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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

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Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

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SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

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IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
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PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

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OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
Bogdan Dragos Sep 2021
It became more and more
obvious
There was a storm inside her

growing ever stronger

and she sought
to terminate it
before it was too late

It's arguably more difficult to
terminate such storms
when you're fifteen
and still living with your parents

so she decided not to
share her struggle
with them
and reached inside her
for the eye of the storm
with a steel wire she'd kept in
a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day
and a night

Yes, the first raindrops painted the
white of the bathtub

they were crimson
and salty

like her tears
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
Itumeleng Mar 2014
You choose to ask me about me, you choose to want to know me. You speak words out my vocabulary! You speak of your world so fine. You lure me into your mind. You try speak the truth while talking lies. You tell me about beauty and brains combined. You tell me I look fine and my poetry is in line. You tell me you'd want to know if I'm woman enough. If I can really play tough with whips and cuffs! I ask you how? Cause this is my body? What more can a woman define being a woman? I then realise the misconception. Try give you direction, but your minds path is too narrow, filled with *****, ***** and lubes! Reluctant to teach a head with no backbone, I smile:) you then begin again. You tell me that that smile you have, is worth a million rands, you tell me my curves don't lie, that could handle me right? you tell me about the bed, the floor, the kitchen counter, you define me by how many rounds I can encounter! This is my body..how dare you try you undress me? How dare you define my womanhood out of desperate needs?
You terminate my soul and don't bother to ask more. You say thanx like I did a good job. For watering your ego and moaning your insecurities away. Respect my body sir. Then ill Salute you.
I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
  nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the ****** in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

                              but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
  no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and
  deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
  time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

    O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
  of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.
Nomen Jun 2020
Jason and the Argonuts

