Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
I'm so lucky to be from the pearl of Africa
where democracy is just but a name
where independence was given but with chains
where a thousand busk in the millions' pains
I'm so lucky to be from a country where reigns total freedom of speech
as long as you're not a member of the opposition
a country where freedom of speech only lasts until the speech is made
if only you could ask the hundreds incarcerated,most are dead
for what? for not not realising the freedom doesn't count after speech
I'm lucky to be from a country that gives no **** about human rights
especially these meaningless developments
like right to internet, what a sweet place to live
no Whatsapp, no Facebook nor twitter and why?
Tomorrow is the swearing in of our new old President...
not that age is important, after all it's just a number
tomorrow we usher in a very comprehensive government
one which has managed to stretch its tentacles across three decades
tomorrow we will see fat bellied millionaires
on screens of those who can afford televisions
congratulate our president who's filled with enthusiasm
to rule a poor mass who voted for their corruption free bellies
and thus social media could be used to bomb our young innocent leader
black mambas beautify our streets while jet fighters ornamentally
buzz across the blue skies, as if Osama has resurrected in Kampala
to the visitors, we are not at war...those are salutes to our most cherished one
the visionary, the most trusted, the compassionate
the one who wouldn't hurt a fly or swat a mosquito
we can't take any chances, just tune your channels tomorrow
for first hand glimpse of the merry and youthful dances
social media is a destruction yet our president deserves all ears
in the sky, on the streets from the hopeless unemployed
tomorrow we speak not of change but change without change
tomorrow we usher in steady progress for another five years
tomorrow we start to smile and wipe the tears
for tomorrow we acknowledge the old man is here to stay
I hear even the Zimbabwean tortoise is in the country
ready to congratulate his associate...these boys fought for their countries
they freed us from crucibles into their heavenly hades...
we should appreciate they have sacrificed too much...
tomorrow is public holiday, forward to conservative past we match
back from the beautiful future we don't deserve
tomorrow like helpless dogs we bow to our master's collar
tomorrow we bury our hopes for change and feed on this yellow muck
the swamp of greed, we can't risk defiance, we're stuck
we're like the long horned cattle of the west
for tomorrow the fat ticks start to **** and ****
but I wonder, for how long, for how long will we just talk?
when will we do more than just silently sob?
I bleed for my country or a country I once thought was mine
I bleed the taxes, the ruthless beatings, the tear gas
I bleed like a slave being whipped by these fatigued caravans
I bleed despair and melancholy and wander
like a headless chicken,for how long though? I wonder!
I bleed for God and my Country
for Uganda, I bleed...
I've cried reading this after writing...
it hurts loving my country...
michelle reicks Jun 2011
always be surprised
be cautious of words
and how you affect others
love him
cry when you are sad
never lose your sense of faith
love and forgive when you are wronged
touch baby animals and live your life
remember that you were small once
be grateful for your life and the opportunities given to you
go to school
don’t lie
be mindful of yourself
stay healthy and exercise to make yourself happy, not for others
cry when you are angry
compliment strangers
give small gifts to those who deserve them for no other reason but that.
swearing is a waste of a language
spend your time sleeping and you will wake up full of dreams
belch and ****, quietly.
apologize to enemies, move on.
drink tea
enjoy simple pleasures
don’t watch tv or read the newspaper
except the Sunday funnies.
smile at people when you pass them in hallways, make firm eye contact
have children and love them for who they are, no matter what
make a difference in the lives of people around you
giving is a bigger joy than receiving
flowers need appreciation as much, if not more than people
write poetry and live your life
don’t let people insult you.
stay safe
drink merlot because it tastes good, not to get drunk
offer help when someone looks as if they need it
don’t pass up chances to meet new people

*cry when your heart hurts from being too full of love
captured in the psych ward, meet olly thomson



in the dark night a good samaritan named olly thomson was having a lot of problems

with his mind, you see it all started when he was visioning his little cat diamond was turning

wild to his eyes, and he had this vision from god to heal diamond, with his voices telling him what

to do.   first diamond jumped onto olly’s computer, like he was sending a message, and the first

voice came saying, you must get rid of diamond, cause you see he is not diamond, he is much more

than that, you see at first he thought it was his best mate brett who died, and wanted to save him

and he was saying come on calm down diamond, calm down diamond, you have to remain calm

i will heal you diamond and then diamond started to fight back and another voice from an old school mate peter

saying, it’s a raccoon, **** it, we don’t want any of them in this country and then diamond let out a little meow

as if he was very scared and then linty chamberlain came into olly’s head saying, you must **** your cat, for it

is the dingo that killed my baby daughter Azaria, and olly’s dad said, it’s our cat diamond, he could be brett

he could be a raccoon and he could be the dingo that killed azaria, and diamond was dead and olly said, what have i done

and olly’s parents came down after they called the police, and they wanted to know what was bothering olly, and when

the police arrived, first they had a word with him, and then they carted olly off to the HDU, to get a mental health assessment

and as olly got caught the old mens kids who used to be his friend said, your not like us anymore olly and we don’t like you anymore

olly and illy said one word in the back of the paddy wagon, which was, i am the guy, your mother warned you about, you see olly

