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Shaine Fraz Jun 2013
Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,

but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,

her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest

wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
  
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****,

the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
 
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,

she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
 
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,

you a bad *****,
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,

her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***.

In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,

that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,

that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,

that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,

and he never means to hurt me.

Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,

he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:

Ms. *******, control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.
© 2013 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
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!
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
HOW NOT TO SWEAR WHEN ONE IS SWEARING

After I hit it
with a hammer

my old thumb takes on
a now cartoonish character

pulses and throbs
grows biggerandbiggerANDBIGGER.

My three year old
gasps in astonishment

that an adult would/could
do such a silly silly thing.

"Bold Daddy!" she scolds "Bold Daddy!"

My mind screams in silence but
my tongue longs

to utter in the demotic
a good old fashioned Anglo-Saxon

ffffffffffFFFFFFF...word!

I somehow( don't
ask me how )

gaze into my little one's
baby blues

delete the expletive
carefully in slow motion

substitute the first
thing that pops into the mind

the first( as it happens )
of Mr. Joyce's thunderwords.

None of Eliot's
"  Shantih     shantih     shantih "

I had the presence of mind to
"Finnegans Wake" it!

"BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONN
TONNERRONNTUONNTHUN­NTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAN
TOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!"



"Funny Daddy!" she chortles "Funny Daddy!"

Now whenever things
go wrong and

they will go wrong
( as sure as words is words )

she begs me
to "...do the thunder!"

Waits for her little
bit part so she can

chime in with her
". . .TOOHOOHOO..."

and I gather her up
in my arms and we

both declaim
as one

". . .THURNUK!"
"bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk" is the first of the ten "thunderwords" in Jame Joyce's FINNEGANS WAKE. Each is a hundred letters long except for the tenth which is a 100 and one words long!

1 ) (thunder):
Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk

2 ) (thunder):
Perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun

3 ) (clap):
Klikkaklakkaklaskaklopatzklatschabattacreppycrottygraddaghsemmihsammihnouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot

4 ) (*****):
Bladyughfoulmoecklenburgwhurawhorascortastrumpapornanennykocksapastippatappatupperstrippuckputtanach

5 ) Thingcrooklyexineverypasturesixdixlikencehimaroundhersthemaggerbykinkinkankanwithdownmindlookingated

6 ) (shut the door):
Lukkedoerendunandurraskewdylooshoofermoyportertooryzooysphalnabortansporthaokansakroidverjkapakkapuk

7 ) Bothallchoractorschumminaroundgansumuminarumdrumstrumtruminahumptadumpwaultopoofoolooderamaunsturnup

8 ) Pappappapparrassannuaragheallachnatullaghmonganmacmacmacwhackfalltherdebblenonthedubblandaddydoodled

9 ) (cough):
Husstenhasstencaffincoffintussemtossemdamandamnacosaghcusaghhobixhatouxpeswchbechoscashlcarcarcaract

10 ) (Norse gods):
Ullhodturdenweirmudgaardgringnirurdrmolnirfenrirlukkilokkibaugimandodrrerinsurtkrinmgernrackinarockar
Logan Smith Jul 2017
I often wonder
If your mind ever wanders to me
When it's dark and my side of the bed is empty
I wonder if you ever think
About the way my fingers felt in your
Curly, *****, ***** hair
Or about how the kisses we shared seemed to stop time
Or about the time when our love was gentle and sweet and new
Or about how we broke each other so many times
Before giving up

I often wonder if things could've been different,
If we could've had more time-stopping kisses,
And less earth shattering fights.
If you ever could've truly loved me,
The way you always promised that you would some day

I wonder if you think about me
The way I think about
How your hand felt on my back,
Rubbing all of my problems away.
Even though you were most of my problems.
Or how exhilarating it felt every time we came back to each other,
Like an alcoholic having "just one" drink, swearing we wouldn't get ****** in again.
No Name Jan 2014
Red lipstick (I think),
but your hair fell soft around your shoulders.
You had this smile, but I could tell
it wasn’t for the camera-
you weren’t even looking at it. You-

You were on his shoulders like a bird,
little bluejay, hummingbird, raven-
sun on your shoulders, wind in your blouse,
eyes spilling sunlight.
His were looking up at you,
swearing everything,
swearing on the universe and his father’s grave
he’d hold onto you.
Fred Wakefield Oct 2012
I do not own a motorbike,
Never been a member of the Third *****.
I’m not Italian, French or gay,
(No homophobe, just not built that way).
I’m not Tom Jones or a member of Queen,
I’m not going back to the seventies in a time machine.
I’m not a backing dancer for Madonna,
Talc on my legs “I don’t wanna”.
So why do I own a pair of leather trousers?

