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False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Cunning Linguist Dec 2013
Immerse yourself until wholly submerged
in my unholy divergence;
Poor form tormented soul - 
Roll your pain in a J
then dip it in chloroform
Embrace my urges to purge
the remnants of sanity,
Spilling and screaming
all these profanities at humanity

Confuddling all posers
with my bastardized prose ~
Please, continue badgering
and nagging me
with your ****-******* menagerie
of trivial drudgery
I’m in misery so
go ahead and bludgeon me
Square in the noggin’
So that I can jog it,
whilst juggling all these nails
from my coffin

I’m awfully harmful and cruel
got these scoffing jealous skeptics
Acting a fool,
coughing up a lung-full of fuel
for all of the putrid mind puke I spew
My mixing *** skull’s
where the ingredients accrue
Just stew with me for a little
while longer though won’t you

I’m a cancer-ridden addler
babbling mad adages,
ravishingly tenderizing my meat
Laced with some dust from space, yes, no lackage/absence of it lining
within my nasal passages see
spun off some of that absinthe
In a cloud of burning trees
Please tell me you feel me

It’s staggering how I’m both crazy batshit,
**** smooth as rotten laxative cheese
Brain’s melting acidic beef
I’m like Randy Savage I got
Bombastic fat ******* in heat
Straight making my **** go flaccid post-weep

Don’t get offended women
just imagine
How painfully average the package
is within my lap that I’m packin
But now it’s wrapped
and I’m ready to fucken
fully send it no cap
My turnaround is lightning fast
In and out of your *** quick as a wink like The Flash

Faces contort in ghastly panic, actually
Dastardly antics unleashed in vast swarms
Plague the masses in pandemic proportions with them massive casualties factually once more
Give ya some relaxing action 
And skull-**** y’all
with such a passion *******
Your corpse falls to the floor
and right through the trapdoor

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

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

Superbly superlative and speculative
So fast on Adderall
I make Mad Hatter’s head spin
Quicker than you can snap: 
Giving your family heart attacks
Smack you in the face, 
While fapping my fabulous lap rocket

Thunderously plundering under covers
Spring-loaded with faux pas’ so hot
Make your mother’s ***** pop out
and say “hello”
like a Jack-in-the-Box

& U kno Those foxy grandmas
be jaxing off my **** -
Bingo wings beckoning me to flock
Choppin’ up rocks round the clock
with the glock in my pocket til I rot 
Undoubtedly
Caught em wit the molly-whop eyeballs pop out they sockets all dramatically
Whole squad **** swap the rod, on God
Blow my whole *** when I start spitting them double entendre fatality snowballs
Zippity-zop like Cosby’s special BBQ sauce
Bet I’ll dip my puddin’ pop and stay fresh with the drip til I drop
Y’all just holler when you want me to stop

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

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

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

***** DON’T HARSH MY MELLOW
SWEAR I’LL MARSH YOUR MALLOWS
onlylovepoetry May 2023
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet


thus a poem auditorialy conceived,
but!
the sexuality of the deceiving dualities,
irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties,
plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious,
harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of
marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way…

much to discuss, but this
topic bettered by much
trading of traditional bantering
brevity bettering our wordless battering
insinuating, sensational signals bring
us backwards & forwards
to an exploratorium of wide boulevards

back to new unfamiliar venues,
narrowing alleyways & places we were before,
places before we were before where,
no unnecessary commas to separate,
distingué, distinct
tween the instinct of old and new,
an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism

now I understand what you said to me,
a tenderizing of
the sole synapses directing
the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s
reigniting what what lay dormant,
at long last,
by opening doors to alternations,
ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting
old & new pathways,
from the souls of her feet,
to, too, two,
we become diamond
on souls of our heat
Tue May 30
4:42 PM
onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
Edna's Special Recipes No. 4:

"Le pit bull à la français"

By Edna

At this festive time of year, why be boring and choose a turkey? Especially since the poor creatures have been reared intensively, overfed and fattened artificially, kept in a cage or in a filthy shed, never having seen the sunshine.