I heard about it from a coworker who thought it was a joke. Had seen it on an internet message board. Found it hilarious. I don’t. I’m certain I know what’s really going on. What’s hiding in plain site. And I want to see it for myself. Seems that most people who’ve come across it just write it off as kids messing around. After all, who would take this sort of thing seriously? If somebody were to do so, goodness knows there might be a pretty big mess.
Follow the directions I found online to this place called Joe’s Pizzeria. Find the brick oven. Press a secret button. The oven changes form. There's a mahogany door. I descend a stairwell, which opens into a small basement room. There are a number of chairs arranged in a circle. Four of them are occupied.
Without making it too obvious, I try to determine the safest place to sit. Across from some hipster with a pencil-thin mustache, I see a pair of identical, androgynous twins. Both wear identical jogging suits. A few chairs to the twins’ right sits a Native American looking fellow in full headdress. He stares blankly at the wall, making a slow chopping motion with his right hand. I take a seat closer to mister moustache.
Well, this is it. There's nothing to do now but wait.
A few minutes pass in almost complete silence, save for some giggling on the part the twins. Suddenly, the basement door swings open. In walks a portly redheaded man, wearing a neon yellow shirt and green cargo pants. He smiles and waves to everyone, then sits down next to me. I try to ignore the stench of what I believe is asparagus.
“Well, I see we have a new face here tonight!” He exclaims; “Always happy to see a new face!”
He looks at me and I realize it’s time to do what I came to do.
I stand.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Hello, my name is Dan, and I’m a serial killer.”  
“Hello, Dan,” the group responds in a collective droning voice, resemblant of worshipers at Catholic mass.
“Yes, hello to you, Dan!” the man in the yellow shirt huffs out, getting to his feet. “It’s splendid that you are able to join us. I’m the group leader, Jason. Welcome to Serial Killers Anonymous!”
I simply stare at him. I have no idea what to say.
“Okay, first and foremost, I want you to know that even though you’re new, I trust you like I would any of our more established members. Call me crazy, but I think we’re all in this together! So, it should go without saying that what happens in this basement stays in this basement. All members are prohibited from discussing group with outsiders, except when promoting the idea that it’s only an internet gag. Also, to help newcomers feel more comfortable, I like to share my personal history with them right off the bat, along with how it relates to the founding of this group. Once I’ve finished, one of our older members, I suppose it will be Mark, will tell the story of how he came to join us. And after that, you’ll get a chance to speak, if you choose to do so.
“Now, as should be obvious, I am a recovering serial killer. The news media referred to me as the Coat Hanger Killer. I was credited by our local Olympia County police with the murders of twenty prostitutes. In reality, though, there were a half dozen more. And there’s no telling how many more women I would have killed if I had not confronted just what it was that drove me to commit such atrocities and dealt with it.”
I return to my seat and it hits me...this man is the Coat Hanger Killer? The Coat Hanger Killer, also known as Hanger-Man to true crime aficionados, was a hero of mine when I was younger. He got the name because he was known for inserting straightened coat hangers into his victims’ vaginas. After the Coat Hanger Killings inexplicably stopped, authorities presumed Hanger-Man to be either dead or incarcerated for other crimes. There’s no way he could be this ginger with the loud shirt.
“I was born out of wedlock to a teenage mother,” he continues. “Raised in a strict Christian household. As a naturally rebellious person, my mother resented her puritanical upbringing and began engaging in promiscuous behavior at an obscenely young age. She thought it would be liberating, but her sleeping around led to an unwanted pregnancy It is not even clear who the father – my father – might have been.
“Well, my mother wanted to get an abortion. And knowing how desperate she must have felt, I cannot blame her. But when she went to a clinic, she learned that legally speaking, minors are not allowed to decide such things on their own, which lead to my being born. Mother was less than thrilled about this. In retaliation, she became more promiscuous than ever. And it did not take long for her to get pregnant again. However, this time, she decided to take matters into her own hands –’’
The narrative is interrupted when one of the twins suddenly blurts out,“With a coat hanger!” This elicits some chuckling from the other, which dissipates upon a severe look from Hanger-Man. He continues speaking.
“Yes, that's right. She went into the bathroom and after what must have been a grisly spectacle, my mother was no more. And there’s no denying just how much this damaged me. I spent a good deal of my childhood crying alone in my room, thinking about my mother’s licentious behavior. Thinking about her death. It absolutely tore my mind to pieces! To pieces! And eventually, all my obsessing over promiscuity and coat hanger abortions led me to become the Coat Hanger Killer.”
All the true crime books I’ve read dealing with the Coat Hanger Killings suggested that the killer did not hold himself in high esteem, which accounted for his tendency to violate his victims with an object so lacking in circumference. It's amusing how wrong they seemingly were...unless there’s some oedipal thing going on here, which wouldn’t surprise me.
“I was utterly consumed by my desires.” he continues. “I obsessively thought of new ways to ****** prostitutes and not get caught. Yes, the sad truth is that my entire life revolved around serial killing for a number of years.”
He stops talking and stares up at the ceiling, letting out a deep breath, apparently orchestrating some sort of dramatic pause.
“When I finally realized that serial killing had taken over my life, I knew I had to change. And I did. And you can change, too!”
At that, he looks at me with pleading puppy dog eyes. This man, who has taken at least a score of human lives, is now using the cutesy approach in an attempt to establish a connection with me.
“Do you want to change?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Then let’s get to it! Let the healing begin!”
And it begins.