This was definitely a mistake,
Like breaking wind on a first date,
Swearing at the boss at the crimbo celebration,
Being caught by parents doing a ****** gyration.
Persuaded to buy them, through the mist of lust she had taste,
I found out too late, she was highly religious, chaste.
Good quality, not cheap, never worn,
Could be used in transvestite ****!
Does anyone want a pair of leather trousers?
I am the blackbird sitting
on the branch . . . watching you
Peering into every aspect you do
Kaw . . . Kaw
and you . . ,

Late at night if I ever get out of here
I swear I will turn into a thunderstorm
And hurl my bolts of light at you
And pound you with my thunder

I am the blackbird . . . and I am still
watching you
Can you feel the unease of my stare
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
now you are aware

He held a grudge forever more
Never could he release the hate and pain
Nothing nice again , just rain
He could never get out again

The blackbird and me . . . .
as the feathers flutter to the ground
Went both of us . . . around and around
Dagers drawn , guns blazing

Like I said it is late of night
Cursing and swearing my heart pounds
Mark on my bolts , holding thunder
I notch another line on the barrel of life

Blackbird ! Blackbird !  Blackbird be !
I am the blackbird sitting in your tree
Peering into the aspects that you might be
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
Alyssa Jun 2015
I'm sorry,
i can't love you.
i'm sorry,
you never said something sooner.
i'm sorry,
but this isn't going to work.
i'm sorry,
but we are not for each other.
i'm sorry,
i don't long to talk to you.
i'm sorry,
i find your swearing so unattractive.
i'm sorry,
i hope you find someone else.
i'm sorry,
but what i have to give is not for you.
i'm sorry,
i don't want to share it with you.
i'm sorry,
but i'll help you along the way.
i'm sorry,
for you & your sad life.
hope you don't read this
Marisa Lu Makil May 2015
Flashback
I am 13
And I have just started writing.
"How,"
I am asking
"How do you make someone seem wicked
"Without making them swear?"
My father then told me
That swearing
Swearing
Is lack
Of
Inspiration

Swearing
Is a person
Who can't think of anything better to say
Find a better way to make
A man
Evil
And then
You are on your way to becoming
A good author

That's when you know
That someday you'll be a great one.
Swearing is not cool.
Larry Potter Dec 2013
Do you know what happens
When two worlds collide?
It's like a churn of eggs and beer
In a gastronomic ride.

At first it could be delicious
That it takes you all the way
To a taste of hershey's kisses
Or a scent of red boquet.

You'll wish that it remain like this
And believe it to be true
That there's no moment you  would want to miss
And you've figured out all clue.

But then the waves go tossing
And the sweet and sour will blend
To a bitter flavor toxicating
Two hearts to a drunken end.

The tearing and the swearing
Could make you realize
That the biggest toll of loving
Is making it real in your eyes.

So what's left is a rancid vapor
From two hearts both left for dead
That will free all pain and horror
From the lips they're left unsaid.
Kitty Oost Oct 2014
Three summers ago
I loved a boy
who's hair when moved
by wind or hand
was always magical,
who possessed tanned skin
and eyes so blue
they were waters to drown in.
Around him I felt enchanted
and he was enthralling.
He captivated me,
turned me into a slave of my emotions,
with words and promises
I knew he couldn't make come true.
"Run," my friends urged me, "as fast as you can."
But without him life was jaded,
their warning
had been voiced too late.
Already I had pricked my finger,
on a spinning wheel
and fallen head over heels
in that chemically induced slumber
we sometimes call love.
He opened a door for me that led straight
into a world filled with
bushes of roses
and buckets of sunshine,
I promptly forgot that too much sunshine
scalds the skin
and turns it a burning, vivid red,
almost as vivid
as the crimson blood
a touch from the thorns of roses draws.
I knew I had been warned so I stayed there
bleeding and burning,
swearing to myself as I suffered
that I would never again
give my heart to someone
who would not give me theirs in return.

This summer, three years later,
being around you
means feeling like being able to combust spontaneously
and I cannot forget
the sensation of my skin in contact with yours.
It made me realise
that though I have always loved you,
I started loving you a little bit too much.
You are my every thought.
They say you never make the same mistake twice,
that it is your own stupid fault the second time around.
But if it really was a choice
why then is it
that I spend all my nights these days
pleading with the universe
to let me unlove you.
Martin Heath Sep 2018
Reincarnation -

Today sensing I saw you 'least I think that of a squint
That of a telltale glint a telltale wonted wink
Straight thru to my soul in an inquisitive slant
Passing 'long side somewhat a furtive glance

Yet only to see 'twas not actually you
But a passing stray cat looking back at me

Then down past that path 'long crippled creek
A voice softened so sweet held such mystique
Awakening times of verse uttered in rhyme
As we laid in summer's parched pastimes

Yet only to hear 'twas not actually you
But a proud jay of blue words 'pon my ear

'round the bend 'n riding the wind
Fragrance of hyacinths thru the tamarind
Swearing 'twas you obscured in a trance
Memories now beckon of lost romance

Yet to inhale 'twas not actually you
But the wind thru the willow weeping quite frail

Out of those woods feeling fingers of flesh
Is this you again your spirit refreshed
As if reliving our mourned childhoods
New life 'mongst these ole cottonwoods

Yet only to feel 'twas not actually you
But a monarch alighting so quite genteel

Today I saw you 'least I think
From your telltale shine so quite so distinct
Not sure exactly it might conceal
Your rebirth 'n the wonders it might reveal

Perhaps the morrow we'll meet remember
We two peas in that perpetual pod
This cycle of life 'n its cycle of death
Complete in replete with each of our breaths
As each we breathe in strolling once more
Hand in hand 'long life's promenade
Scott Mitchell Dec 2012
Discernment of facts escape a blind eye
Incalculable deceit fell upon naive assumptions of decorum

