, I feel my words make only for unstable murmurs in my breath.”
W: (Quietly) “Then, do tell me, lover, who do your murmurs betray - myself or yourself then?”
M: (Quietly) “Perhaps so, perhaps so. But my anxiety wilfully demands of me to eradicate your vision.”
W: (Firmly) “You answer naught from my undemanding question. Or, are mine meanings too violent for you? What aches thee?”
M: (Passionately) “My sweet! In so many moments, I created mysterious planets for thee! Bizarre worlds of contrasts and opposites and musical words of antiquity and sensual ravines. My love! I, my soul, my life, my inner deepest breath, tempted as I am by Fates’ inscrutable cruelties to ashamedly yield, I have yet always expressed to mine eyes’ heart, though they be in bleak darkness, to faithfully fight without pause all shades of vice and still yet - with loving integrity; I have stood with arms of righteousness and love for thee up and never down! Yes, sincere good and venal ill remain joined in life for all to feel, but you knew it was not for me to disentangle them. And so, I pronounce unto thee, still, and yet ever and ever more, my love for thee, though still beholding a thousand mountains before me, I remain sturdy for thee; I remain undisturbed by burly laws, and by exotic dictums, I stand fierce and unhurt, save in your absence.”
W: (With Sadness) “My beloved, your vivid voice stabs the falsehoods for thee, and I say unto thee, unto thee your excessive and unreasonable chains, and for myself my unreasonable and extreme chains remain.”
M: (Shocked) “But I burden thee with no steely chains, nor verbal fetters! For naught I produce for thee save grace, passion and freedom to love for us both to be in Unity Sacred! Dost thou embrace my visions as ‘shackles’, then ‘tis better we agree to class that which we are as but madness! Hear me, for my tears now must truly change their colours!”
W: (Determined) “Your feverish hands clutch only upon mine erratic wings!”
M: (Anger) “Never! Never! For I clutch only to destroy all malevolence; as for thee, Lady of the purest, untouched, guarded, secluded Ponds, I seek to unshackle for you the scattered, scared shadows that yearn for thine sovereignty. And what is this ‘sovereignty’ but our Sacred Union? What curse deemest you I impose? Do you equal my purest passions with atrocities? Murmur unto mine ears, your clearest love for me.”
W: “Ah! You enquire of me my ‘sincerity’ for thee? What demands!”
(Silence)
M: “I see naught but heaving forests of love betwixt us, and yet, you discover my words being ‘demanding’?”
W: (Drily) “Perchance, your visions are indistinct and ever more blurred, through these years cannot be ignored.”
M: (Begging) “My love! All mine life, though it be lengthy, I fought most venal tyranny, and for this moment, you question my righteousness?”
W: (Indignantly) “I have been plunged into seas hostile and I have plunged in a thousand miles of inert minds troubled beyond conceivable comprehension and I have yet to have my Right for my own greedy, ravenous flesh to be vigorously and forcefully embraced by sensuality and serenity. Yes, I do love thee, and yet in our union, as in all unions, I have been adorned with naught, save snickering, gossiping scenes of festive *****, games, chatter and farewells, themselves festooned within silly and sincerely stupid smiles and frowns, and shallow tears and never ending ludicrous chatter unworthy of monkeys conversing. I have met programmed rows of pats, respect and all other so-called decent intents and gestures, but, where, lover that you are of mine, where does my personal heart, throb and manically vibrate, save in your heavenly imaginations?”
(Silence)
W: (Quietly but Determinedly) “My love! I truly thee love and with passions, I tell you, of proportions of precise exactitudes; in your eyes I have witnessed symphonies of exquisiteness; and, I of thee ask: where dwelleth your own love for myself in thine body?”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) “Do you recognise the changing structures that form this, that I name ‘My Love’? In my solitude eternal, I do evermore and always do pause, and be pensive, and be thinking of questions, such as ‘where’, ‘why’, ‘when’ ‘how’, and ‘which’ should be my path; I am forever and ever more searching, seeking the heavens of every corner, and the irritable tempests, within my changing self as they themselves do try to seek me, and we forever, through inconceivable murkiness, do try to assemble the everlasting entirety of these disorganized puzzles into some measure of comprehensible cohesion that ‘I’ am. That is how the ‘I’ you love is forever changing and thereby formulating itself, and within all these meandering passions, and endless errors, where am I to feel thee? Where? And where do you seek me? In which land? In which forest? You trivialise my beingness as you focus upon my lands as being that which so effortless to find, and yet, you are much too distant from an understanding of my conflicting, emerging civilisations.”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) If the utterance ‘Never’ is pathetic for thee, then allow me to introduce you to my latest heart: for it screams out that single, protracted utterance! Never! My love, these winds of raging wraths, both within and outside by flesh, must and can only be annihilated by mine own sincerities – were I not to play against my own self. My uncontrolled desires and, yes, thirsty manic passions can only be tempered and thoroughly satiated to the utter brim, by mine own loving, sources of pleasure, my own uncontrollable ecstasies. As for the rest of ****** pleasures, my own erroneous words, speeches and utterances can only be severed and sliced by my tranquillity.”
M: (Resigned) “I hear thine words. Do not abandon me. Do not destroy our civilisation of justice.”
W: “What we share, the bonds, are enjoyment. Listen though to mine lips: enjoyment is what - when it is to be compared with convulsive ecstatic quivers of satisfaction?”
M: (Puzzled) “And what of all our journeys to attain that unity? For all that, is it to be of mere insignificance? And if that be your truth, for what then did we toil and labour for unity of minds and bodies?”
W: (Laughing) “Did you understand from Life itself, that here it was, grandly to proclaim its furtive faces unto thine own awaiting face?! “
M: (Baffled) “It was so far too plain and vastly clear unto me these sceneries we faced before our loving bodies.”