got that saying off the movie cabin by the lake, and the police ?shut the paddy wagon door on olly and drove him off to the HDU,

and when he arrived, all the mental health professionals were there, and olly was kicking and screaming and ron gave him a shot

of ****** to calm him down and then when he was completely calm the nurses allowed olly into the HDU, where olly did nothing

but watch the television, and talk to the nurses and also olly got on very well with charlie chaplin and patty roe, who had very good

conversations, and harry at the first glance of olly said, i am going to **** you, and ron went over to olly to ask him some questions

about why he is in there and olly said i am 323 years old and born on christmas day, and i lived underground while the dinosaurs

were roaming around the earth, and ron then brought out the breakfast trays, and then handed out the morning medications

and illy was handed risperidal, which was made to calm him down and he stayed on melleril as well, and at first risperidal was

helping him write stories, fact or fiction and he wrote a story which one of the nurses read saying, olly was the great don lane

and the don lane show was olly’s way to escape his painful voices, although none of that was in the poem he wrote about

him being don lane and then tommy came out to watch TV and olly touched tommy on his ***** saying, you are my best mate

on my pirate ship, and i remember tying you up in the bottom room on the deck and tommy said LEAVE ME ALONE YA ****

and went over to the nurses to put in a complaint about olly and every time olly’s parents came, and at the second they leave

olly jumped up and threw a very big tantrum needing four doctors to calm him down, and then olly went back to his chair to

watch TV and wait for his next visit by his parents, you see olly was a bit of a loner, you see his only real friends are his parents

and that was the reason why he killed his cat diamond, and he said to harry, ya know i am 323 years old and born on christmas day

and harry said, can you shut up, i don’t want to hear your constant chatter, because i have killed many a man, and i am devious and

cunning enough to **** you, while your in here, and olly said, i was the original santa claus and harry said ******* ****, i don’t care

who you are, you are fucken bothering me and then harry got up and walked over to hassle the nurses and then ron came out with

the lunches and olly said, thank you, i can do with a decent feed and charlie chaplin said yeah, but it’s not a decent feed here

and harry said, you expect me to eat this slop and threw his lunch all over olly and he said, is that any way to treat your ancestors

you see i am 323 years old and born on christmas day and my first life was your great great great great great grandfather and harry said

shut up **** and get the **** away from me, olly wood and olly said he was a hooligan after that, robbing banks and stealing ships

i even stole blackbeard the pirates ship, and chopped blackbeards head off and harry said SHUT UP **** and after lunch, ron went over to the TV room

to talk with olly and said, do you know you are ******* people off here and olly said, of course, but it ain’t my fault, i was merely stating out i was

harry’s ancestor and ron said, here is a eppelin, ok, it will control your overactive imagination and olly said, i am 323 years old and born on christmas day

and then said, i could be, you don’t know, your just a lousy psychiatrist, i am the spiritual healer of the land and ron went into his office to search

the web to find out olly’s problem and there was this new drug which can calm an overactive imagination which was seroquel, you know 700 mills

will control your mind, but it can hype your overactive imagination, so we may need to give you another drug called serenade, and keep

him here in the HDU for a few weeks to be monitored, as this medication mightn’t work and then at 5, ron brought out the dinners and ron spoke to

olly about changing his medication, to seroquel and serenace, but you must cooperate with us, because for some people seroquel can hype

you up, and the serenace is there to calm the seroquel down and olly said, when i was a kid, i was treated like an llke an old fogies kid  or a hooligan

and i reckon that i need something for that because, i know my mates have moved on, but my illness says they moved on swearing to never muck

with the old fogie, olly, he’s not like us, cause he goes to bed early and olly said, there is another name he was called, a old bludger or a dole bludger

which could be because he had no cool friends when he was at school, and olly considered himself very cool and in 1 hour, ron brought out the nightly medications

and first to tommy, then to charlie and over to patty and over to harry and then he gave the seroquel and serenace to olly and olly said can i have a coke please

and ron went away got olly a cup of coke and clocked off and bought a pizza and went home to watch TV, and falling asleep on the couch, as usual, thinking