Virtues so easily replaced by a blanket of colorful chattel
Now, countless blankets dance about, as ghosts
on a paved route chosen with intent of endless future passage
And now, to escape the realm of falsities
every eventide is exchanged for repose and closed eyes

Pleasure, promises, and poetry she gave
only to have something to take away
In vengeance of a caustic past
Aphrodite unleashed artful malevolence into a fallen heart

Oh, how so much exists
where there is nothing
Emptiness can be full of such desire
And oh, the bitter taste of sweet words
from the unrestrained lips of a liar

An offering cloaked with savory fruit in cordial hands
Swearing to give it all in the big apple
and then seducing to her roots in the yard
Absorbing a soul
Only to create a martyr of forlorn cause

An abomination can appear so sweet
when emptiness needs filling
A demon from below,
delightful,
before killing

Nostalgia, a trail of footsteps in the mud
Like a fingerprint with an unquestionable owner
Arduous wails reaching the extents of one's universe
as a pawn and patriarch share reflection in the stagnant tide

knowledge of good and evil, once a desire, now a curse
yet, finally held
Gratefully numb with inescapable acceptance

Scott Mitchell
09 Dec 2012
Mitchell Duran May 2012
The knife sharpens itself
By a naked hand
Gripped by the thoughts of home
And happenings
Of Matthew's killings

Since in the own self
Accountings are remembered
Politely thinking that
Everything you've seen so far
Is a game

There is nothing
That is not your own
And Oh My God
There is once a place
That you know now
There is something you are up against
Yet you don't know what it is

Marching roves
Of men with the geeks and their money
Sweat trickles from the
Leather books of their
Leather shredded souls of the ******
And here the stone piles lay
The guts of a revolution
Paid off with nothing
But the blood of the brain washed equipped

So
The swearing of news
Of lands split apart by differences
Arms themselves with theories
Ways of living
Separation of man to man

And business
Is as loud
And as quick
As the shot
From a gun barrel

We are lead by
Monsters
So in turn
We are only minions
Of Monsters

Preceding in a
Discovery
Of an old enemy that
Swears that blood
Would never be
Thicker then their hate

The blasts
Begin
As the age of man
Is dressed
In fresh spilt
Sin

And there is the check of the
Young solider at his stone hedge fund
We wheeze for the riches
Of the looks of the great scholars
And lepers of the lost celebrities
Going through all
Of the way things are and the way
Things will be and the present step
We all seem to be obsessed with taking

Walk to the gates of the pearly gates
Sounds of bullets and scream to be heard
Our name, our humaneness, dampens
As we flatten on the torn apart dusty stone
Caught with one eye on the ground, their
Ears bent to hear any kind of sound

Excuses let not alone in warmth an hot bullet
Where former life lived now shows but death
We men, hot in our hurry to correct one another
Excuses everything where we should excuse nothing
And in blood He bathes in bullet casings
A former shell of the man after heathen he hath killed

Though pressed on silken angels wings where
We seek refuge for forgiveness after pleasure
Released' are we when the light is shone upon us
Each word to be released is to be sent to heaven
Our brothers, nodding to the likeliness of our worth
Sees their eyes within the pupils of us, our own brothers

Thunder where the proud is not equal
We marked nothing that could not be fought
Good or bad was not the answer we sought
For we only sought justice in the eyes of good men
We know not how to do too little or too much
We only turn our eyes to the home of our good selves

To the hawk the family runs away from its own mother
She tidies as bullets **** by in their boys imagination
To spread your wisdom is to also spread your disease
Seek the seed of of your turmoil, see you spread your knowledge
To the youth you produced you wished could be free of your curse
The night touches the lips of the innocent as the moon eclipses
Temporal breaths form on the authorities that swear their allegiance

Where time cries we see the shallow man weep their **** of time
The hallways echo with their cries of selfish uselessness
Preciousness shows light on His eye whose end is inevitable
The clapping senate, in their circle, their suits, their wives with sherry
Make no conversation to the people for their wounds are too deep
The people - with their lack of voices - show their mouths with no sound
As the greying suits like the bones within the earth clap to their own accomplishments
The laughs, those haunting laughs, are heard faintly over the lapping of forgotten blood

What must we say of custom but that it is boring
We make the throne to it as we see the revolutionaries toss stones at it
They who hold their essence, their truth to it
Sacrifice their children - later in vain - for the cause of it
Dear custom, you are the one who holds the red hot chain of control
Not the Devil or God or Tyrant or Executioner or Law Men
Ney! We must see that custom is the crutch of all Men
Unwilling to step foot on grounds which they know nothing of
Here - on these mysterious grounds - lays a life better than the last
Here lays a life not afraid of time or change of the ill effects of history
Here stands Ahab and his ship sailing for the mighty ****

In place our God's shed only their light on the one's that resemble themselves
Picked out to present the gift they have been sharing for eternity
The lights shine bright on the eye's of the one's of the camera
Lo' the mud is still ***** lined with a sickness that tries not to be forgotten
We wheeze for we are human yet the God's provide no cure
We die only to be tossed back into their pool of games
They who plays by the rules is imprisoned in a losing game
Rules, a shackle and chain, all presented by the creator of the frame