W: “Yes, and I too, did see them with thee. Our four eyes, did see unity for that flicker of time. How true you speak! But, time clocked on, I saw you as you stood there, moving nowhere, unawares that it was your duty to squash onwards whatever vile breaths faced us.”
M: (Desperate) “And did I not? Did I abandon thee in these crushing paths?”
W: (Accusing) “No, you did not. Never, once did you abandon me. I ask of thee; for what sense do we feel a need for a continuation of these gruelling marches? For unity? For love? Or, is love unity? Was that and is this our reason for us to carry on with these shackles?”
M: “For assuredly, yes, and more yes, I tell thee! Toil and gruelling dawns, and unbearable evenings and the whitest of nights are all for the sacred attainment of that heavenly summit of joy I name as blessed ‘Love’.”
W: (Assured) “And, Sire, what if my nerves, blood and ****** hunger tell thee in truth that we, all of us, need no longer, and need never in truth, to undertake these paths, for we find naught that nourishes us at the blessed summit of your definition of what ‘Love’ is?”
M: (Confused & Sad) “So, I falter here and now upon understanding your speech; do I reason from thee that our loving days in unity are frivolously bygone now?”
W: (Calmly & Gracefully) “Do the wandering birds, and do the blind bats, and do the reckless storms, and do the blindly, raging waves and do the supremely arrogant oceans eternally march on in but one direction only with the savage passage of time within their particular lives? You did pronounce that you built planets for our unity; well then, did you not view how planets endlessly revolve along the same path?”
(Pause)
W: (Calmly & with Dignity) “For, Sire, I am not as a Planet - could you not feel that throughout our journeys? You endlessly query and question ‘who’ it is that ‘I’ am? Well, I speak this much on myself; I am as the birds, and the bats, and the storms and the waves and the oceans.”  
M: (Angry) “Woman! I can only then tell of thee that you are naught but feuding clutter and violent disarray!”
W: (Unconcerned) “Those are your words. Not mine. Speak for what you wish, Sire.”
M: (Angry) “And I stand here, before thee, in anger – nay, more, more! In fury!”
W: (Laughing) “For what? For the deeds that created but sticky, and grimy grains of sand for the undoubted pleasure our eyes?”
M: “And so you label our truths, our love so much! Fair indeed, you speak, Woman of Justice.”
W: (Arrogantly) “Man! Express your delights for your own delights. And, alas, there the circle and reality ends – and it ends only for you. That is one morsel of truth for you to ponder. What we ‘created’ and what we ‘loved’ was never and never, ever be the same for you as it is for me. Are you a sincere believer that your personal vision is the same sight all other seeing creatures envision?”
M: (Angry) “Woman, you enrage me! Your arrogance is drenching thine rags.”
W: (Sarcastic) “Tis the Man with no reason who allows his breath and words to be a veritable cesspool of fuming stenches!”
M: “But I, that I am, no longer can define your contours?”
W: (Pointedly) “Precisely, Man, precisely. Perhaps, now you have come closer to the vulnerable shores of reality!”
M: (Confused) “Do you express that you are ever varying and so for that reason there is not a one unified you?”
W: (Calmly) “For we are all ‘varying’, to borrow your word – if you do so allow me, Sire. There was never ‘unity’ of soul, nor mind, nor self, nor of any one personality. This, I desire, that you may understand.”
M: (Aghast) “Then if that be your truth and then, are we naught but multitudes of ever changing confusions, Lady of the Desert?”
W: (Calmly) “Yes and no! For those who are muscular and full of fertile vigour in their flesh, and in their intellects, and those that are severely and strictly scholastic, then they do need and they can succeed in time, in their never ending struggle to bring together the mutually antagonistic factions of that which constitutes our beingness. And, as for the dense brained soulless beings, then, it is equally veritably true that, a descent into madness can be rapidly produced, since from their erratic constituents, they cannot attract together these antagonistic and mutually-hating emotions in some vision of cohesion, and thus mayhem can be fashioned.”
(Silence)
M: (Calmly) “So, pray do tell me, where does Love and Justice and Truth and Morality stand in your universe?”
W: (Serenely) “That has been mine desire to hear the words being produced from your lips, Man!”
(Pause)
W: “So, now perhaps, your sight may be getting clearer, for your question is certainly apt. Foremost, we pathetic mortals, we the be are forever slimy specks of sand that  crumbles, must necessarily seek to survive and flourish within whatever forest, desert, meadow we find ourselves cast upon.”
M: (Startled) “At what cost, Woman? At the expense of Morality?”
W: (Rapidly) “Yes and no.”
M: (Shocked) “Horrendous! How can you spout out such filth?”
W: (Quietly) “Restrain your stupidities, and give more room to your intelligence, Sire.”
(Silence)
W: (Gracefully) “In times of trouble, what can Man do when he be forced to embrace evil, even though he finds the act of the embrace loathsome, but he does what he does for the truth of his vital existence to continue. Only when he need never embrace vile, and then allows himself to commit the act, then he is for certainty to incur the everlasting wrath of God. Evil is thus never one truth to be utterly rejected, perchance you may now see. ”
M: (Calm but Tired) “I follow your words and their ideas therein.”
W: (Gracefully) “When you talk to me on Man and everlasting, conflicting changes within that self-same creature, I tell you with all the earnestness that I possess, of what God has scattered and endowed upon me; for this beast, we all call in unity Man, this creature has far too many a numberless number of mutually self-contradicting, distrusting, loving, hating, inspiring and a never ending number of feelings and emotions that are in constant flow and change – as in any rapid river descending unto its eventual destination, which in its case, is the sea, while in our case, it is Death itself for sure.”
M: (Despair) “And how can this beast ‘love’ anyone within this welter of confusion?”
W: (Rapidly) “He cannot!”
M: (Rapidly, Begging) “But Man and Woman do love with bristling passions! Do you deny that, Woman?!”
W: (Calmly, eyes downwards looking) “Yes, and no. Since the beast has needs, based on his vastly intricate constituents, to ‘love’ his fellow beast, he imagines and believes
Ayad Gharbawi Jan 2010
PASSION PLAY