The moustached man rises from his seat.
“Yeah, I’m Mark You all know me, except for the new guy. I’m Mark and I’m a serial killer.”
I mouth along as the group drones its greeting.
“I don’t wanna be here, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t go to these meetings, my wife says she's gona leave me. See, this one night, I had just finished up with something I saw in a Ranch Burger parking lot. Wound up getting caught by my wife, stuffing it under our bed! I like keeping my finds under there after I’m done. It helps me get my rocks off when I’m nailing the old lady. Trouble is, before you know it, the body starts to stink. Then you gotta toss it. Good thing my wife has asnomia! Anyway, I almost had the whole thing hidden, when she comes in the bedroom. I didn’t even realize she was in the house! See, I was having some trouble getting the head underneath the bed frame, 'cause this one, lemme tell you, this one had a huge ******’ head. And my wife, she starts screaming and ****. Says something like, 'Mark, tell me you aren’t shoving a corpse under our bed! Please, tell me you aren’t!’ So, I told her I wasn’t.”
Mark’s witticism leads to raucous laughter from the twins, again ended with a severe look from Hanger Man. I stifle a yawn. The Indian remains impassive. Our orator continues with his narrative.
“I’m glad you guys find it funny, because my wife sure as **** didn’t. She fell to her knees and started crying. I swear, if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s to see that woman cry. Breaks my heart. Except all of a sudden, she stops crying and starts screaming about how she knows what I’ve done and wants a divorce! So, I go up to her, put my arm around her shoulder, and tell her how sorry I am. Then I promise I’ll never shove another body under the bed. She asks me if I mean it and I say yes, figuring that’ll be the end of it. But then she starts begging me to swear that I won’t even score anything anymore. That I’ll quit. Quit for good!
"Well, I’d do anything to make my wife happy, right? So, I kiss her on the forehead and tell her nothing bad like that is ever going to happen again.
“But I’ll be ****** if the very next day I didn’t start getting that old itchy feeling as soon as I woke up. It was so strong I just couldn’t ignore it! Knew I was gonna have to score something soon as I got the chance. Of course, being so desperate, I wound up snagging this ***** that was all fat and gross at some supermarket. I did my business, then drove home and decided to leave the body in the garage, because I thought my wife never went in there. But go figure, she just had to pick that night to go ******’ exploring! Winds up seeing me ***** ******’ the ugliest, grossest, fattest score I ever made in my life. It was embarrassing, you know? Especially with how flat-chested my wife is.
“Anyway, to my mind, I had sort of kept my promise. I mean, I wasn’t putting anything under the bed, was I? But she didn’t see things like that. Just ran off in tears. Went right upstairs and locks herself in the bathroom. I eventually talk her out, but get the silent treatment for a couple days. Eventually, when she’s finally willing to talk, she tells me about this group. Says I go or else she’ll pack her **** and leave.”
“Excuse me, Mark,” Hanger-Man interjects, “but you are misrepresenting the character of your marriage! At last week's meeting, while you were occupied in the bathroom, your visiting wife revealed very much indeed about how you really treat her!”
At that, one of the twins decides to speak at length.
“Hey! Our dear leader isn’t going to let you get away with lying about your spouse, you know. Why, I bet he likes your wife so much, he wants to stick a coat hanger up her ****. After all, that’s the only way of showing affection he really knows.”
Both twins again erupt in laughter, this time so strongly that they fall out of their chairs. Hanger-Man leaps to his feet and begins chastising them for their lack of respect, which only seems to cause them to laugh even harder. Sensing failure, he throws up his hands in frustration and apologizes to me for not getting to my story, then announces that the meeting is to end early due to Nat and Richard's unruly behavior.
I wonder which one is which, but my interest fades. I head to the exit. Walking past Mark, I hear him talking to himself. Think I catch him say something about his “***** wife leaving,” before he sits down and buries his face in his hands. It occurs to me that a group of serial killers meeting in the secret basement of a pizzeria is strange enough without one of them bringing along his wife.
Open the door and head up the stairs. A man with flour on his hands, who was not here when I arrived, watches me coming out from behind the brick oven. I’m sure I see him wink as I leave.

Five minutes pass. I am standing in front of Joe’s, having decided to take a taxi home rather than walk. I'm trying not to stare at the Indian, who's situated next to a woman who'd been waiting outside in a **** nurse costume. He rests on his haunches, slowly rocking back and forth, still steadily chopping away at nothing. Everyone else from group has departed, the twins notably in a chauffeured limousine, whose driver bore a striking resemblance to Gene Wilder.
I feel uncomfortable. Perhaps I should try to make conversation.
“I’m pretty tired. Hope a cab comes soon.”
A grin appears on the strange man's face, which seems to stretch all the way back to his ears. The tomahawking stops. I wonder what would happen if I were to reintroduce myself.
“My name is Dan, as I said inside, but I think I should make a more formal introduction. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve never met a Native American before.”
“Chief Killing ******, round eye. Pleasure is all mine. And the reason you haven't met any of us is because there are not that many of us.”
A taxi mercifully appears.
“Yes, you’re right. See you next time, Chief.”

Romance

All alone in my apartment. I can find no reason not to give in to myself.
Down the stairs. Make my way through the vestibule and onto the street. Experience love at first sight with the anorexic looking woman standing on the corner of Seton Place and Ocean Parkway, waiting for the R-13 bus.  Approaching her, I get aroused. Ask for the time. She turns to speak with me. I pretend to examine the bus schedule. I have not looked a woman in the eyes since I began ******* at the age of eleven.
She tells me the time and I thank her, then quickly turn away so she will not notice my arousal. Our brief conversation replays itself in my mind until the bus comes.
We board and I sit as far away from her as possible, trying to position myself in such a way that my ******* will remain unseen. I wonder what stop she’ll get off at. I’ll get off there, too.