So Edna says: offer your family something rather different this Christmas, something a little unusual.  Had you ever considered an American Pit Bull Terrier?  A Pittie may not be the first thing which springs to mind for Christmas dinner and I admit there are some drawbacks: they are difficult to get hold of: neighbours' pets are a dangerous option and modern intensive Pittie-farming methods don't work as the brutes are far too savage for most farmhands; also they have relatively little meat on them, being mainly muscle and hatred. However, these negatives are offset by the joy any fun-loving chef will gain from killing the ******* and you, as hostess, will bask in the happiness of your family as they contemplate what they are about to receive.

First, it is important only to use a FRESHLY killed mutt as Pit Bulls do not freeze well (they struggle and bark for what seems ages once shoved into the freezer) and the pre-packed, pre-gutted ones you will find in your local supermarket are likely to have been battery-reared and force-fed in order to put a bit of extra flesh on. Believe me, nothing quite matches the texture of a freshly killed Pittie. And of course, you get the head as a bonus for your pet cats to play with.

A stranger's pet is my own preferred animal as a neighbour might see you skulking round their back garden with a pick axe and twig what you were up to. So, off you go in the car and seek out your dinner. Once you have found a suitable four-legged meal, follow the owner home, wait for the right moment and then get the chloroform pads in action. One for the owner and one for the dog. Pop the zonked-out mutt into the strong black canvas bag you brought with you, shove it into the back of the car and off you go!

So now you've got your hound: what's the best way to **** it?  We gourmets have argued over this for years: decapitation, drowning, hanging, electrocution or beating to death with a sledgehammer? My own favourite method is to drop the drugged brute into a large tin bathtub of warm water and then add the 240v power cable. The expression on the dog's face when the volts kick in is fabulous but you need to be careful in case it leaps out of the bath and goes for your jugular. Hanging from a high tree, accompanied by extensive tenderizing with a baseball bat is a safer but equally enjoyable option. Two further benefits are that hanging is not so messy as the drowning/electrocution route and the whole family can watch a hanging in safety instead of having to risk the dog leaping out of the tub.

Once you are sure the dog is dead (about five minutes after it's stopped kicking and moaning), take it down and cut the head off with a cleaver.  Carefully remove the ears for use as decoration. If you have no cats to give the skull to, shove it on the top of your Christmas tree to provide a family talking point.

Next, skin the dog and discard, bearing in mind that it would be unwise to leave the telltale evidence for the binmen. My flaying advice is to use a sharp knife starting at the **** and working my way up to the neck. Be sure to remove all the ****** parts, as these do NOT taste good. It's nice to roast a Pittie whole, but few people have an oven big enough (unless you scored for a puppy that is). So, carefully cut up the cadaver into two or three separate joints. The following recipe is suitable for a nice shoulder or leg.

Rub all over with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper; make a series of deep incisions in the flesh at two-inch intervals and carefully insert slivers of fresh garlic. Place in your largest Le Creuset ***, with two pints of Evian water, a half-bottle of a full-bodied red wine, half a dozen French oignons and bring to the boil. Then reduce the heat and simmer for two to three hours, depending on weight. Be sure to check every 20 minutes that the liquid hasn't boiled away! Add extra wine and olive oil as necessary. Once the meat is tender, your dog is ready!

Serve your Pit Bull with mashed potatoes and a nice salad. I find a fruity Beaujolais drinks very well with stewed Pittie à la français but my paddy friends swear by Guinness. Whatever your tipple, enjoy our meal! And think: because of your caring approach to Christmas, one more turkey will live to see New Year and the world is rid of another Pit Bull horror.
rsc Sep 2014
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?

Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.

Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?

Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.

Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.

The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.

Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.