Ayad Gharbawi




Location: Desert Shore, Bitterly Cold Night, next to strong waves from the ocean.
Characters: Man ((M) and his Lover, a Woman (W).

----------------------------------------



W: “Search as I forever do, in manifold ways unknown, I seek but to love thee, and the meagre goodness from Life, with steely ardour - my armour faithful.”
M: “Alone I may be, and still, yes I love thee; these days heavy are and beset I am by burdensome trivialities, but I remain trusting, though my corner so narrow remain.”
W: “My Love! Your speech I hear aloud and thine lips I live within and yet, my Love, all Solitude I am. Man! I am unaided! In this journey of sinful thorns, my love, in this unforgiving journey, this blurred odyssey, I stand alone”.
M: “This trial you speak of, but I do know of it well; so, listen then: within the strength of trusted togetherness we can plough on, though everlasting harm shall do its spiteful tricks, warm to our united truth shall we remain.”
W: (Surprised) “O! My love! This thought I cannot hear! My life, my destiny, is but mine. And all have their own solitary roads of jagged rocks to embrace, like it we or not. We heartbreaking earthly sad beasts, either fiercely clutch at integrity, or we do let it go to perish away.”
M: (Confused) “My Love! I do hear, I do hear. But when Times decide on burdening us, what then can we achieve? To face Reality within the frail arms of solitude is to ignore, to refuse the severe threats of repulsive grins.”
(Silence)
M: (Passionately) “O! My sweet! Only in us, can we envelope, through joined, clasped warmth can we be as one united! The screams that so truly are meant to slice us off, only we, our Unity, can destroy. For mine eyes can only find sleep in your ears, and it is so - for otherwise nothing and no one can be.”
W: (Angry) “My Passion too is bubbling for thine bewildered ears. Am I not your soul? Do we not suffer as one? Do we not reflect as one? Am I not your lover true? Is not our warmth not weighty to our fickle bones?”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) “But, Lover, this much ought I to formally declare unto thee: For our eyes, and all eyes, envision unequally at one another. Till eternity, in its casual, indifferent flicker, snatches at us all wretched mortals, the gazes from lords to paupers remain veritably mismatched. O my passion! My woeful heart! These words I thunder forth defines love unfeigned, and what mine eyes do pour out unto thine ears is authenticity true.
(Silence)
W: (Passionately) “What joined mem’ries you choose to caress may possess thee, but your exactness for what love is to you, doth not dwell in mine mind. What tears, what weepings you do, fall stormily upon thine own soul’s wildernesses. You choose to be chained by changing visions and indefinite sentiments of light weight – though so poignant at the moment they veritably are?”
M: (Inquiring) “My love! I cherish thee; where hast thou been in thine mind, for now ye talk of that truth you relate to in your heart. Your pronouncements, what depths I do feel! Can it perchance be that my passion has strayed our winds far from me?”
W: “No, my love! Why is anger, I feel, lush on thine tongue?”
M: (Surprised and Frightened) “Anger! I am too distant from that affliction! But yes, I feel my words make only for unstable murmurs in my breath.”
W: (Quietly) “Then, do tell me, lover, who do your murmurs betray - myself or yourself then?”
M: (Quietly) “Perhaps so, perhaps so. But my anxiety wilfully demands of me to eradicate your vision.”
W: (Firmly) “You answer naught from my undemanding question. Or, are mine meanings too violent for you? What aches thee?”
M: (Passionately) “My sweet! In so many moments, I created mysterious planets for thee! Bizarre worlds of contrasts and opposites and musical words of antiquity and sensual ravines. My love! I, my soul, my life, my inner deepest breath, tempted as I am by Fates’ inscrutable cruelties to ashamedly yield, I have yet always expressed to mine eyes’ heart, though they be in bleak darkness, to faithfully fight without pause all shades of vice and still yet - with loving integrity; I have stood with arms of righteousness and love for thee up and never down! Yes, sincere good and venal ill remain joined in life for all to feel, but you knew it was not for me to disentangle them. And so, I pronounce unto thee, still, and yet ever and ever more, my love for thee, though still beholding a thousand mountains before me, I remain sturdy for thee; I remain undisturbed by burly laws, and by exotic dictums, I stand fierce and unhurt, save in your absence.”
W: (With Sadness) “My beloved, your vivid voice stabs the falsehoods for thee, and I say unto thee, unto thee your excessive and unreasonable chains, and for myself my unreasonable and extreme chains remain.”
M: (Shocked) “But I burden thee with no steely chains, nor verbal fetters! For naught I produce for thee save grace, passion and freedom to love for us both to be in Unity Sacred! Dost thou embrace my visions as ‘shackles’, then ‘tis better we agree to class that which we are as but madness! Hear me, for my tears now must truly change their colours!”
W: (Determined) “Your feverish hands clutch only upon mine erratic wings!”
M: (Anger) “Never! Never! For I clutch only to destroy all malevolence; as for thee, Lady of the purest, untouched, guarded, secluded Ponds, I seek to unshackle for you the scattered, scared shadows that yearn for thine sovereignty. And what is this ‘sovereignty’ but our Sacred Union? What curse deemest you I impose? Do you equal my purest passions with atrocities? Murmur unto mine ears, your clearest love for me.”
W: “Ah! You enquire of me my ‘sincerity’ for thee? What demands!”
(Silence)
M: “I see naught but heaving forests of love betwixt us, and yet, you discover my words being ‘demanding’?”
W: (Drily) “Perchance, your visions are indistinct and ever more blurred, through these years cannot be ignored.”
M: (Begging) “My love! All mine life, though it be lengthy, I fought most venal tyranny, and for this moment, you question my righteousness?”
W: (Indignantly) “I have been plunged into seas hostile and I have plunged in a thousand miles of inert minds troubled beyond conceivable comprehension and I have yet to have my Right for my own greedy, ravenous flesh to be vigorously and forcefully embraced by sensuality and serenity. Yes, I do love thee, and yet in our union, as in all unions, I have been adorned with naught, save snickering, gossiping scenes of festive *****, games, chatter and farewells, themselves festooned within silly and sincerely stupid smiles and frowns, and shallow tears and never ending ludicrous chatter unworthy of monkeys conversing. I have met programmed rows of pats, respect and all other so-called decent intents and gestures, but, where, lover that you are of mine, where does my personal heart, throb and manically vibrate, save in your heavenly imaginations?”
(Silence)
W: (Quietly but Determinedly) “My love! I truly thee love and with passions, I tell you, of proportions of precise exactitudes; in your eyes I have witnessed symphonies of exquisiteness; and, I of thee ask: where dwelleth your own love for myself in thine body?”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) “Do you recognise the changing structures that form this, that I name ‘My Love’? In my solitude eternal, I do evermore and always do pause, and be pensive, and be thinking of questions, such as ‘where’, ‘why’, ‘when’ ‘how’, and ‘which’ should be my path; I am forever and ever more searching, seeking the heavens of every corner, and the irritable tempests, within my changing self as they themselves do try to seek me, and we forever, through inconceivable murkiness, do try to assemble the everlasting entirety of these disorganized puzzles into some measure of comprehensible cohesion that ‘I’ am. That is how the ‘I’ you love is forever changing and thereby formulating itself, and within all these meandering passions, and endless errors, where am I to feel thee? Where? And where do you seek me? In which land? In which forest? You trivialise my beingness as you focus upon my lands as being that which so effortless to find, and yet, you are much too distant from an understanding of my conflicting, emerging civilisations.”
(Silence)