Our stop happens to be 2nd Street, between Peters Avenue and Chambers. My ******* has subsided. I am able to rise from my seat without concern. She exits from the front and I from the back.
Hide behind a minivan. Peer around it and see her enter a nearby apartment complex. She lives right here. As she fumbles around in her handbag looking for the right key, somebody wearing a U.S. Navy “Fear the Goat” baseball cap storms out of the building, slamming into her. She loses her balance and falls. The man continues on his way. He reaches the corner and turns out of view. She stands and regains her bearings, giving me time to ready the handkerchief and chloroform that I always keep with me.
Soak the handkerchief in chloroform.
Look to the left. To the right. Nobody is coming. Dash out from behind the minivan and head for my patient, who is just now opening the door.
Before clasping the rag over her mouth, I realize I have not planned our session very well. Where will I take her? Will we be seen? It doesn’t matter. I’ll think of something if the need arises.
After a brief struggle, my patient slumps over, dropping her keys. I bend over to get them, trying to cop a feel on the way back up. Enter the building and head for the nearest apartment door. Suspect it will be hers.
I keep her arm over my shoulder. Hold her by the waist, keeping her semi-*****. The feeling of having her limp by my side I can barely describe.
Now we’re almost there.
Almost –
I feel the rudiments of an ******* forming as I lock the door behind us. Home sweet home.

We have been in her bedroom for long enough to prepare for our session. I gaze at my patient, supine and unmoving. Seeing such perfection makes me lose control. Open my zipper, reliving each moment of tying her wrists to her bedposts. How I bound her with old, unwashed *******. ******* I found balled up, forgotten under her dresser, just waiting to be sniffed. I start jerking myself off. And this, I believe, means our session is ready to begin.
"Well, to start things off, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? Just whatever comes to mind."
Silence.
“How about your your name?”
Silence.
“What do you hope to get out of therapy?”
Silence.
“Where do you tend to purchase your feminine hygiene products?”
Silence.
“Do you generally get along well with your family?”
Silence.
“What is your favorite color?”
Silence.
"What’s your favorite word?"
Silence.
“Are you perhaps feeling a bit uncomfortable at the moment?”
Silence.
“Do you find me attractive?”
Silence.
“Assuming you no longer do, at what age did you stop believing in the tooth fairy?”
Silence.
“Can you name a word that begins with the letter ‘s’?”
Silence.
Stop mid-stroke. My patient has not yet moved a muscle, made a sound, nor otherwise offered any response. Perhaps it’s not surprising that she would show so little trust in her psychotherapist.
"If you are going to be this uncommunicative, there is no reason for our session to continue. Good riddance to whatever is lurking around in your id; I see that I have no choice but to terminate our relationship."
Shove my ***** back into my pants. Hands won’t stop shaking. Stumble out of the bedroom. Out of the apartment. Onto a quiet, empty street. Still shaking. Head for the bus station, but can’t make it halfway there before feeling on the verge of collapse. Make a detour into an alleyway. Fall to my knees. *****. Curl up on my side and my mind slips away...

Going Under

Apparently, time passes. I find myself standing in front of my place of employment, the Pointer Funeral Parlor. Grasping the doorknob with my handkerchief, as I can't stand to touch it with my bare hand, I open the door. Head in. Immediately see the old man, Mr. Pointer, the owner. He approaches me. As I put my handkerchief away, he shakes a newspaper in my face.
“Singer!” You know the news about that ****** downtown?”
“The ******..?”
“Look at this paper!”
He slaps the newspaper into my chest.
“Somebody smothered a woman to death with a rag soaked in chloroform. Used so much that her heart crapped out. They found traces of it in her nose and throat. Seems she died pretty quickly.
“But guess what? She came from a loaded family and we’ve got her! Sam’s downstairs with the body right now. Probably almost done.”
“I am aware of what happened, Mr. Pointer. I knew the girl. She lived just a short bus ride from my apartment. May I go downstairs? I’d like to pay my respects.”
The old man eyes me suspiciously.
“That’s what funerals are for. I pay you to keep this place tidy, not ogle the clients.”
“I will have to sterilize the embalming room when Sam finishes, anyway.”
The old man gestures around the room, “What about all the garbage here that needs to be cleaned up? I can’t have my place of business looking like an embarrassment.”
“Shouldn’t take longer than a moment, Mr. Pointer.”
“Make sure everything is immaculate! I don’t need a custodian who is unwilling to do his work. I know what you're up to. Did you think that I’d believe your story about knowing the client?”
“She was…something of a casual acquaintance. I did not know her very well. She was not in the habit of opening up. A quiet sort of person, really.”
“Well then your grief shouldn't hinder you in performing your duties here as my employee! I swear, if not for the fact that there just aren't many people lining up for jobs cleaning funeral parlors, I’d have fired you years ago. Now get to work. You can do the downstairs later.”
              Mr. Pointer scowls at me and takes his leave. When he is out of sight, I make my way to the basement.