Prepare for the soft spoken telling of the charging of the army
Our men, sword to sword, relishes their hate in the blade
How deep can a man hate when they **** every innocent soul around them?
We pass through sheds of shifting christian childish light that cries
Time pleases of the Shakespearian wears that hold a truth who shouts "Not now, not now!"
Soothing ourselves with the honored number of the royalty that swears
To be mixed with the minnows of the common man to be a unholy injustice
Man turns to God and man turns man into the dirt with which they march on

And in the breath of a love of mankind
An innocence whose mess could bring you tears
And a thankfulness that only bears the strength to show Her fear
We are made of the same blood, the same muscle, the same skin
Yet we fight to the death just to see who will turn up on top and win
Can the hill of our ego's ever be conquered?
Where is our peaceful hill that many wish to live and wander?
Bloodshed is apart of mankind
But there is another side
One that is washed in the ***** pebbles of a forgotten city
And the waves of a mysterious endless ocean
There we will find our answer but I'm going back to
A place I've never been before
Where the piano player plays whatever He wishes
And the midnight wind grants me
A couple of moonlit kisses

Oh the politics of theatre
No, my mistake!
The theatre of politics!
We ask to say this when the cue lands
And the mass of man claps or
Boo's, swearing that with either
There is nothing to lose
We are the mob of the Roman empire
With ipads, ipods, the internet and smart phones
Technology tells us who we think we are
Yet
We are still the stinking rats in the stands
Gnawing on the priced bronze haunches of pig
Chewing dirt with flesh and flesh with dirt
Imaginations as wide as the forehand can stretch
Thinking that a glass based GPS system sets us apart
(They did it with paper and parchment)
Spiraling towards a repetitious existence

I wish not to be human
Yet
I am cursed
To be so

To be apart of
What I will be
Forever

Forces me

To favor the good
Within myself

Within
All of us
What's happening to all of us? The so-called generation of tomorrow?
Don't you remember how we used to be?
Before we all grew up, swearing that when we're "big" we're never going to smoke or drink?
That boys were yucky and girls had Germs?
Remember how carefree we all used to be? It didn't matter to us what people said or even what they thought. We didn't care if our hair got wet or a stain got on to our clothes.

Now we've turned everything around, never meaning the words that we said. Its as if every memory of who we were, has shattered, into tiny bits of pieces.
Remember the dreams we had when we were young? The morals and virtues we swore we'd never rid of, holding on to these for dear life, yes still we threw them away.

The people we are, the children we used to be, now a totally new adolescent. A conjunction of minuscule parts of both  our past and present.

Remember the days we all were friends, no backstabbing, no lies, and complete honestly.

Sharing the humour, not hiding the facts, lived life freely, what happened to us? What happened to the people we used to be?

The all grew up that's what happened I guess, but now barely recognisable. The little child still somewhere deep in the interior of the hard outside we've formed.

Making ourselves to seem like we're stubborn, matured adults, when that's really what we're not.
We're a mixture of what we all used to be and a huge part made up of what we've been through.
All our experiences, both good and bad. All our dreams, some nourished since we were young, and others newly spurted. Our decisions to give in to peer pressure, or resist temptation. Our choices. Our friends, the ones that uplift is and the ones that have torn us down. Our family, the ones who loved us and the ones who have hurt us. Our education, tons of learning experiences. Our relationships, that all formed our inner beings more intricate than all of the above. Our emotions leading us and misleading us to where we might or might not end up . Look, i'm not saying all these things determine where we end up but they sure do influence it.

And that's what happened to us.

That is what we've become and that's what we are. That's made up all the parts of who we really are.

What's happened to us, I repeatedly ask , though the answer, it seems so clear.

Hard to accept, what we've become and who we strive to be.
Searle May 2014
I hear the foot steps coming… stomping down the hall,
In my room I shut my eyes and wait for the blow to fall.
From the uneven walking and the swearing that I hear,
I know it’s not you I can expect, as I slowly dry a tear.

He’d come home drunk, having lost his job, and started hitting you mom,
You had simply asked him how we’d live without him making tom.
But he lost his rag, maybe stress, and pulled you by your hair,
Next thing you knew you couldn’t move and he’d broken another chair.

This time you knew he’d gone too far, but you could just painfully stare,
As he kicked and beat your numb body till you lay there bare.
To scream from the pain in your back you opened your mouth, but not a word came out,
Then you closed it again, afraid to loose the rest of your teeth as down came another clout.

Now downstairs there’s silence, as he realizes what he’s done,
Then in fear and anger he makes his way upstairs to finish what he’s began.
His drunken mind tells him that if he’s ever found out,
He’ll spend his years in a jail, having to sit it out.

So now I sit here mom, with only a few seconds to go,
My heart trembling and the tears begin to flow.
It’s not how I expected the end to come, from a man I once called “dad”,
But I know tomorrow when he’s sobered up, he’s the one who’ll be sad.

And that’s why these tears I’m crying, it’s for him, cause I know he’s not bad,
And now when me and mom are gone, I hope he’ll remember all the good times we’ve had.
I don’t blame him at all for this thing he’s done… no, not at all,
Drinking is many people’s weakness, it’s many’s downfall.

But the man I really blame is the one behind the bar,
He stands there watching, giving him drink, knowing he’s gone too far.
He’s only there for the money and couldn’t care for his life,
So may it be on him, the blood of his daughter and his wife.
The reality of alcohol
EC Pollick Apr 2013
This is one American that drops beats, not bombs
This is one American that admits when she’s wrong.
But an ocean doesn’t divide us
Only you divide us
With your words for labels that say what’s you, not me
Your stereotypes are gunna be the death of me
You’re killing me with these close-minded philosophies
And Who the hell ever said you were the referee of me?