W: (Passionate) If the utterance ‘Never’ is pathetic for thee, then allow me to introduce you to my latest heart: for it screams out that single, protracted utterance! Never! My love, these winds of raging wraths, both within and outside by flesh, must and can only be annihilated by mine own sincerities – were I not to play against my own self. My uncontrolled desires and, yes, thirsty manic passions can only be tempered and thoroughly satiated to the utter brim, by mine own loving, sources of pleasure, my own uncontrollable ecstasies. As for the rest of ****** pleasures, my own erroneous words, speeches and utterances can only be severed and sliced by my tranquillity.”
M: (Resigned) “I hear thine words. Do not abandon me. Do not destroy our civilisation of justice.”
W: “What we share, the bonds, are enjoyment. Listen though to mine lips: enjoyment is what - when it is to be compared with convulsive ecstatic quivers of satisfaction?”
M: (Puzzled) “And what of all our journeys to attain that unity? For all that, is it to be of mere insignificance? And if that be your truth, for what then did we toil and labour for unity of minds and bodies?”
W: (Laughing) “Did you understand from Life itself, that here it was, grandly to proclaim its furtive faces unto thine own awaiting face?! “
M: (Baffled) “It was so far too plain and vastly clear unto me these sceneries we faced before our loving bodies.”
W: “Yes, and I too, did see them with thee. Our four eyes, did see unity for that flicker of time. How true you speak! But, time clocked on, I saw you as you stood there, moving nowhere, unawares that it was your duty to squash onwards whatever vile breaths faced us.”
M: (Desperate) “And did I not? Did I abandon thee in these crushing paths?”
W: (Accusing) “No, you did not. Never, once did you abandon me. I ask of thee; for what sense do we feel a need for a continuation of these gruelling marches? For unity? For love? Or, is love unity? Was that and is this our reason for us to carry on with these shackles?”
M: “For assuredly, yes, and more yes, I tell thee! Toil and gruelling dawns, and unbearable evenings and the whitest of nights are all for the sacred attainment of that heavenly summit of joy I name as blessed ‘Love’.”
W: (Assured) “And, Sire, what if my nerves, blood and ****** hunger tell thee in truth that we, all of us, need no longer, and need never in truth, to undertake these paths, for we find naught that nourishes us at the blessed summit of your definition of what ‘Love’ is?”
M: (Confused & Sad) “So, I falter here and now upon understanding your speech; do I reason from thee that our loving days in unity are frivolously bygone now?”
W: (Calmly & Gracefully) “Do the wandering birds, and do the blind bats, and do the reckless storms, and do the blindly, raging waves and do the supremely arrogant oceans eternally march on in but one direction only with the savage passage of time within their particular lives? You did pronounce that you built planets for our unity; well then, did you not view how planets endlessly revolve along the same path?”
(Pause)
W: (Calmly & with Dignity) “For, Sire, I am not as a Planet - could you not feel that throughout our journeys? You endlessly query and question ‘who’ it is that ‘I’ am? Well, I speak this much on myself; I am as the birds, and the bats, and the storms and the waves and the oceans.”  
M: (Angry) “Woman! I can only then tell of thee that you are naught but feuding clutter and violent disarray!”
W: (Unconcerned) “Those are your words. Not mine. Speak for what you wish, Sire.”
M: (Angry) “And I stand here, before thee, in anger – nay, more, more! In fury!”
W: (Laughing) “For what? For the deeds that created but sticky, and grimy grains of sand for the undoubted pleasure our eyes?”
M: “And so you label our truths, our love so much! Fair indeed, you speak, Woman of Justice.”
W: (Arrogantly) “Man! Express your delights for your own delights. And, alas, there the circle and reality ends – and it ends only for you. That is one morsel of truth for you to ponder. What we ‘created’ and what we ‘loved’ was never and never, ever be the same for you as it is for me. Are you a sincere believer that your personal vision is the same sight all other seeing creatures envision?”
M: (Angry) “Woman, you enrage me! Your arrogance is drenching thine rags.”
W: (Sarcastic) “Tis the Man with no reason who allows his breath and words to be a veritable cesspool of fuming stenches!”
M: “But I, that I am, no longer can define your contours?”
W: (Pointedly) “Precisely, Man, precisely. Perhaps, now you have come closer to the vulnerable shores of reality!”
M: (Confused) “Do you express that you are ever varying and so for that reason there is not a one unified you?”
W: (Calmly) “For we are all ‘varying’, to borrow your word – if you do so allow me, Sire. There was never ‘unity’ of soul, nor mind, nor self, nor of any one personality. This, I desire, that you may understand.”
M: (Aghast) “Then if that be your truth and then, are we naught but multitudes of ever changing confusions, Lady of the Desert?”
W: (Calmly) “Yes and no! For those who are muscular and full of fertile vigour in their flesh, and in their intellects, and those that are severely and strictly scholastic, then they do need and they can succeed in time, in their never ending struggle to bring together the mutually antagonistic factions of that which constitutes our beingness. And, as for the dense brained soulless beings, then, it is equally veritably true that, a descent into madness can be rapidly produced, since from their erratic constituents, they cannot attract together these antagonistic and mutually-hating emotions in some vision of cohesion, and thus mayhem can be fashioned.”
(Silence)
M: (Calmly) “So, pray do tell me, where does Love and Justice and Truth and Morality stand in your universe?”
W: (Serenely) “That has been mine desire to hear the words being produced from your lips, Man!”
(Pause)
W: “So, now perhaps, your sight may be getting clearer, for your question is certainly apt. Foremost, we pathetic mortals, we the be are forever slimy specks of sand that  crumbles, must necessarily seek to survive and flourish within whatever forest, desert, meadow we find ourselves cast upon.”
M: (Startled) “At what cost, Woman? At the expense of Morality?”
W: (Rapidly) “Yes and no.”
M: (Shocked) “Horrendous! How can you spout out such filth?”
W: (Quietly) “Restrain your stupidities, and give more room to your intelligence, Sire.”
(Silence)
W: (Gracefully) “In times of trouble, what can Man do when he be forced to embrace evil, even though he finds the act of the embrace loathsome, but he does what he does for the truth of his vital existence to continue. Only when he need never embrace vile, and then allows himself to commit the act, then he is for certainty to incur the everlasting wrath of God. Evil is thus never one truth to be utterly rejected, perchance you may now see. ”
M: (Calm but Tired) “I follow your words and their ideas therein.”
W: (Gracefully) “When you talk to me on Man and everlasting, conflicting changes within that self-same creature, I tell you with all the earnestness that I possess, of what God has scattered and endowed upon me; for this beast, we all call in unity Man, this creature has far too many a numberless number of mutually self-contradicting, distrusting, loving, hating, inspiring and a never ending number of feelings and emotions that are in constant flow and change – as in any rapid river descending unto its eventual destination, which in its case, is the sea, while in our case, it is Death itself for sure.”
M: (Despair) “And how can this beast ‘love’ anyone within this welter of confusion?”
W: (Rapidly) “He cannot!”
M: (Rapidly, Begging) “But Man and Woman do love with bristling passions! Do you deny that, Woman?!”
W: (Calmly, eyes downwards looking) “Yes, and no. Since the beast has needs, based on his vastly intricate constituents, to ‘love’ his fellow beast, he imagines and believes
In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang’d with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
   But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
   Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers
And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