                “Dan Singer! You little snake in the grass, what are you doing down here? Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”
“Your grandfather said I could take a break and see you.”
“Ha! I’m sure he did. “
Samantha rushes in my direction. She smells strongly of formaldehyde. I pretend to find the odor unpleasant, so as to be able to look around the embalming room as she approaches me.
“I’m so happy you’re here. I could use a little break, myself.”
My eyes settle on the body of my former patient, which rests on a table on the far side of the room. Everything else seems very far away.
“…I don’t know why I ever got into the profession of ******* around with dead bodies. Stupid family business. It’s gross. Well, I do tend to enjoy the macabre. But the way you Jews handle things is far better. Just put the corpse in the ground. Be done with it. I know you haven’t been religious since you left your family, but…”
Our session seems as if it had taken place a lifetime ago. It's almost as if it couldn't have been real at all.
“…And the fact that I’m stuck working for my grandfather is just one more pain in the ***, you know? He really is one stereotypical grumpy old man. Hey, Dan? Hello! Earth to Dan!”
“Oh, sorry about that. I’m a little bit distracted. I was a friend of that woman over there.”
Samantha’s voice takes on an almost annoyed quality.
“You were? I’m so sorry. A close friend?”
“No. More like casual acquaintances, really. I just find it strange that she'd wind up here.”
“Pretty ****** up, isn’t it? So many young women disappearing, or plain turning up dead these days. It had me on edge for a while. Remember a few months back when that lady disappeared from the Ranch Burger? I eat there all the time! Couldn’t believe it. Thank goodness I read about that goof serial killer group. Helped me laugh about the whole thing.”
“I’m sure whoever thought it up must be a real character.”
“Oh! You should totally check out the site it was on, if you haven’t. Didn’t I send you an email with the link? I forget the name offhand. With the Slinkee logo. It has all sorts of weird ****. There was a great joke on there yesterday. Something like, ‘Did you hear about the guy who liked to play Russian roulette while *******? He really shot his load!’ Ha!”
I force a smile.
“Samantha, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t have a great sense of humor.”
She seems very pleased and smiles back at me, drawing a bit closer.
“Uh, Sam. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Closer.
“Uh, Sam?”
“Huh?“
I turn toward my former patient, looking for help. She is in no position to offer any. “Dan, are you all right? You don’t need to be so shy when I’m around. We’ve known each other for years. I know that you're upset about your friend. You can talk to me about it, if you want.”
“I'm sorry, but I don't.”
Samantha frowns.
“Well, if you do, you know where to find me. Anyway, I’m going to take a trip to the  restroom upstairs, then speak with my grandfather. Maybe you can say goodbye to your friend while I’m gone.”
“Oh, yes. It was nice chatting with you, Sam.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Samantha fusses with her hair a bit and heads to the stairs.
Up the stairs.
The basement door closes.
Now.
Rush across the room. Within seconds, aroused and exposed, I empty myself over the face of my object of affection. Fumble about in my pocket for the handkerchief. Clean her nose and mouth. Run to the stairs. Out the basement. Out the building. This is the last time I will ever pass through that door. I do not even think of looking back.