today went very well, he THINKS.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
this ins't the Cabaret Voltaire moment,
but it almost feels like one,
i'm not cutting up newspapers into
singled-out words to pull out of the bag
like some magician with a top hat and a white
rabbit... i know i can influence people,
and that's my prime worry...
but sometimes you get to point out a correlation
of your own words the preceding day,
and the day that follows in newspapers...
and i do think that newspapers are the perfect
canvases to work from, to write a poetry,
all the tabloid presses get left in the gutter,
the famous and the rich get their faces printed
on its pages, but they nonetheless end up
in the gutters and get stamped on...
if i'll ever set up a polished Instagram profile
i'll think about keeping a clean lifestyle
photo-feed just prior i get my shoes polished...
so this ain't a Dada-revision...
i'd love for it being so... starting with
cuts of newspapers like writing a ransom letter...
you know i stress the need to avoid censoring
swear words, i'm getting systematically peeved
about this practice continuing...
like i said, newspapers are more about poetry
than philosophy ever wished to attack...
of course some of those trailing in the marathon
with their idealism will still meet the natural
critique... but poetry these days is more about
journalistic adventures solo
than essences, orchestras, ideals and singing
about Larks... those that lag behind will get burnt...
believe me... they're already barbecue burnt
chicken wings... and it does happen,
not like Cabaret Voltaire rebellion Dada,
i mean writing something akin to the argument
between Newton and Leibniz about who
discovered the mathematical Antarctica first:
calculus... it doesn't matter...
a day ago i wrote about swear words being
like conjunction words, the lubricants that scare
away dictionaries and thesauruses...
and what do i get today?
I SWEAR THAT'S POETRY... (Tom Whippie),
page 37 of the Saturday Times...
the jyst noting of things:
they are poetic, expressive, build trust and offer
a crucial linguistic hammering...
also aligned with Asterix and Obelix due to
their malignant oncology...
but! but... a US academic has called for a rehabilitation
of swear words, saying: 'profanity is poetic'
(Michael Adams, University of Indiana) - adding
'poetic because it's a surplus of expressiveness
and also poetic because there is something
in an extremely frustrated person finding no other
word suitable fir the level of frustration they feel'.
well... i just liked the idea of toying with
grammatical classification... i already said:
i would condense that statement into... to be honest,
and to be honest once more, and once more again...
i like to see these words like conjunctions -
which is the polar opposite of what western
society deems as: ******* **** and a demise
to further encourage dyslexia - the same joke
from Poland about the graffiti: huj and chój and hój..
people laughed at the excess aesthetic of the latter
two examples... bellybutton intellectualism of
the world (i.e. English) doesn't necessarily have to be
right... but nonetheless, Prof. Adam's in his
in praise of profanity speaks about the versatility
of swearing, that it has a power to make it
a much underappreciated linguistic device...
'there are words that punctuate experience; profanity
is artful speech'... add the word therapy to
that statement and you become a Guru...
socially useful, like teenagers using slang and acronym
encoding to talk cool, but also to provide the herd
an insight against paedophiles... nothing new...
paradox? you cannot praise profanity without
rules of legislation being imposed...
failing to preserve profanity would mean letting
down future generations... then the *** comes out...
a Prof. would talk about restraints...
straitjacket vocabulary... casual swearing...
oh right... i ought to fit my larynx with a bow-tie
for the formal affairs of the world...
i never expected my poems to be Grecian marble
smooth because i was about to gobble caviar and
champagne... well, let's face it...
somehow Evelyn Beatrice Hall's Friends of Voltaire
seems a bit redundant these days - it's no longer:
i disapprove of what you say, but i will defend to
the death your right to say it - is that at all true these days?
i always thought that the internet was more of
a thinking platform than a stage to shout your
opinions... maybe i was wrong... the sins of thinking
and leaving your thinking output exposed
in a public realm rather than in your bedroom
drawer... i rather be offended than live my life
out in an Apathetic Utopia of Fascist Islam...
******... just shoot already, but make sure i'm dead
rather than disabled.
“Grades are getting low,
the teens are getting high.
That 12 year old is pregnant
and her parents wonder why.

A 1st grader is swearing,
a 3rd grader has been *****.
Just take a look around you,
isn’t the system great?

Who isn’t faded these days,
teens are sending nudes,
kids are getting beaten,
the teachers see the bruises.

No calls for help are spoken,
teens are smoking ****,
young girls are cutting,
this isn’t what we need.

The marks of taunt and yelling,
parents are divorced.
That 14 year old is drinking beer,
this can’t get any worse.

A little girl has killed herself,
nobody seems to care.
Another kid has been expelled
for a stupid dare.

But it needs to change.
Our world is officially broken.
It’s time to take a stand;
your thoughts need to be spoken.”

Thoughts are running wild
As the tears stream down my face.
Depressed and suicidal,
But I should just stay in my place.

I’m feeling kinda broken,
Feeling kinda lost.
I wanna make my pain
Just go away at any cost.

Don’t get me wrong, I grew up
In a nice enough neighborhood.
And I did everything that
Anybody said I should.

But it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t me.
I thought that I could help the world
With the things I’ve seen.

My cousin lost herself
In drinking hard and smoking ***.
My good friend tried to run away
And lose her past a lot.

I, myself, have struggled
With thoughts of losing it all.
The pro and cons of jumping off
That cliff into the free fall.

I mean if there's something that can save me
Then it'll show up, right?
It's worth the wait to take a blade to my wrist
And **** it up, right?

The truth is, I don't know
How to do this and win the fight.
I need someone to show me
There's still a ray of light.

I fell into a pit of despair
And it consumed me.
I guess the only way to help the world
Was to lose me.

Finding myself is gonna take a while.
Don't know if I can make it.
Keep giving out my heart
Hoping someone will take it.

Drinking, smoking,
Doing everything to make me numb.
Doing stupid things.
Making people call me dumb.

Popping pills like candy
Just to get me through the day.
Trying to end it all;
To make the pain just go away.

It wasn't perfect. Never.
It wasn't good enough for anyone.
So I always sat alone
And wished my life was done.

~Ashton Grayson Everly
The part in quotes was written on Facebook by Will Smith. The rest is mine.
Mark Ball Aug 2014
Tick-tock
Went the clock
The day I wanted to stop.