Full day begind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”

High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how’er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment—she is ancient, tattered raiment—
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,
The door is hut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus—
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation?  Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.

But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish.  The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature.  But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.

But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
Jude kyrie Jul 2018
The man was distraught.
that she could clearly see.
The pretty young doctor
sat quietly behind her desk
as the man explained
his systems to her. In detail.

you see doctor
i **** all the time.
i mean wherever I am
In church at the movies
on a date in my office
everywhere
I have no control over the farts

he was almost weeping.
but be said there is one blessing.
they are silent and do not smell.
in fact I just dropped one now.
doctor. You have to help me.

she nodded in sympathy.
look it's fixable she said reassuringly .
take two of these pills
four times a day with food.
and come back to see me in a week.

five days later the man returned
in an awful state,totally distraught.
*** *** *** he wept.
whats the matter she asked.

those pills you gave me made it worse.
when I **** now it stenches
like a stagnant swamp.
You got to help me.

The young woman
smiled and said that's great.
we have fixed your nose.
now.
Lets work on those ears.

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glass can May 2013
Acrid stenches of contrived action
stain his sloppy, uneven speeches

gallantry is unnerving, obnoxious
to me, even in the grandest favors.

I sniff with all my offended senses.
To a bloodhound nose, it's cloying.

He smells like he's trying too hard,
trying too hard smells sour, biting.

I prefer challenges from a cunning,
a silver-tongued fox. Let me chase.

Subtle while retaining the ability to
remain brazen, aye, there's the rub.

Chomping at the bit, the overeager
and easily pleased are not my kind,

the authentic and untamed always
give me more rise than an easy bait.
ottaross Apr 2015
Where were you, you little *******?
Where were you hiding
As I turned out the lights last night?

Were you in the closet as I came into the bedroom?
Did you seep like a flood
Across the floor in the darkness
Rising up the leg of the bed
And into my ears like liquid toxic waste?

Were you under the pillow
And as my fingers slid under there
Between the crisp, smooth layers of white cotton?
Did you coil about my fingers
And up my arm
To spread over my scalp
All fuming-acid corrosive?

Were you in under the folds
Of the welcoming, white-striped comforter
As we turned in after a perfectly pleasant day?
Waiting, still, in the dark
As I pulled the blankets up taught?
And just below my chin
As the cold sheets around me warmed
To stop the just-into-bed shivers?

Did you crawl up then as I dozed
And twist around my throat
To tighten slowly until I awoke in your grip?

Where ever you were hiding,
You got the drop on me.
You turned the tiny dim lights
That peek into the room at night
Into piercing lasers.

You amplified the tiniest odours
Into dizzying, eye-watering stenches.

You traded the rising-sun's rays
As they finally pierced the curtains
After my hours of sleepless discomfort
For a blasts of neutron-bomb radiation.

Worst of all
You stole the cool, soothing side of the pillow
Every time I managed to find it
Giving me instead a sickly, warm bundle of gorse.

Where were you, you little *******?
Where were you hiding?
Ileana Robles Oct 2013
Vile odor
Stenches through
Dainty covers
To rotten pages
With
In.
Simone13 Aug 2018
down the Valley
where the river flows
flocks of graves
swarmed with crows

ashes to ashes
turn dust to dust
where their metals lei
and turned to rust

stenches of blood
screams and decay
where wasted sheds
are left astray

down the Valley
where the river flows
are plumps of graves
where flowers grow
Julia Quizon Oct 2013
do you
ever wonder
if stars
feel unappreciated
unloved?
to the point where
they shrug and say
"no human even
takes time to look"
then with their last
effort to shine and
shimmer
they explode
into gas and dust particles
never to light up
the night sky
again

do
withered flowers
bother you?
what if they longed
to live
to grow
to survive
but just because
of one
wayward human
its petals
fell
its stem
wilted
and its color
faded

what about
the clouds
in the sky
are their drops
of water
a plea for help?
do they tear up
because of all
the unpleasant
chemicals and
vile stenches
we bring?

do you
think that
the wind moans
violently
because it didn't
drift
the way it
wanted to go?

what if
trees
swayed side to side
when they
hear the
beautiful songs
beautiful melodys
of the bluebirds
perched on their
branches

did it cross
your mind
if the sun
and moon
were long time
lovers
but now they
feel loneliness
and despair because
the only time they
meet
is when the sun
sets and
the moon rises

did it ever
occur to you
that if humans
had
feelings
nature could too?
Eshani Sep 2012
I woke up with a breeze knocking at my window,
I woke up to the sun, sending a ray of hay aglow,
My feet crawled me to the open hands of the clouds,
Where morning stood smiling, with the chirping sounds,

A breeze came along yet again to brush my hair,
While the rose perched proudly, upon the stem of a leafy pair,

The dew was lying on the velvety red petal,
The soft earth, waiting its return to the warm natal,

I finally took myself into my own senses,
and drifted to a life that was unlike the morning, cribbed with stenches,

But life this beautiful should not hold you back,
to take a step ahead, and finally unhook fate's rigid backpack,