We gotta spend less time sneering and swearing
We gotta spend less time jeering and tearing

You should never have to defend when you love
You should never have to defend why you love
You should never have to defend who you love

We are all created equal;
That’s the condition of the receiver
And we are all the receivers
But some keep spewing that hate; those hate-believers

But we don’t accept their judgment upon us
We gotta rise up out of adversity placed on us

Some out there will go to their graves justifying
Committing acts based on fear is nothing but mortifying
And I’m gunna be truthful; I’m not even lying
When your preach your *******, the human race is dying.

You see United this house stands strong
Every new hand we hold pushes us along
Every brick makes us higher
Acceptance makes us flyer

Gotta keep hate out of your heart
And maybe then we’ll get to start
To come together
To love one another
And to be free like it is intended
Maybe then the human race will be mended
Maybe then this bad movie will get a better sequel
Maybe then we’ll realize We are all created equal.

I want to stop it all
To go into a free-for-all
To rip those signs apart
To take that hate from that heart
All I can do is spread the word on love
And hope to God that will be enough
All I can do is be me and let you be you
All I can do is all I can do
But together we can appreciate
That all together we can officiate
Love that knows no bounds
That type of harmony with unreal sounds.

We may measure success by what’s published
We may measure it by what’s re-said
By how much money we make
By the course that we take
But one thing I know that will bring us deliverance
All that matters is that one voice that says
You make a ******* difference.
Sydney Queen Apr 2015
I still sigh at the smell of citrus.
How could I not?
It was always you and that crate of oranges,
ambling towards the market
and me.
The flowers turn to you
instead of the sun when they pass.
I figure they don't know the difference.
I keep swearing to gods I stopped believing in.
Cyrus,
I've got oleander in my eyes
and my teeth
and my everything.
We didn't mean to water it so well,
But how could we not?
I keep seeing this phantasm
where I'm peeling oranges in the kitchen.
It smells like weathering wood and you.
The window is open
while you smile at me through it,
one hand placed gently on the windowsill.
My soul be ******.
You look like magic.
I watch you hand me an orange,
gently,
tenderly.
I don't remember taking that step forward.
I suppose it's always like that with you.
Cyrus,
they say that oranges are for good fortune.
How could they not?
I try to make sense but it usually doesn't work. Sorry about that.
patty m Jan 2015
Beware they whisper and I am so aware,
that before me lies the road to despair.
I want to believe, my heart wants to sing
but no one can say what tomorrow will bring.
Closed is one door with resounding slam
hiding horrible memories a terrible sham.
Another door opens with light shining through
an angel is singing "I'm here for you."
I jump over the fire, tears on my face
to follow the leader and fall out of grace.
Words of the living run through my head
as I dance the macabre with phantoms all dead.  
Drowning in illusion I resurface and then
jump in a cesspool and drown once again.
Oh to be touched by the magic of caring,
to see words on the page besides hatred and swearing.
Perhaps I'll carve a chunk
from the side of the moon,
or dance with a lover in some private room.  
Hand over hand holding tight to the rope,
I walk each new day searching for hope.  
But night is coming with a scowl on it's face
the leopard is hungry so I won't go to waste.
If I see tomorrow what happens then?
I'll open another door and begin once again.
Ottar Jan 2014
she sat, back to passers by,
just out of the pouring rain,
wet hair, feet too, both socks soaked,
through and through.



Her short blonde-dyed locks were more like a pointy sponge drying in the wind.

rearranging to find dry things to wear,
blue gauze dress dripping water too,
naked to her underwear, without a care,
she put on her polka dot pajamas,
that were meant for nights you played twister, with her.


But she was so alone.  On concrete steel stairs at a mall
central to the city where being a street person is a
measured percentage of the population,

                                      what frustration,
and with distrust she stared anyone down,
talked in an angry voice, to everybody around.         But there was no one,
who would stop, three over stuffed bags of belongings
while swearing and tossing her
head, longing to be someplace warm,
                                 away from harm.            That got her to this point in time.

Her feet were covered, and maybe warmer,
she packed and repacked all that she had,
and she was mad, like angry,
and on concrete stairs, and on user beware, and on the bottom of the arc
of her life so far,
so far away from the dreams she had as a little girl,
so far away from the hopes that she now only copes,
from one breath to the next breath and smokes a cigarette in between.

Alone, she knows better not to despair, no one would care if she did.