The pitter-patter,
Chitter-chatter.
The walks,
The squaks
And the all 'important talks'
The day I wanted to stop.

Intrusion, confusion, pollution
And social 'evolution'
The day I wanted to stop.

The swearing, the caring.
The 'how are you faring?'
The day I wanted to stop.

The girl, the boy.
That unexpected smile.
Kindness flowing
Kept me going;
If only for awhile,
On the day I wanted to stop.
A little something I wrote on my birthday.
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.
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.
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 *****.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Do you only touch in anger?
Do you have the habit of hugging your kid?
Or do you prefer not to
Just like the parents of criminals did?
Do you think hugging
Will make your child turn out to be soft?
With nobody home to turn to
Would your child then be better off?

Does your son or daughter
Go without being touched in love for years?
Is the only emotion allowed
Obedience and silence, never any tears?
Does your perfect child idea
Amount to something like a stuffed toy?
Does your list not involve
Things that are normal for a girl or boy?

Is everything else important,
But not the issue of your child’s happiness?
When your child asks questions
Do you treat it as just smart-mouthedness?
If your child questions bad ideas
Do you take that as a personal attack?
Do you find yourself thinking,
And saying, you want your freedom back?

If any of the above is true
You are not being a loving kind of parent.
If your child’s image of you
Is of an angry person given to swearing
And calling them names
That should be reserved for enemy,
Then wake up and realize
That’s not the right behavior to use on family.
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.
Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2023
"**** the world,"
seems to be a statement easy enough for a lot of people to say.
And at most we **** mother nature raw, cos we failed to protect her; I just hope we can be more responsible for her baby one day. But I do hear her walls shaking, as her eyes are timid tears blocked behind a lot of smoke.
Maybe we should write for her an SOS as a last hope, and stop feeding our prideful thoughts against her,— food for thought? Truthfully, this first part is more like a representation of how
men tend to **** over their girl.

I guess I should include myself by this second bad serving,
along the lines of me remembering how I used to treat girls like second servings. Some would call a woman sweet, but I'm not convinced of it being a compliment,— more of a dessert thing.
Like how she's supposed to taste sweeter every time you and her kiss, as she's supposed to be a treat, but you had to spoil her. Spoiling yourself by spoiling yourself on her. Careful now, you might have misread what she was saying when she bit her lips.

But by this third part, I tried convince myself not to swear,
still **** it, — I was at this point more annoyed with myself,
as a person who knows they're prone to getting sick
...So they get annoyed with their health. As I fail to have healthy conversations with myself, and reflect on some memories.
But my memories are mostly bad dreams, and bad dreams mostly make up a lot of bad things.
And keeping them to myself means I'll always blame myself more, than wanting to split the blame between friends and family.
And like the second verse,
I now understand the taste of getting a bad serving.
Unfortunately I don't bite my lips as an expression of pleasure. My lips to the taste of failure is always a ******,—so right now, this part is really ******* hurting.

So can somebody please, get this ******* disappointment
off me, before it thinks it's turning me on, but it's close
to offing me.
ShFR 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
Sunny Oct 2018
Every day is the same.
Wake up late. Procrastinate.
Rush to get ready, board a bus.
Go to school. And wait.

I’ve never understood
Why people are so heartless.
People swearing and shouting and arguing at each other.
I just walk down the halls, trying to block out all the sound.

People ask me questions a lot.
“Why don’t you talk? Can you even speak?”
Yes I can, but it’s not like I don’t want to talk.
I can’t, because there’s no point in it.

You don’t know what it’s like to hate your own voice.
To feel like you won’t be understood
‘Cause your voice is too soft and deep and quiet
And you have a stupid lisp that impedes with everything.

You don’t know what it’s like to have people talk about you.
“He only talks to one person,” they say.
It makes me feel like ****.
But nobody cares how I feel.

Every day is the same.
I try my best to hide my feelings.
But sometimes things slip out
When I don’t want them to.

I cried once in class.
Put my head down on the desk.
After I was called a name by someone.
After no one would let me sit down on the bus.

I’m exhausted all the time.
I don’t want to do anything.
I just want to sleep all day.
It’s not like I’ll do anything else with my time.

I want to connect with people.
Even if I don’t understand them.
But it’s so difficult
When you face roadblocks every day.

Every day is the same.
My mind races with thoughts
“You’re going to ***** up. You’re an idiot. A loser.”
“A worthless waste of space in this world.”

“Don’t answer that question, he won’t hear you.”
They tell me to speak up, but I can’t.
It’s like something’s constricting me.
It’s the anxiety, and all those stupid thoughts.

I’m not happy anymore. I forgot the last time I was.
Can’t do anything anymore. The spark I had is gone.
It faded away with all my passions and desires.
I don’t see the point in doing anything.

Sometimes I think about the end.
I know nobody would care if I’m gone.
But then again, I can’t do that to her.
Not when all I want is to spend time with my girl.

I wish she was here. I wish we could talk.
One day isn’t enough for everything I want to say.
It’s irritating, frustrating, this distance is killing me.
But I know it’s not her fault, and I’m not mad.

If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be.
If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be the person she is now.
It’s amazing, how she’s able to survive with those parents of hers.
While I’m just a speck in a vast void of nothingness.