Life is about those feathery white clouds,
Life is about earths' scented mounds,
Life is about the crawling of dew drops,
Life is about those smiling golden crops.
Lucky Queue Nov 2012
I wake up and it's tour day
Bright shining sunny
The little ones line up and fidget
Go up to the street's side and watch
Some others stream into the museum
Whose insides are covered in papers
And sketched all over with crayons
Depicting a cityscape and palace interiors
The parades are full of balloons and yet empty
Then the parade has a different balloon
It's alive, regenerating, strong
A simple face exuding evil
Suddenly I know; we have to run. Now.
Children are running and crying
My friends and I glance at eachother
Anxious, fearful
I have to dash back and forth
Running, trying to calm the children
Reassuring myself and my friends doing the same
The stenches of fear and pain permeate the air
Somehow I need to get away, to escape
And run
Then two women appear
Cold, sterile, lifeless automotons
Trying to take me away
So I pretend for a bit to follow, buying time
Then I struggle away, and run back
Mad dash
I find two friends and plead help
Wyatt is willing, Max is silent, Rachel isn't there
The women are back and no time remains
After one last plea I jump the wall
Fall, climb, stand, run
Gary appears barely in time, time for what I don't know
He runs along side, pushing, pulling, somehow helping
While saying nothing, too far away to touch
We're running into eternity,
Away from a black swarming wave of putrid evil
I wake up, sweating, gasping
And I'm still running
Freaky weird dream I had a couple nights ago, wasn't literally running when I woke up, but I was mentally. Wasn't as scary as it sounds, but I didn't exaggerate either.
Harmony Sapphire Mar 2015
Disregarded,  no thanks.
I no longer fall for the pranks.
I withdraw my cash from the bank.
On a scale of one to ten how do I rank?
Poverty stenches & stank.
Stale & untrusted.
Broken,  abandoned,  & undusted.
Defeated,  hobbled, & now rusted.
Felonies & misdeameanors busted.
Lawbreakers, corruded & crusted.

Marry a man with a job & a van.
Who does all that he can.
My secret wish on a shooting star.
To stop getting drunk at the bar.
A walk to his momma's house isn't far.

Work ethics get my kiss.
Employment was my wish.
Success is our bliss.

Like jawbreakers dangerous & senseless.
Civilization settlers & makers.
Pioneers,  homemakers, waiters, bakers, & Quakers.
The towns folk are usually broke.
Different walks of life is no joke.
Occupations & professions of a wife.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Mitchell Duran May 2011
Youth drifts towards the fire
Searing red hot heat hiccup farts
Filled to the brim of one another's stenches
The girl who said she hated neon green
Now wears
Neon green shoes
We are all hypocrites in the end
Nothing touches truer
Then a man who dies thankfully
As a brewer
Truth is a made up word
There is no truth
There is only
The act of the man behind the desk behind the shades behind the cubicle wall behind the pencil behind the pen behind the novel and the short story and the muscle tee and the audition that went well and the audition that went poorly and the sight of a man when their mother calls or doesn't call to tell them that their father is dead with no hint of sadness in her voice, she is more annoyed by her rose bushes which wilt in the un-sinking southern heat
Tonight
As the jackolope jack-offs roam the street for another skirt to chase
And the skirts float with the will of this summer wind
As the genie vendors hock their wares to freshmen too dumb to even care
And the liquor loser ******* on fast food restaurants and their walls
Tonight
These are the beings we dare to call human
Tonight
Daddy and mommy are sleeping and dreaming of a better future
As up-scale glitter demons girate parts they didn't even know they had
And bench pressing brothers continue on with their sadistic born again others
Tonight
I dare not dream
For fear of discovering
Myself
Without time
mEb Nov 2010
Vicinit vicinit the gamut go round
Progenies excogitate faster
Ode to no eminent thing
We all morph into matter.

The atramentous inky and blackest dense;
sprints and weaves in and out.
Tenuring twains over head, under toe;
Absconding ways in which we've never known
A paramounted heretic defeat.
Darkness that foliole footprints sooted deep;
Seeping stenches of fowl un-scented reminiscent in attire of the welkin;
Vastly sly making a skullduggery indent.
CR2X let us pseudonym by hex.

"No nomen no nomen for I matter dark"
"Matronymic nix hold's my fine lark"
"Nongermane logics are behind you and left"
"I am not your scientific pet"
Not a test, nix preliminaries"
Matter of all is of all existing quarries"

Spoken gallant and wise
Need not ever a compromise
"Matter dark matter dark it is you we embark!"
The bridge to my ole factory
Crumbled under the fury
Of 70 stenches times 2
That welcomed me back to the Garden City in '06

The high priest of higher learning
and fulfillment
Had lured me away
For a few decades

And the wheels of time
Kept turning and turning
Along the long grinding road
To that elusive greener sanctuary of lore,
The El Dorado of every wide-eyed
Immigrant to foreign shores

A fat black cat floated sideways in the gutter
Between a bevy of fruit vendors,
Bloated by the pungent gases of death;
It was still there when I returned,
5 days later

The roads all seemed to have shrunk,
Overwhelmed by a tsunami
of trucks, cars and mini vans;
All in a rush,
Running late to their own funerals

I gave the driver a few extra dollars
To slow down;
I wanted to be on time
For mine

Feeling like a stranger
In my own backyard,
I scanned the crowded marketplace
For one familiar face
To ask about the dead black cat
floating in the gutter

"He used to run things around here," she said
"Back when rats were shy and scared;
But times have changed
And these new rats have no fear."

And they don't care about clean gutters either.....

~ P (Pablo)
(6/24/2013)
Garden City = Georgetown, the capital of Guyana, S. America (my country of birth)
Shawn H Reeder Apr 2015
The thunderclouds circle the Valley.
Soothing sounds from the darkest formations.
Send me off shore, One with the Galley.
No one shall miss thee, let there be little doubt.

The waves have risen and lowered; Littered with evil stench.
My guts hit the Stain, never again to be the same.
Just trying to forget, curse this haunted skin.
Being unable to forget, I'm a *******, living life in pretense.

Blue, blue, blue; the one color I see or touch.
Feeling helpless until eventually, i too turn blue.
Only then, do I count my blessings. No use for crutches.
Treat every human as if they were the last hearts blessed.