©DWE012014
Hawk Flight May 2014
I ****** up
I ****** up

I used once more
after swearing up and down
I would never touch the stuff again

In a moment of weakness
IN a moment of pure agony
I got out my white powder
and did my old routine

I'm sorry Kaitlyn
I'm sorry Panda
I'm sorry Arianna
I'm sorry Sofia

Please dont get mad
I ****** up
I know I did
I'll try harder next time
I used again. ****!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! sorry guys
mks Oct 2014
god ****** she misses you

and god ****** i miss you

and im sorry, god, for swearing but i have run out of ideas on how to make this no good shapeshifting warm handed boy notice me remember when he said i love you

this is not a goodbye you don't deserve one this is not a plea for help see previous poems, twitter, my wrists, etc this is not a romanticization of your destructive ways and i no longer hear birds sing when you torch cities and i can't bring myself to see the love in your inferno so what the hell do i have left to say to you

i once wrote that you left love letters on my tongue and that you made drowning fun but i have come to the conclusion that those are both in fact lies and that the only thing you left on my tongue is the bitter taste of your name and beer and that drowning is ******* terrible and so are you

i remind myself everyday that you must have been a good person somewhere along the way and that there must have been some point where you actually did miss the feeling of my skin and that i was the only one you cared for- but i must also remember the day you filled my vacancy and turned on the lights and i still see you in the smiling pictures hung on the walls like your head in the hall whenever i pass by and i remember the day you moved out and on to nicer things and to this day you have succeeded in making the whole thing feel like an eviction, like it was me that wanted you gone and my peeling wallpaper has since revealed that the only thing holding me together was you

funny how every part of this poem ends with you and funny how every thought these days ends with you

and it's funny how when things ended with you you were the only one laughing

this is not a cry or a plea or an appology

this is a eulogy from me to you and i will not waste any more metaphors or adjectives or nights where i should be fast asleep on your whirlpool eyes and twisted smile

you once said, at 3 am, "you know when you're as close to loving someone as physically possible without actually saying it?" and i replied with "yes" and i love you i love you i love you

i hope flowers grow from your rotting heart and i hope you wake up some life and feel just a hint of remorse as you look into her eyes

i'm not a poet and you're not a nice boy and there was a time when i would devote my life to writing about the way you touched my cheek and you would devote your life to exploring the small of my back

that life has ended and i hope she holds you close enough at night

(my own hands will find comfort in the folds you left unnoticed and i will let myself hear the whispers of flattery upon every surface i touch. i will love myself and i will learn to not love you and i will find someone that i can love without pushing myself aside)
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
Dear Lord:

I am confused.

My life is Damocles,
My name is unimportant,
My sword's thread stretched
thinner than thin,
barely a 10 word poem
slender wide.

This body's homeland,
this deluded tired,
where my physic resides,
is indeed nominated accurately:

Sequestered.

Yet I am not alone,
though cut off in ways,
few can comprehend.

Sequestered.

Indeed,
secluded,
withdrawn but not by choice,
the loveliness of life
escapes and
eluded and yet,
I still believe...

a disciplined disciple,
my faith constant,
in this,
your awful trials and failed tests,
to me, success eludes,
and life deludes.

Yet,
tested beyond exhaustion,
you let me sojourn for a few brief, precious,
every-days in a multi-windowed world
where the entry fee is simply
the freedom of words
undenied,
but well defined,
in perfect clarity.

Rest and restlessness no longer debate.

Rest,
defeated has departed for more hospitable climes.

Weariness,
has won,
I rail not, swearing faith,
debate not your choices for us,
long ago,
surrendered that incomprehensible struggle.

Here I am
uncomplaining,
unfeignedly,
still here,
worn but standing in
your verbal grace.

One comfort
left
and it helps me
right
what's
wrecked
and for that,
I bear the knowledge and the burden of what ails all humans,
and what can bring them comfort unceasing..

Gifts so small  
that that some
single lettered,
make up a whole

here is me,

I

bowed, boxed, bowled over
and still bowing,
on so many days
in so many ways,
and in those the few hours
when the mind refuses
the opportunity to sleep,
hope tries to keep itself seeded

for here is  found,

Lord,

where sonnets bloom,
where one can draw welled fresh water comfort
from the words of poetry
with which you surround us,
letting me be reborn in hope ever so small,
daily, like you

The misbalance of life,
where the justice scales
seem weighted all wrong,
for in the glory of human word
is a world real and imaginary,
this poetry, this art,
so weighty this god gift to humans,
in its beauteous weightlessness,
gives me shelter so brief,
gives me shelter so grand,
that though my greatest burdens accursed,
so much suffering surrounded-sounded,

these shared words
and the ones
you gift me,
makes all these woeful waves
tamed and becalmed,
the scales of tribulation lose

Through these words,
breathe through them,
once again,
rest and strength,
restored and returned
in ever small lettered says
and your incomprehensible
Glory,
in humans,
thus stored for shared safekeeping,
is mine to share and shared.

So many the mysteries,
but this above all I cannot comprehend,
how can so many not see,
how so many abuse
so carelessly,
that greatest gift
after life itself,
the restorative words
so plentiful,
you have planted
within the earth of our
human existence.
for our fellow poet, Timothy, so long overdue this, my guilt finally expiated...ten times better than the best, he...my obligations won't let me leave as fast as I want to...

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/763485/timothys-prayer-answered/
3:34am
Kasaundra Watta Aug 2010
Got that pretty boy swag,
got his pants down to his knees
got that gorgeous girl style,
still not good enough for his needs

supposedly im the bestest,
and we were gonn last forever
but then i found out he cheated,
second chance? no, never

**** life, **** love,
nothing cures my broken heart
the blood now rolls down my arm,
there is no end to this horrible start

no girl could ever be pretty enough,
***** got his ego so far up his ***
i definitly am way to good,
for the kid with the hidden **** stache

he's to **** for me?
just because he's got eight flowers?
no way he wouldn't cheat...
and now he's got a daughter..

and where am i in this ****?
**** the little ***** and his ****** up ways
i am at the end of his priority list,
how long we been datin'? im done addin days

this **** ****** me off
and wrecked my heart to pieces,
this is one thing youll never fix
not even swearing on your grandmothers ashes..