How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
John Hulse Nov 2011
Bitter apathy,
Blinding interest,
Blocking Passion,
Binding my hands together,
Bending my thoughts,
Bifurcating my efforts into weaker strings of yarn,
Seeking to cut them one by one,
Apathy in it's own right is more driven then passion,
Driving to end interest,
To war with passion,
To blatantly blend my mind into a pulp,
Mashing it,
Tenderizing it,
Relaxing it...
The Apathetic Man lies needless,
Controlled,
Happy and content with the boredom,
And as he prepares to rest,
One final time,
He closes his eyes,
And just at that moment he notices a flash of light,
A small explosion of thought in the distance,
A fracture in the ground,
He feels a second of interest,
Leaping out of bed,
Snuffing the quivering candle as he flees his home,
Frantically huffing and puffing,
Sprinting with all his energy towards the interest,
Hoping in his mind that apathy will not get there first,
But he has the element of surprise,
Apathy had not anticipated this...
A sudden instantaneous development of a true and powerful passion,
Deep inside him...
Still sprinting he sees another flash,
In another corner of the sky,
Red and Black this time,
Apathy is trying to trick him,
But he will not be swayed,
He is unstoppable now,
A seed of life on a dead world,
Growing,
Spreading,
Again another light flashes,
Apathy is begging him now,
Offering him protection from fear,
But he is not afraid,
He will make it.
wolf mother Apr 2014
when you're there i pine for you
like a stupid little intellectual
i theorize your face

make up stories about your eyelids
how they close like a hardcover book
sheltering your wisdom from the judge

you let it spill out to me
your ***** brine
tenderizing my leathery exterior
into broken down, cured meat
you freed me with your trust
i was savory, salty with your laughter on my tongue

you've been waiting for me
but i cannot come
if we are to ever be in the same room again, together
i would smother you and oppress you with
love, tainted by imaginary things
like the fable of us
like my contentment

like your hand in mine
                                         clasping surely,
                                                                ­     silently,
                                                                ­                                                    home
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
~
requested by the Musician,
Robert C Howard,
who likes my poems well enough
to correct my typos -
no greater compliment

~

once again,
the co-conspiratorial muses of island
tender my one human self
unto the
noisy, visible island gods
whom, with
habitual invisible trickery,
proclaim themselves landlords, masters,
rightful owners of this
sheltering isle,
to all its taken, temporary and temporizing
human inhabitants

these gods,
so well disguised, hidden in,
mournful morning gray glorious fog,
cawing crows providing
staccato morning stale news alerts,
coming and going glints
of burnt orange hints
of a sun-perhaps-yet-to-come,
tenderizing breezes
as if they were charading
a heavenly, gentling ceiling fan,
cricket chirpings,
unfettered cries of definitional, Einsteinal
repeating madness,
accompanied by an
orchestral society of unknowns whistling & trilling,
assorted residential animals slow awakening,
all resting, relaxing,
in-the-dew chilling,
a marvelous din,
a perpetual mystery-to-me,
this softest of rackets of nature's calling card,
these godly muses each,
I imbibe

all conjunctively quietly embrace
this meagered, shop-worn human,
laving its mournful mind
with the noisiest of medicinal stillness,
unlaving grime of cares, worrying woes,
though still extant,
those bills-due-too-real,
admist this troupe of augured island calmers
troubles are deep-surfaced cleansed, their roots re-routed,
swapping speeding consternation for slow restoration

Blessed art thou O Gods, Lords, Spirits
and Muses

who created both,
hard and the soft,
illness and the cure,
quick cutting and the slow healing,
anxiety and the relief,
instilled eyes in the mind
that need but imagine
vistas of breathable places
that reinstall a deep tissue serenity
stronger than the soiled, awful losses of
ever-enduring
fouled memories
and oppressing
city streets of sweaty, summer heat,
both the mainland and


its child,
this sheltering isle


herein are its blessings
resifted and regifted
via this paucity of worthy words
to those
who are not here,
yet gladly are they given
to those who wish
to sit astride and aside
an isle of
unlimited shoulders,
embraceable arms,
sweetly gift wrapping
any
who join in with a
cacophonous wonder-saying,
acknowledgment of its
sanctity
saying

Amen, Awoman



~

May 30, 2015
6:30am
Shelter Island, N.Y.
(a very real place)
started in wet of fog,
completed in the sunroom warmed with
tremulous fresh rays of teases of sunlight,
I honor requests...
Jason Cirkovic Dec 2014
Darkness Is A Blanket
It wraps me around
The smell of ominous uncertainty
Yet I’m allergic to being wrong
So my skin seems to puff up
My eyes turn bloodshot red
From all of the steam
That cleans out my gears
To move my rusty engine
That is odd
When I think of you
I feel a sharp pain
It’s where my heart used to reside
Before you snatched it
And pounded it
Tenderizing the love
I gave to you
Before you fed it
To the dogs,
Who tendon by tendon
Ripped my soul
From all of the movie nights
And all of the concerts
We use to venture off to
Now my artificial heart
Is asking my insides
Why is there this knot
In his chest.
Looking for answers
That escaped the camps
Through the tears of my eyes
Because darkness is a blanket
Called you
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
The voices in my head
chewing up my brain
consuming what is me
and driving me insane