I hate them. I hate them so much.
They call her names, they insult who she is.
She’s just trying to be who she wants to be.
Why would you try and strip that from her?

She’s precious to me, can’t you see?
I tried so hard to get you to understand.
But you ignored it all, you never believed me.
So I’m done trying. There’s no point.

She’s the only one that makes me happy.
When I’m around her, everything just fades away.
My fears, my sorrow, my stupid thoughts.
I wish I could be by her side forever.

I miss her so much.
It’s like my heart is breaking when we’re apart.
I know, somehow, we’ll get through this.
And it will all be worth it.

Someday, I’ll be by your side.
Someday, your lips will touch mine.
I know one day, we’ll finally be together.
And we’ll never be apart from that point on.
Definitely the longest poem I've written in general.
Things have been hard the last couple weeks. I wanted to touch on that.
Depression is why I haven't written as much as I'd like. I don't see a point in it sometimes.
But a few minutes ago, I felt that spark return. And I embraced it as I let the words flow.
Elizabeth Feb 2015
Aren't we going to be late for the dentist?
What are mom and dad talking about on the phone?
Why is Dad swearing so much?
How come we can't go to my dentist appointment anymore?
What's on TV?
.. Why is that building falling?
Why aren't the news reporters talking?
Why is dad crying?
"Why won't you let me watch the TV, dad?"
Am I supposed to be crying?
What's happening to us?
Why is everything bad?
How did we let this happen?
Why does everyone hate everyone?

------

Why would she call me while she's at work?
Doesn't she know we're going to the dentist?
"What?"
Why would she joke about this?
Why is she crying if she's joking?
... Why is that building falling?
Dear god how did this happen?
****** why am I crying?
Are those people jumping out of windows?
Why are they killing themselves?
Someone will save them, right?
Why is my daughter still watching this?
Why am I watching this?
How could someone do this?
Jesus, is that a second airplane?
How many people will they save?
How many will die?
We were supposed to go to my dentist appointment on 9/11/01, but Dad figured it could wait.
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
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.
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?
Mitchell 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
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
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.
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
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.
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)
Michael May 2014
It is almost sunset but it is still too hot. She sits next to me and passes over a mason jar of crushed ice and lemonade and I take it gratefully into my hands. Instead of drinking it, I rest it against my forehead and allow the condensation from the glass to drip down the sides of my face with closed eyes. I take more of it with my fingers to drench the back of my neck, but my palms burn more for it. When I sigh because this small jar does not alleviate my apparent and immediate threat of heat stroke, she laughs at me.

She is my best friend. There was a never conscious moment that I made that decision, it just happened. Before she'd joined me on her concrete stoop I'd been turning over the idea of whether or not there was an exact moment that I'd perceived her differently, but could not pinpoint it. I’d been eyeing the patches of dirt and dead grass scattered within her yard, listening to her hum If I Ain't Got You out of tune, mumbling some of the more repetitive words here and there, picking out the sounds of her fetching things as she sets them on the counters of her run down kitchen. I try to guess what she is doing as I am hearing it, but feel unwilling to join her. It is even hotter inside her house since her air-conditioner is broken. We are devastated.

After a moment of silence she narrows her eyes against the sun tells me that she misses him. I nod, but say nothing. Three of us sat here last year and suddenly the heaviness of his absence rests between us. She quickly changes the subject and tells me she wants to start jogging because when school comes back around she’ll be thin, for sure. “I’m going to be so ****, I’m not even joking.” I smile at her determination. She talks about a girl in our year that everyone calls pretty, but I shrug. She asks if I think she is pretty. I can only nod my head. I can’t compliment her properly because I haven’t found the right words to tell her that it’s not about being thin. That is not what makes her perfect. Not to me.

I never liked her lemonade, but I begin to drink it anyway, thankful that some of the ice has melted fast enough to be a bit watered down. I don’t mind. It made it less sugary. The first time she’d given me lemonade, her father had laughed and said, “If you eat the ice, it’s like a dessert,” not knowing that dessert was literally the last thing I ever wanted. I have never been fond of sweets.

She laughs a little and crunches away on her ice and I cringe. She knows I think it’s an awful sound, but I’d grown so accustomed to it after the years of hearing it. For her, it was a typical summer treat. It wasn’t even real lemonade. In her freezer were small cylinders of an odd, condensed yellow mush that they’d dump into a plastic pitcher and then add water to. Remembering this, I no longer feel like drinking it. I hand it to her.

“Don’t want it?” she asks. I shake my head, watching neighbor girls sit under a tree with a small dollhouse as I wait for her to finish both jars. I don’t like the way it leaves the back of my throat feeling dry anyway and I never feel less thirsty after drinking it. She sets the empty jars between us and we talk about where we’ll go this summer, what movies we’ll see —lamenting that there really haven’t been any good ones recently and that maybe it’d be way more fun to see if we could convince her parents to let her join my family at the lake house. She doesn’t want to swim at all but seems excited to lay on the dock and get a bit of color.