**you probably feel ashamed
for the scarlet dress i now wear..
well you shouldve thought about that before
cause i know you truely dont care..
Inspired By Cameron Jenkins<33 **p.s. flowers means abs, its a code for some of my friends**
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.

Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.

They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****.

As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.

It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.

He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."

Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.

How can I tell how Don Magregor went?

Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.

The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.

There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.

"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.

Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
Izzy Stoner Nov 2013
The four wheels that carry my family
Into the path of the moon.
We're away on a hairline breeze, he says
Dashboard shoulders jumping
With every bump on the road.
The earth is never far enough for him
Sea shoes well worn from perpetual wading
Sand in the sun lines of his eyes.
I hurtle Father.
Fists, teeth; I have forgotten the art of talking
Too wrapped up in the headlights growling,
Swearing apart confidently.
All my smiles like a train waiting.
Never fear Daughter.
Those are fireflies that wind their way
above the speedometer
And we'll make a space prophet of you yet.
DW Aug 2015
Early morning and the head is pounding,
The unwelcome taste of something strong,
Dancing at the back of the throat,
Sit up, stand up, sit back down,
Vision spinning one way and stomach the other,
Staring into the mirror at a depressing cocktail,
Of two parts painkillers and one part regret,
And don’t hold back on the ice

Then it hits,
An acidic burning shooting up the throat,
As a black poison is spewed into the sink,
Only to wash away leaving a foul stench and worse taste,
Coughing and swearing,
Head in hands,
The age old lie muttered through tight lips,
“Never again...”
Tobias Engkvist Jul 2015
I met a friend today
She was swearing blue
Traveling the same way as me
What a wonderful way to meet
I innocently said hi
She turned and gave the brightest smile
Side by side we rode
She told me of the old
About the stars and the foretold
She told me
Love is the key to grow

I met a friend today
He’d grown his hair and beard long
Seasoned with age
Though skin and bone to him was no cage
With no second to waste
He didn’t hesitate to speak his mind
He raved about love and peace
About money and tree's
About the birds and bee's
He told me
Love is the key to never grow old
betterdays Sep 2014
i have been attacked
on another poetry site
because i found a
baby plagierist....

it is of no matter
really...
a storm in a teacup...
i only mention it here
because...
the logic of the this cyber ****,
was so very ludicrious.

among the swearing
and none to inventive ways
i should go **** myself
was this little gem....

"and stop using a dictionary
to make yourself look smart"

now...i am honest in saying
none of the ranting had affected me up to this point....

but this...just left me...
       .... rolfing.....

as poets....is not that part of
our credo...is the dictionary
not one of our basic tools.

anyway..just thought i would share this
as an example of the genius
minds that take up trolling.
bex Aug 2017
A moment cuffs you in the face
like Newton's overstated apple,
and the evening dissolves
into sharp, steady resolve...
You think about the extra drink you should have drunk,
the song you should have sung
and the man whose touch y so missed...

The Muse had disappeared.
**** Muse.

Every time you try to find news you want to *****,
not just a little, but expel the very core of emptiness out of you,
and you picked a fine time to stop swearing
because there is a man whose feel you have so **** missed...

The stars continue to twinkle across the Northern Sky,  
oblivious to the bouncing of our big Blue Ball,
un-answering dreamful wishes;
though, there are other stars lying closer to your heart,
a fresh start and the barbells below...  
And you realize
life is found in the letting go...

And the Muse reappears, smiles an aching, wondrous, Hello.
Geno Cattouse Oct 2013
Joe of to the poky.
Joe off to the pen.

Joe of the  ***** wagon again and again.
Joe  fit shased and sailing, three sheets to the wind.

Joe swearing and cussing.
Joe  in the back seat.

Joe sits on  wrists. fingers all numb.
Joe tossin his cookies. Joe real  no count ***.

Joe know all the coppers
And breaks in the rookies.

"Hey rook" asks Joe " "can you loosen these up"
My hands been asleep since Henry was a pup.

Joe Bangles they call him and erbody knows.
That Joey cant get lit up  and keep on his clothes.

Institutional homeboy.
Going back to the house.

Three hots and a cot.
and wild  stories to tell.

slippers and tooth brush in an eight by ten cell.

Mr. Joe Bangles Dance.
The guy we all know or have seen in one form or another.
Stainless steel bangles are accessory of choice.
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
At  pychiatrists Christmas party

everyone left their heads at the front door

left their white coats at home

hanging on the line

like abandoned ghosts up for adoption

no one mentioned schizos' or psychos

avoided comments on weirdos or whackos

disdained any attempt to converse on madmen

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which meant they had nothing to talk about

except how scarecrows are tragic figures

misunderstood by society and crows

'True! True! they all muttered after the wine flowed

in red rivulets down their analytic necks

and caused their grey matter to ponder

on the merits of their profession

before waving goodbye to one another

collecting their heads on the way out the front door

not knowing the scarecrows had stolen their white coats

and were dispensing good advice to worried crows everywhere

watched by sobbing farmers who never knew their travails

It would bring a tear to a glass eye listening to their stories

a bale of straw looking on swearing

' when I grow up to be a scarecrow I will be a pyschriatric one'

only taking days off on Christmas'

'where at the parties  I will not discuss schizoids or psychos

avoid comments on weirdos or whackos

disdain any attempt to converse on mad crows

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which means we will have nothing  to talk about

except the poor humans and their miserable lot
Izzy Stoner Jul 2013
What do you do at 3am when you're tired and bored and its raining?