The predators pursue me
I run to stay away
but eventually they catch me
I'm their favorite prey

My own worst enemy
is always deep inside
self doubt and deprecation
masticating on my pride

I have no more self esteem
it's like I have been ******
pounded, tenderizing me
nothing left but bones

Simply a skeleton left
of my former self
I have destroyed all of me
through the loss of mental health
based on Starsets carnivore
LetMeBeMe Apr 2014
I'm a fool
Yes I know
Use me like a tool
I'll fix everything you know
Treat me with love or be cruel
Just love me and I'll be good to go
Cut me off and cheat
I won't say anything my mouth I'll sow
Beat me like ur tenderizing meat
And blood will flow
I will never surrender to my defeat
I am a fool
Yes I know
For as long as we have our volcanic
island moment of Motown tenderizing emotion
and vinyl mulberry wine time getting to
not know each other between these mystic sheets
of indigo colored inspiration I am grateful,
and yet I know that the tidal wave will
eventually subside carrying us back like
nervous feral cats that claw at dry rotting driftwood
to get somewhere else and so I want you to know
that this has been the happiest self-combusting
bubble nebula that I have found
in a great big unexpected while

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015
Francis Jan 2021
She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.

Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.

I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.

All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.

She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.

I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.

Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.

She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.
Wrote this for a dear friend of mine.
beer, as i discovered, is about as crucial to marinade meat as is salt and olive oil... especially when tenderizing pork... esp pork...

now pork, i do know:
unlike chicken or beef...
only recently i found out
that a quick Turkish marinade
with some Sumac
rosemary... rosemary?!
yes: apparently beef
works just as well with rosemary
as does lamb...

i don't understand the monotheistic
**** of logic against pork
maybe all that dehydration have
those "sputnik bros"
the wrong kind of hallucinations
maybe the rest of us are
forgiving of the sand people too
much:

but sure as **** Islam wasn't born
a heritage implosion
of Judaism:
Islam was born from having
to antagonize Christianity:
in the sentiment of:
Christianity begot waging
war of images against words
and Islam was born with a reply:
to wage war with words against
images...

pork i can understand:
how to marinade the beast...
tenderize it... succumb to:
the oink and the cartilage
in hoofs in nails
in ears in tail:
the most economic animal known
to man: in terms of edibility:
which is why these sand-people
seem so strange to
be so loved up in Kentucky
bird flute playing the flu
i don't get this backwardness...
this critique of god
it's almost like a gimmick
to show god and the people befriended:
so... these lunatics do realize
that: you couldn't possible
raise a piglet farm in the desert:

they do realize that Europe
was once a forest
and uprooting trees and turning the former
forest land into arable pasture
was not exactly...
what's the word: waiting in the desert
tending to camels spitting in your eye
blah: it wasn't super easy...
and yet the pig gets the brunt of the burden
of: weird people:
super weird people...
at least the Chinese with their atheism
and a lifetime of catching up
to the European fascination with
the Egyptians: but
what other written script out of Africa?
can we be summoned to the judgement:
well in part the westerners of the continent
but are we to blame for
how loudly Nigerians speak:
simply because they had no concern
for scribbling down the sounds that they
made and conjured up letters?

ooh look at me: i'm about to google
a politically correct... for fool's gold
if i didn't come across any African alphabet
until i already bypassed hieroglyphs then
what the **** am i expecting?
ideograms? Katakana syllables?
Korean thingy-ma-jigs?

          talking to Muslims and about Pork
is a bit like...
talking to someone about arachnophobia
holding a tarantula in your hand...
talking to Jews and pork is non-essential
since those other ancient spastics of the desert
finally succumbed to some variation
of liberalism on the culinary front
and in the most extreme scenarios the ones
that still to a pork-phobia
are the inbreeding types who wrestle
with having a state:
but not making statehood crux
of military service because of: "religious studies"...