Land **!!! Finally, everything I have waited for.
These sands are clouds.  My date with the almighty is here.
The one who stenches the darkness with Ammonia.
Does his best to keep those haunted souls at bay.

Fire is also Blue,
Thus hell might be too.
Fight for me, lord of Orion.
It's Heaven, I should have praised before departure.
Thank you all.  God Bless you all.  And if you don't believe in god, well he doesn't exist in your eyes.  I don't know there is a god, but something won't let go of me in the form of spirit.
midnight prague Apr 2011
my love is a wild orchid leaking at the mouth at dawn
as hands find ways to place themselves in invisible places
burning beneath dreary midnight skies

terror and rushing silent hearts, something good
I have pranced upon in life meadows
and I find this lingering between those two places
perfection speaks silently
perfection whispers violently

I find worlds to live in
where our windows are portals to the spiritual
and open doors bring in tender wind
violet voices drip beneath the skin
in rich shades of heart fall
leaving imprints of impersonation and
reconstruction on my wall
blinding the unforgiving love of routine
and blue curtains that were hung up last winter
with a smile brushed upon a sad face

living in forests of wild woods and pubescent trees
mock the artificial mind of this city
learn how to be

I am no casting eminence glancing down
breath taking seas, locked in the agony of happiness
and criminal hearts, kissed by a kisser
holding hands tediously as 3 hearts melt into one
like the rain coming down from your roof
and the joy of falling asleep to the sound
of water being absorbed into the ground
recycled, there is something so comforting about it

flower printed walls, and hallmark cards lay around
the smell of coffee stenches the carpet
there is something glorifying about broken bottles in the corner of the bar
perhaps a long night of silent communication
and unbearable looks of quiet knife like stares
piercing-exciting
loving
A K Krueger Jan 2014
Once more unto the breach,
dear friends;
We tremble, we
withdraw our pens
We sit still, listen
Calm, collected
To prove our brains
Have not defected,
Once more letting them teach
Our heads
We caw and flutter
Fresh from beds.
We wait long, patient
Trudge the trenches,
to stave away
Failure's stenches.
Once more, until we meet
Our ends;
Continue calling
What luck might send,
We want most, if not all
The gifts unknown,
To make them known.
And yet this day
Is clearly done,
We slump away
Back to our homes.
We write our fingers,
to the bones.
Sleep and toss,
(A dream's a peach)
Then once more,
Unto
The Breach.
Jack Savage Sep 2013
Stenches Swarm as I Flee.
Further is Closer, but Closer can't be.
I'm trying to hide from my own Misery.
This is not just an Excerpt; A Moment; A Thing.
Home is so ******* Far away.
Amidst these Beings, I am Forever alone.

As I Run through my City,
With arms so depraving,
I turn to the sky,
Now Scorched by their screams.
Their caustic teeth,
Slowly Sink into me.
A Carving so starving,
A Man, it could not be.

Dance, lover, dance,
Back, thrown from the chance,
That I might just Taste you,
And Submerge you in Hands.
Hands from the victims,
Now quick with demands.

Your Sweat wets the floor,
Your Blood Bank, A dried Store.

Drip,
        Drip,
                Drip,

You should have checked the Backseat.
This a short narrative poem about a Man in the process of becoming undead.
Mitchell Duran Jun 2011
Marooned on a boat filled with neo-nudists
Who claim and believe
They are the next big thing
We are all running towards the end of jagged cliff
Scratching scraping scarring and sacrificing our old selves
For the new and improved
I am so tired of these games America
I am so weak from the sufferings of supposed freedom
Where the weak make sounds from synthesized dice gamblers
And the strong continue to feed on real estate which holds no true foundation
I have been on the ground looking up receiving no helping hand
I have seen the last note of a dying orchestra man
That was granted with no standing ovation
I have heard the cry of a mother who has seen their last child die
I've witnessed the fall of a great man
Who was then replaced
By the body of a broken hallow man
Are we blind?
Do we not have the eyes to see or are the "ignorant masses"
As the one who criticized me in seclusion said
Completely content with milling about with their eyes in their pockets
And their noses on the ground?
Are these the worries of a man misplaced
Absent but allowed to run free for their are only prisons for the one's
To daring to show their true self
The page ponders through its own mechanisms
Much like the madmen, the ******'s, the intelligence of bombers
Neither I nor myself nor the man tomorrow
Will understand these words that are heavy with sorry
Each hour ticks forth to a new beginning for someone
But not me my friend
No, I await the coming tide where the illuminated stars
Flicker with a a shed of light
Which me and me only can feel
To be alone is to be free as well as imprisoned
In a world without love, care and inevitable heartbreak
Cast the key into thine lake, my love, for the heart is an evil thing
Which was granted to us not out of request
But by burden
And Keats was to worrisome of a man involving money and notebooks and trips
The cough got to his soul
But first his soul was allowed to shriek and pine a little bit
And now as the sun breaks through the grey colored clouds
My bedroom awakened through the stenches of a youthful man
Each sheet dirtied, each shirt wrinkled, each pen uncapped
Each letter writ not stamped or sealed
Each picture of Her folded, stapled, crinkled and hidden
So even the moon if He willed it would not able to find it
Each house breathes their own thoughts out onto the wind
And wherever I will it
That's where I'll be
John Jun 2013
Remove my body
From the
Wreckage
Tell all
The papers
Who I am
Let it be
Known
I won't
Be
Beaten
Down
Buried with
Black flowers
And doused
In rotten
Stenches
I am
Here
And not
There
I am one
With
The ways
Of the
Winds
I bind
Them to my body
And fly
Up
Down
Up and
Out
You can't win
I won't
Lose
I can't
For the wind
Does not permit
Such
Atrocities
It gives me no
Other choice
But to
Get
Up
And continue
On
Heart beating
Blood
Pumping
Eyes
Set
On the
Horizon
Cascading Chaos Sep 2015
Rosy cheeks betray intentions
knotted stenches lingering.
Partitions are parceling
past eyes crossed.
Rhythms betray spontaneity.
They are rehearsed rendezvouses.