Maybe this is punishment.
For eating those grapes before you paid for them in Sainsburys.
Or that time you forgot who Buzz Aldron was, or when you took pleasure at beating a five year old at Cluedo.
She started crying, and even then, you still
would not relinquish your title.
Maybe its for that time
You were accidentally racist  to the chinese guy taking your order.
Or when you forgot to buy your mum a birthday card, or when you made fun of your best friend for not being taller.
Or when you said, 'Maybe
selective breeding in humans,
Is not such a bad thing after all.'

Yes, Its definitely punishment for that.

But maybe its for all the litter you've dropped, inadvertently or on purpose.
Or for last week when you accidentally kicked the cat, or for stealing those library books,
For swearing at kids
and blaspheming at the dinner table,
Christ!
Maybe its for nicking your brothers chips, even when you're not really that hungry.
For halfhearted apologies handed out like office stationary, for scoffing at most modern art.
For not revising when you
Really, really should
...But telling your parents you are.

But even with all of this, isn't the punishment, just a little bit too harsh?

Well now you are sarcastic, and bitter and pessimistic at least 90% of the time.
And you do hide the fact that you quite like country music, and that you have a blanket with sleeves (and you genuinely use it) and that you're really rather patriotic at heart.
And you didn't say all that stuff when you should have.
And you said all that other stuff you didn't mean
And you spend far too much of your time
Invested in impressing the people you're never going to see again.

And you realize all of this... at three o'clock in the morning, alone but for the fading of the rain.

And you swear to yourself, with all the fervour of a tired insomniac. That tomorrow.
There. Will. Be. Change.
But in the cold, harsh light of nine o'clock the same day. Six hours after you fell asleep. You resign yourself to the fact that last nights punishments can all be absolved, by a nice warm cup of tea.
And despite what you say
at 3am when you're tired and bored,
listening to the sound of the rain.
You will always be a pessimistic idiot, with delusions of grandeur.
That watches too much American TV.
David Nelson Nov 2013
The Avenger from Oklahoma

she was a doll faced little lady
looking so demure looking so sweet
she would bat her eyes and smile
and then knock you off your feet

you see she was the avenger
looking for men who had done wrong
she carried a snub-nosed 38
and she would blow you away for a song

seems her sister had been slighted
left all alone and broken hearted
threw herself out of the window
and Annie finished what she started

she found the ******* who slighted her sis
made him fall for her with her magic lips
she shot him in his own bedroom
and walked away swinging her hips

but that wasn't the end of her journey
she decided revenge her life's passion
making heart breakers pay the price
working as a model in design and fashion

she would lure in all the playboys
make them melt with her charms
and just when they were ready to cash in
she'd put a bullet in each of his arms

she would disappear into the night
keeping the cops off her trail
her legend went on for over 20 years
most swearing it was just a fantasy tale

Gomer Lepoet...
Anastasia Webb Sep 2014
I have opened up my mouth
and taken out a spare pair
of butterfly wings
(pinched between thumb
and forefinger),
used-to-be-dusty but now
slightly damp from their
place of residence.
I dried them myself,
striking match after match
and holding each underneath,
close,
but not too close.

Instead of drying they
shrivelled up like petals
after leaving the flower.
As if to preserve warmth,
curling inwards,
they shivered, animated
by the heat of the glowing stick.

The flame got too close
to my fingers. I dropped it,
swearing. Pinched the wings too
hard (reflexes), the membrane
broke between my fingers
and the remnants
of freedom fluttered softly
to the ground.
From pent-up aching rivers,
From that of myself without which I were nothing,
From what I am determin’d to make illustrious, even if I stand sole
   among men,
From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,
Singing the song of procreation,
Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,
Singing the muscular urge and the blending,
Singing the bedfellow’s song, (O resistless yearning!
O for any and each the body correlative attracting!
O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all
   else, you delighting!)
From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,
From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,
Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it
   many a long year,
Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,
Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,
Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,
Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,
Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,
Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,
The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,
The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,
The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back
   lying and floating,
The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,
The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,
The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it
   arouses,
The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,
(Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,
I love you, O you entirely possess me,
O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and
   lawless,
Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more
   lawless than we;)
The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.
The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman that
   loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath swearing,
(O I willingly stake all for you,
O let me be lost if it must be so!
O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?
What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust
   each other if it must be so;)
From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,
The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission
   taking,
From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter’d too long as it
   is,)
From ***, from the warp and from the woof,
From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,
From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,
From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers
   through my hair and beard,
From the long sustain’d kiss upon the mouth or *****,
From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting
   with excess,
From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,
From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow’s embrace in
   the night,
From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,
From the cling of the trembling arm,
From the bending curve and the clinch,
From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,
From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as unwilling
   to leave,
(Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)
From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,
From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,
Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,
And you stalwart *****.

— The End —