******* camel jockey pork-phobia:
so blind that they see the letters
but can't hear the sounds:
like my latest fetish for the dentist:
like: it really was the antithesis of getting
a *******
and getting trimmed by a barber:
i got all tingles...
some man: two to be exact...
putting their hands into my mouth
wearing latex gloves...
it was like the perfect anti-******* *******...
so much so that i geared up
for the event by jerking off to
some ***** flicks with pregnant women:
god i love a good video where
a pregnant woman gets pleasured:
because:
if i was in the capacity to get a woman
pregnant:
i'd like to think what my allowances were:
could i **** her with that fetus inside her
or just all oral i mean i don't know:
just wearing a ring finger makes me think
all **** thinks all things godly and forbidden
and that's not even me contemplating
hell
because that's the one place were people
are there so sadomasochistic ends meat: meet...

boo hoo...
** ** **... Santa some variant of Satan's Clause...
i just don't understand why
this special spastic treatment of people
who fear eating pork...
clearly we are not literate
but imitation monkey: clapping:
that's not reading that's not:
it's just i say yo echo! echo! echo sounds!
baritone: get back to me later...
echo pork porky porky pi in the iota of sigma kappa
gamma... since: not real why-i-y...
but there's the j... which is sort of the antonym
of the sound enshrined in Y: Jive: hive:
yew: jew...

imagining a cannibal transported to a world
of vegan fetishes:
oat milk, dairy free: not eating poultry abortions
of eggs:
no cheese: no milking of the cow:
just rubbing firmly at a cucumber
to get some motivational juices out...
getting a haircut: primal instinct...
clearly we're not literate, collectively...
just because people can do more with signature
beside an X is
algebraic proof that: but people still adhere
to stupid ordeals of time-framed intellect
of progress that worked: for a time:
but have become: outdated and: this is no way
to live: this life of antagonizing pork
because somehow you can't be
the next sheep-******* and camel jockey
Don Muhammad
with an Envy of Solomon's Harem...

               lucky for me that i started basking
in the sexuality of a post-****** creature
now i don't have to worry about
unexpected pregnancies lock-me-up Scotty... spot...
Polka: that's dot dot... dot dot dot... dot...
now i just have to worry about a prenup
and...
well i was serious:
if i'm going to test hallucinogenic mushrooms
somewhere in a field in a meadow
in a forest enclosure:
i will need to sample the anti-thesis of Dune
or Dune proper
and ingest a tapeworm...
if i'm going to test hallucinogenic mushrooms
i need to bio-hack my consciousness
and create a trinity of me:
a tapeworm and a mushroom: fungal growth
of consciousness...

i am: deadly serious...
dope state deep of: my van Gogh is getting
the proper revisionist treatment of:
2nd attempt at seriousness:
first time it was all **** naked faking...

i still don't understand this prominence of
the desert people
and the literal obliteration of the forest people
of the Amazon...
because: clearly: the Europeans were living
in an area: this readily presented as the arable
breadbasket...
chisel the African man started rapping
blah blah bli bli blue blue blood:
but!
at least he converged and living among us
started to wear our clothes
and completely obliterated the stronghold of
classical music constipation with jazz
while the Muslim did: what?

but if it's all so bad
then why live among us why attempt
to intellectually clone as
as an extension of your repertoire of red flags?
why be so adamantly critical of god:
why would god be so critical of pig
if you laugh because English
is a language of mirror: GOD with DOG
and Allah: well: not exactly
symmetrical like YHWH when you think of
it: just LLH and that looks *******
****... **** beyond hope of not looking ****...
so...

m'eh...            pork pie!
Is it alright
If I imagine you
Sweaty and ****?
Do I have your permission
To pretend you’re positioned
On top of my body
And under me, too?
Can I lick all over you?
In my ***** ***** mind
You taste so salty
And feel so **** fine
Do you mind
What I do to you in my mind?  
Bumping, rocking, forceful grind
I’m taking advantage of you
Using your body
Tasting your sweet
Tenderizing your meat
In my fantasy
You’re doing the same to me
If you do not disagree
In my imagination
That’s how it will be
You making it hot and heavy
With me

— The End —