Let me hold you

Let me hold you hold me
and escape the worst of it.
Just for a moment.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i never understood why a Don Giovanni or a Anaïs Nin would write a book... i guess it was partly because they were trying to extinguish that thing of Sinai that Moses spoke to... but the public rekindles the jealous flame by claiming them to be fictional... truth be told i don't think Solomon's harem was smaller than a pigsty of any wealthy baron, i don't like keeping an innocent eye on things: it was as it was... my hand might have the stamina, but my torso wouldn't, anyway... i'm still surprised that such eventful lives would require a book... esp. a book dealing with no ideas, but past experiences... whereas the reader of each of such works just says: you need a psychotherapist... you need a psychotherapist... a thought ******... a thought ******...*

my life? the only interesting things about it
are encapsulated in the hours from ~11p.m. to ~4p.m.,
that's when i drink and unwind...
i wouldn't dare to write had i an interesting life,
i have a boring life and my motto stands firm:
if you have an interesting life, don't bother.
you won't hurt me, you'll hurt yourself
having to digress into these pits of ashen-waiting-lines,
no one will wet a finger for speed allowing you
to be a real page-turner that easily,
you had that in life, don't come here among
the putrid stenches of what-could-have-been
or should-have-been, don't cremate the thought
that gave you vitality, as you can already see,
modern day celebrities write books via ghostwriters
to make a profit, not a bedtime story seance,
the story is: i showed my **** i sold lingerie,
i might have topped that economic policy off with
a perfume brand... and you wonder...
why Zimbabwe, given all this... success?
celebrity culture is nothing more than c.c.t.v. culture;
what a horrid world we seem to inhabit.
Jeremy Ducane Jan 2015
Your latest lover leaves the train.
The pattern on the seat interrogates.
No answers warm now emptiness is all.

The wings of possibility are burnt
Ammonia stenches, clouds.
No taking light of eyes agreed.

The window is still there.
You always were a window-watcher, you.
Now there may be something.
Maybe something new.
Sequestered May 2016
Arise from amongst ashes most anguished,
Stir up repose whispers from wrathful wile;
Rekindle this sweet twinkle once banished,
Charm and churn her essence again to swirl.

Free her fossilized form from filth and fears,
Waft wings wide and wild with wind as zephyrs;
Exhale mortality from thorns and tares,
This wretch, set aflame with gale and fire.

Cleanse this cursed from stenches of sacrilege,
That entombed her in eclipse most eerie;
Then, send her salvage soul on a pilgrimage,
Farthest from hell's grim crypt of solitary.

Liberate this life to live in crystal light,
Let her latched legion loose into delight.
"It was not my body, not a woman’s body, it was the body of us all.
It walked out of the light." - Anne Carson
Sam Temple Jun 2015
sunlight glistens off latticed steel
one inch by one inch diamonds
a succulent sits in a window
open three inches
enough for a slight breeze
to permeate the drudgery –
body odor mingles
with ancient brickwork
as the ball sweat cheese wafts
through the narrow halls
encountering so much foot fungi
creating a medley of stenches
only partially conducive to learning –
the ever-present clacking of keyboards
qwerty in their fashion
keeps the static rustle of my radio muffled
but barely enough to be less distracting
that a lifetime of bad choices
and the damnable math GED test --
TP123456789 Apr 2015
Here I take a hand,
I lead it down past glass walls,
on a stone worn stair,
past women in grey shawls.

As a face looks in fear,
I squeeze more tightly now,
leading them further down,
past stenches and tastes afoul.

By pale figurines,
that watch our fluid step,
tracking every sway,
counting every story swept.

As we descend,
down into the dungeon,
down into the lightless shadows,
down away from friends,
down away from them,
into the depths,
where we can be alone,
in this lonely sept.
celeste fuma Jul 2018
blue lilies
now;wilted and zapped
petals of hibiscuses;
frosting and drooping
pressed between our pages
stenching and staining
them edges
bleeding


the flesh stenches
the putrid blooms
carve squealing wounds
the blood engulfs the heart
that deliquesces


the crevices are graved
then the heart deliquesces
and falls into two
down/a rotting corpse
it oozes into


the disgust of existence
creeping through shredded layers
of shroud
covering the withering bones,
mass
and
emotions


searing
it melts eventually-the shroud
until it reaches the bones
crashes them there
spilling the liquids/
all that is left bare
is already atrophying


and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting
dying at least leaves you
the voids to hold onto
to be nostalgic for what was held
dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew


but rotting
eats away all that existed
and snaps leaving
detritus,stinking
odor that i need  


the craft of us
all worn out
the fragments dis plumed through holocausts
the rebellion in ruination  
and the twitched cold feet
each breath i've took,now smothering
you,me,and everything



the reflections,contradictions
intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts
punctured and ruptured
all constituents consuming and decaying now
every treble
so heavy


freezing not frozen
perishing not lighter


maybe these moments
-they never stop
cause right there in the midst
everything rots.
-/and we let it

~d
Zack Apr 2018
Morning afters
Am I right?
Pounding headaches
Sun too bright

Walk of shame
Pregnancy scares
Greasy, tangled
Missing hair

Familiar stenches
Foreign limbs
Awkward glances
Weird breakfast whims

Soon comes the doubt
If it all really happened
love marks found out
What a mistake I’m now trapped in

Missed calls and messages
From those close and dear
Who’ve been desperate
To suppress their worst fears

9:15 says the clock
Put on various pieces of clothes
Visit a starbucks
Get a soy latte with sugar, dark roast

9:25 am
Check facebook
Check twitter
Get a bite by a food truck

9:35 am
“Where are you?”
It’s your mom
“I’m just getting some food”

9:40 am
“Where are you?”
It’s the one night stand
DON’T OPEN IT DUDE

9:45 am
“Where are you? Why are you late?”
It’s your boss
Wait, today’s friday.
Moonsocket Aug 2017
All these rooms are the same

faces like factory precision eager on the assembly line

whitewashed and anxious for another distraction

Brains hum like fluorescents

Ear drums straining for subtle symphonies strung through a malfunction system

but clarity remains locked inside a key hole perspective

Images stutter into collisions and what is time anyway?

Strung out for a shout and we weave new sickness into salvation

Caught your god gasping for the masks that slip when a sky swoons from exhaustion

Skeletal sequence and the wall steals another shadow

A crumbling facade wrought with gunpowder stenches

A hollow charade begging for reason

Accommodate the mazes left floundering inside ****** magistrates

Who would wake a giant when we can't even ignite the sun?

suits strut carrying heads full of holes

Cozy with wholesome vices and wives derived from cellulite

Some of us remain fringe stuck while negating proper liquidation

Accidentally existing while consuming the prerequisites for confusion

— The End —