She wants to take pictures. She rises from the stoop to return the jars to her kitchen sink and grab her camera and we walk through her neighborhood. I trail behind her consciously as she raises it to her eye, letting my fingers run along her neighbor’s chain-link fences, dreading the moment she finds a way to somehow sneak me into the frames of her photographs. She’s seemed more eager to try and capture me now that I am taller. I have grown so much in just a few months that I’m not sure how to handle my limbs just yet. They are too long and too thin and I am strangely aware of them —but even more aware of where she points her lens.

We find out that there is construction behind her neighborhood and sneak past the half constructed fences, large barricades, and signs (Keep Out, Construction Ahead). It is an odd place for nicer houses, we decide —right next to the ghetto. She laughs at the brick wall and shakes her head. “That’s not going to keep them out.” But it looks intimidating anyway. Maybe that’s the point.

In the middle of the area rests newly planted trees shading a small, wooden gazebo. They overlook a manmade pond, just large enough to swim in. She knows me too well. My first instinct is to jump in so she dares me to. Practicing self-restraint I tell her all I want is the shade and I lean against the railing of the gazebo instead. I watch her snap more photos —of leaves, of ripples, of her feet, the construction. She asks again if I want to join her and shrugs at my reluctance. She dips short legs in the water and casts a teasing glance in my direction. Her pink hair looks silly against her warm face and I smile. She tells me she knows I want to, that I’m a *****. I shake my head. She draws it out mockingly and threatens to take a picture. (I cover my face with my hand.) “Paaaaansssyyyyy.” She laughs and tells me to just get in. “You gunna just take that?” I was a lot less eager to break rules, but no. I wasn’t going to just ‘take that.’

So I jump in, glad to be cool. The momentary weightlessness frees me for just a small space of time. I feel it cling to my skin when I surface, but my clothes make me feel twice as heavy. I want all of my thoughts to feel the way your body does underwater. Light. Careless. Far away.

Suddenly, behind us, someone is shouting at us in an indistinguishable accent. We trade horrified glances, swearing we catch the word cops, and we bolt, leaving a frantic trail of water and wet foot prints to evaporate behind us. We don’t stop running until we get back to her porch, the sun fully set, and we collapse against her concrete stoop out of breath, laughing much harder than we should. “Oh my god,” she repeats over and over again with exasperated giggles and small gasps for air. My heart cannot be tamed, like it's run ahead of me. I’m sure I won’t be able to find it for a while.

“Oh my god...” She tells me she doesn’t want to run anymore and I cast her a confused glance and tell her we’re definitely in the clear, but she shakes her head. “No, I mean all summer. Forget being thin,” she says. Suddenly I feel her in that missing section of my chest. “Who wants to run in this heat?”
I'm so sorry for the length.
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.
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.
On December the tenth day
When it was night, down I lay
Right there as I was wont to do
And fell asleep wondrous soon,
As he that weary was as who
On pilgrimage went miles two
To the shrine of Saint Leonard,
To make easy what was hard.
But as I slept, I dreamed I was
Within a temple made of glass
In which there were more images
Of gold, tiered in sundry stages,
And more rich tabernacles,
And with more gemmed pinnacles,
And more curious portraiture,
And intricate kinds of figure
Of craftsmanship than ever I saw.
For certainly, I knew no more
Of where I was, but plain to see
Venus owned most certainly
That temple, for in portraiture
I at once saw her figure
Naked, floating in the sea.
And also on her head, indeed,
Her rose garland white and red,
And her comb to comb her head,
Her doves, and her blind son
Lord Cupid, and then Vulcan,
Whose face was swarthy brown.
And as I roamed up and down,
I saw that on a wall there was
Thus written on a piece of brass:
‘I will now sing, if that I can,
The arms, and also the man
Who first, pursuing destiny,
Fugitive from Troy’s country,
To Italy, with pain, did come,
To the shores of Lavinium.’
And then begin the tale at once,
That I shall tell to you each one.
First I saw the destruction
Of Troy, through the Greek Sinon,
Who with his false forswearing
And his outward show and lying,
Had the horse brought into Troy
By which the Trojans lost their joy,
And after this was engraved, alas,
How Ilium assailed was
And won, and King Priam slain,
And Polytes his son, for certain,
Cruelly by Lord Pyrrhus.
And next to this, I saw how Venus
When that she saw the castle’s end,
Down from the heavens did descend
And urged her son Aeneas to flee;
And how he fled, and how that he
Escaped from all the cruelties,
And took his father Anchises
And bore him on his back away,
Crying, ‘Alas!’ and ‘Well-away!’
That same Anchises, in his hand,
Bore the gods of the land,
Those that were not burnt wholly.
And I saw next, in this company,
How Creusa, Lord Aeneas’ wife,
Whom he loved as he did his life,
And their young son Julus,
Also called Ascanius,
Fled too, and fearful did appear,
That it was a pity them to hear;
And through a forest as they went,
At a place where the way bent,
How Creusa was lost, alas,
And died, I know not how it was:
How he sought her and how her ghost
Urged him to flee the Greek host,
And said he must go to Italy,
Without fail, it was his destiny;
That it was a pity thus to hear,
When her spirit did appear,
The words that to him she said:
Let him protect their son she prayed.
There saw I graven too how he,
His father also, and company,
In his fleet took sail swiftly
Towards the land of Italy,
As directly as they could go.
There I saw you, cruel Juno,
That is Lord Jupiter’s wife,
Who did hate, all their life,
All those of Trojan blood,
Run and shout, as if gone mad,
To ******, the god of winds,
To blow about, all their kinds,
So fierce, that he might drench
Lord and lady, groom and *****,
Of all the Trojan nation
Without hope of salvation.
There saw I such a tempest rise
That every heart might hear the cries
Of those but painted on the wall.
There saw I graven there withal,
Venus, how you, my lady dear,
Weeping with great loss of cheer,
Prayed to Jupiter on high
To save and keep the fleet alive
Of the Trojan Aeneas,
Since that he her son was.
There saw I Jove Venus kiss,
And grant that the tempest cease.
Then saw I how the tempest went,
And how painfully Aeneas bent
His secret course, to reach the bay
In the country of Carthage;
And on the morrow, how that he
And a knight called Achates
Met with Venus on that day,
Going in her bright array
As if she was a huntress,
The breeze blowing every tress;
How Aeneas did complain,
When he saw her, of his pain,
And how his ships shattered were,
Or else lost, he knew not where;
How she comforted him so
And bade him to Carthage go,
And there he should his folk find
That on the sea were left behind.
And, swiftly through this to pace,
She made Aeneas know such grace
Of Dido, queen of that country,
That, briefly to tell it, she
Became his love and let him do
All that belongs to marriage true.
Why should I use more constraint,
Or seek my words to paint,
In speaking of love? It shall not be;
I know no such facility.
And then to tell the manner
Of how they met each other,
Were a process long to tell,
And over-long on it to dwell.
There was graved how Aeneas
Told Dido everything that was
Involved in his escape by sea.
And after graved was how she
Made of him swiftly, at a word,
Her life, her love, her joy, her lord,
And did him all the reverence
Eased him of all the expense
That any woman could so do,
Believing everything was true
He swore to her, and thereby deemed
That he was good, for such he seemed.
Alas, what harm wreaks appearance
When it hides a false existence!
For he to her a traitor was,
Wherefore she slew herself, alas!
Lo, how a woman goes amiss
In loving him that unknown is,
For, by Christ, lo, thus it fares:
All is not gold that glitters there.
For, as I hope to keep my head,
There may under charm instead
Be hidden many a rotten vice;
Therefore let none be so nice
As to judge a love by how he appear
Or by speech, or by friendly manner;
For this shall every woman find:
That some men are of that kind
That show outwardly their fairest,
Till they have got what they miss.
And then they will reasons find
Swearing how she is unkind,
Or false, or secret lover has.
All this say I of Aeneas
And Dido, so soon obsessed,
Who loved too swiftly her guest;
Therefore I will quote a proverb,
That ‘he who fully knows the herb
May safely set it to his eye’;
Certainly, that is no lie.
But let us speak of Aeneas,
How he betrayed her, alas,
And left her full unkindly.
So when she saw all utterly
That he would fail in loyalty
And go from her to Italy,
She began to wring her hands so.
‘Alas,’ quoth she, ‘here is my woe!
Alas, is every man untrue,
Who every year desires a new,
If his love should so long endure,
Or else three, peradventure?
As thus: from one love he’d win fame
In magnifying of his name,
Another’s for friendship, says he;
And yet there shall a third love be,
Who shall be taken for pleasure,
Lo, or his own profit’s measure.’
In such words she did complain,
Dido, in her great pain
As I dreamed it, for certain,
No other author do I claim.
‘Alas!’ quoth she, ‘my sweet heart,
Have pity on my sorrow’s smart,
And slay me not! Go not away!
O woeful Dido, well-away!’
Quoth she to herself so.
‘O Aeneas, what will you do?
O, now neither love nor bond
You swore me with your right hand,
Nor my cruel death,’ quoth she,
‘May hold you here still with me!
O, on my death have pity!
Truly, my dear heart, truly,
You know full well that never yet,
Insofar as I had wit,
Have I wronged you in thought or deed.
Oh, are you men so skilled indeed
At speeches, yet never a grain of truth?
Alas, that ever showed ruth
Any woman for any man!
Now I see how to tell it, and can,
We wretched women have no art;
For, certainly, for the most part
Thus are we served every one.
However sorely you men groan,
As soon as we have you received
Certain we are to be deceived;
For, though your love last a season,
Wait upon the conclusion,
And look what you determine,
And for the most part decide on.
O, well-away that I was born!
For through you my name is gone
And all my actions told and sung,
Through all this land, on every tongue.
O wicked Fame, of all amiss
Nothing’s so swift, lo, as she is!
O, all will be known that exists
Though it be hidden by the mist.
And though I might live forever,
What I’ve done I’ll save never
From it always being said, alas,
I was dishonoured by Aeneas
And thus I shall judged be:
‘Lo, what she has done, now she
Will do again, assuredly’;
Thus people say all privately.
But what’s done cannot be undone.
And all her complaint, all her moan,
Avails her surely not a straw.
And when she then truly saw
That he unto his ships was gone,
She to her chamber went anon,
And called on her sister Anna,
And began to complain to her,
And said that she the cause was
That made her first love him, alas,
And had counselled her thereto.
But yet, when this was spoken too,
She stabbed herself to the heart,
And died of the wound’s art.
But of the manner of how she died,
And all the words said and replied,
Whoso to know that does purpose,
Read Virgil in the Aeneid, thus,
Or Heroides of Ovid try
To read what she wrote ere she died;
And were it not too long to indite,
By God, here I would it write.
But, well-away, the harm, the ruth
That has occurred through such untruth,
As men may oft in books read,
And see it everyday in deed,
That mere thinking of it pains.
Lo, Demophon, Duke of Athens,
How he forswore himself full falsely
And betrayed Phyllis wickedly,
The daughter of the King of Thrace,
And falsely failed of time and place;
And when she knew his falsity,
She hung herself by the neck indeed,
For he had proved of such untruth,
Lo, was this not woe and ruth?
And lo, how false and reckless see
Was Achilles to Briseis,
And Paris to Oenone;
And Jason to Hypsipyle;
And Jason later to Medea;
And Hercules to Deianira;
For he left her for Iole,
Which led to his death, I see.
How false, also, was Theseus,
Who, as the story tells it us,
Betrayed poor Ariadne;
The devil keep his soul company!
For had he laughed, had he loured,
He would have been quite devoured,
If Ariadne had not chanced to be!
And because she on him took pity,
She from death helped him escape,
And he played her full false a jape;
For after this, in a little while,
He left her sleeping on an isle,
Deserted, lonely, far in the sea,
And stole away, and let her be,
Yet took her sister Phaedra though
With him, and on board ship did go.
And yet he had sworn to her
By all that ever he might swear,
That if she helped to save his life,
He would take her to be his wife,
For she desired nothing else,
In truth, as the book so tells.
Yet, to excuse Aeneas
Partly for his great trespass,
The book says, truly, Mercury,
Bade him go into Italy,
And leave Africa’s renown
And Dido and her fair town.
Then saw I graved how to Italy
Lord Aeneas sailed all swiftly,
And how a tempest then began
And how he lost his steersman,
The steering-oar did suddenly
Drag him overboard in his sleep.
And also I saw how the Sibyl
And Aeneas, beside an isle,
Went to Hell, for to see
His father, noble Anchises.
How he there found Palinurus
And Dido, and Deiphebus;
And all the punishments of Hell
He saw, which are long to tell.
The which whoever wants to know,
He’ll find in verses, many a row,
In Virgil or in Claudian
Or Dante, who best tell it can.
Then I saw graved the entry
That Aeneas made to Italy,
And with Latinus his treaty,
And all the battles that he
Was in himself, and his knights,
Before he had won his rights;
And how he took Turnus’ life
And won Lavinia as his wife,
And all the omens wonderful
Of the gods celestial;
How despite Juno, Aeneas,
For all her tricks, brought to pass
The end of his adventure
Protected thus by Jupiter
At the request of Venus,
Whom I pray to ever save us
And make for us our sorrows light.
When I had seen all this sight
In the noble temple thus,
‘Oh Lord,’ thought I, ‘who made us,
I never yet saw such nobleness
In statuary, nor such richness
As I see graven in this church;
I know not who made these works,
Nor where I am, nor in what country.
But now I will go out and see,
At the small gate there, if I can
Find anywhere a living man
Who can tell me where I am.’
When I out of the door ran,
I looked around me eagerly;
There I saw naught but a large field,
As far as I could see,
Without town or house or tree,
Or bush or grass or ploughed land;
For all the field was only sand,
As fine-ground as with the eye
In Libyan desert’s seen to lie;
Nor any manner of creature
That is formed by Nature
Saw I, to advise me, in this,
‘O Christ,’ I thought, ‘who art in bliss,
From phantoms and from illusion
Save me!’ and with devotion
My eyes to the heavens I cast.
Then was I aware, at the last,
That, close to the sun, as high
As I might discern with my eye,
Me thought I saw an eagle soar,
Though its size seemed more
Than any eagle I had seen.
Yet, sure as death, all its sheen
Was of gold, it shone so bright
That never men saw such a sight,
Unless the heavens above had won,
All new of gold, another sun;
So shone the eagle’s feathers bright,
And downward it started to alight.
By Sir Geoffrey Chaucer
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...
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz

Electricity.

Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
                 thoughts,
   thoughts,
thoughts and  
                            thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

IDEA.

You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.

Thoughts
and  
thoughts
and

what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.

Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'
This poem has a second meaning too, if you bother to think about it. Maybe sit in the darkness to figure it out?
Julie Grenness Aug 2018
So what did happen to old Cocky,
Swearing away, profanity?
We gave him a new abode,
A cage in a nursing home,
Old Cocky struck it lucky,
Full of parrots, like he,
Cocky believed in sharing,
Oldies heard unique caring,
In his inimitable way,
"You fat f...ing c...s, get out of bed!"
Not sure this is what geriatrics meant,
Cocky and Co. abuse the residents,
Yes, Cocky was communicating,
Soon every cocky was proliferating,
Cocky's happy ending! Let's pray,
He is  still alive and swearing today!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
yes.
you asked me to not use a ******.
yes.
can we keep it casual?
yes.
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
yes.
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'

autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
Disneyland...
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.
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
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.

— The End —