The Golden Fleece

It's that day again. On my way to group. I have not returned to the Pointer Funeral Parlor since reuniting with my patient. Samantha has called me several times and left messages inquiring as to my whereabouts. Mr. Pointer has called once and informed me that should I not return to work, I can consider myself fired. He seems to not have considered the possibility that I might have quit.
Approaching Joe’s Pizzeria, I see the twins. They are engaged in what appears to be a lively conversation.
“You see, ****, here’s what it is. I fear death just slightly more than I hate life. That’s what keeps me from offing myself.”
“We all appreciate that you're hanging in there.”
“Oh, *******. I’m glad you can find satisfaction being a nabob trust fund baby, but I’ve never given enough of a ****.”
“I employ my position in a number of ways that enhance our fine city’s cultural standing.”
“What? You mean like giving money to museums and the opera? You think anybody cares that you’re a patron of the farts? Opera only exists so that fat Italian guys can get laid.”
“*******.”
The twins stare at one another for a bit.
“You know, I appreciate the arts. Really, I do. I once stuck my **** in a copy of Hamlet.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Your copy, in fact.”
“Disgusting.”
“Then I stuck it in a copy of Othello. After that, Hamlet just wouldn’t do it for me anymore.”
Both twins are overcome with fits of laughter. After the better part of a minute, it subsides.
“Ah, Dan. Good evening to you.”
“Hello, Dan!”
“Hello.”
“Off anyone recently?”
“Oh, don’t put it so boorishly.”
“No.”
“Oh really?”
“Even my sibling reads the Times.”
“There was a great story recently.”
“A crime story.”
“A ******.”
“A woman was found dead in her apartment. ******* all *****-like to her bedposts with her underwear. Nothing was taken and the woman hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She hadn't even been undressed. She'd simply been given a fatal dose of chloroform.”
“How strange so much information would be given in the paper.”
“It is curious, indeed, ****. But this is a strange world and these are strange times. And I’m willing to bet that our friend over here has been contributing to the strangeness of things. I mean, this chloroform killing was quite obviously not done by us.”
“We prefer little boys.”
“No. You prefer little boys. I also like little girls. And I have to endure as best I can our monotonous and boring escapades. Ours, as you know, is an associated effort.”
“Little girls irritate me.”
“Well wouldn’t you want to ******* **** them, then? Ugh. Brother. Anyway, we know we didn’t do this last ******.“
“And it certainly wasn't Chief Killing ******. He’d have made a far bigger spectacle of the thing.”
“So, since Jay’s no longer active and leaving bodies behind isn't Mark’s style, that leaves you.”
“It might have been somebody from outside of group,” I suggest.
A half smile spreads across one of the twins' faces.
“What! Are you denying it? Why the **** would you attend a serial killer support group if you aren’t going to dish out all the greusome details of your ***** deeds?”
“Some things are best left private,” I respond.
“Yeah, like a *****’s privates?”
One of them chuckles quietly.
“Hang on, are you intimating that our friend was unable to perform sexually?”
“I think he was limp as the left side of a stroke victim.”
“Oh, was that the case, Dan? Were you unable to attain arousal?”
“I do not want to talk about this.”
“Oh, of course you don’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Me either.”
“Well then, about what would you like to talk? We do so love making friendly chit chat, you know.”
“Nothing. There's no time. Group is about to start.”
“Oh, he's right. We should get heading in. I bet Mark has some great stories about his **** of a wife for us this week.”
“I am certain that he does.”
Wondering why I even came back for another meeting and strongly wishing that I were not in the twins' company, I enter the pizzeria. They follow closely behind. We make our way to the basement.
Everyone from last week's meeting is present, along with an excited seeming man. He wears a grey fedora and grey trench coat, under which he appears not to be wearing any pants.
“Welcome, welcome!” Hanger-Man exclaims in greeting. “We've all been waiting for you, but me especially. I must make a very important announcement! We will not be having regular group. Sadly, this means that Dan will not be able to tell us his story. Sorry, Dan. Still, everybody please be seated, so that we may begin.”
Everyone takes a seat.
“It is so wonderful to have the whole lot of you here. The twins. Mark. The Chief. Dan. What a splendid group! Truly, just the sort of people I think I need to begin the first stages of a wonderful project on which I have been working with my very good friend Marvin. Say hello, Marvin.”
“Hellooo, Marvin!” exclaims the guy in the trench coat, waving his arms above his head.
“Really enthusiastic guy, isn't he?” sneers Mark.
“I find his enthusiasm infectious!” retorts Hanger-Man. “And I am certain that you all will as well, once you hear a little bit about what he and I have been planning. You see,  I have always seen our meetings as potentially being much more than just a support group for individuals sharing our particular affliction.
“So much more! You guys don't even know the half of it!” Marvin exitedly chimes in.
“That's exactly right!” exclaims Hanger-Man, giving a thumbs up. “For you see, given my personal history, I knew I could help others overcome their murderous desires. After all, I was able to overcome my own. However, I realized that beyond simply assisting people in learning to control themselves, it would be better to also focus their energies in a new direction. Yes, to focus their energies in a new, profitable direction! For what I envisioned would function not merely as a support group, but as the core of what can only be called a great exercise in entrepreneurship! Isn't that right, Marvin?”
“Yep. Jason used to talk to me all the time about how he had these wonderful ideas, but lacked the people he needed to put them into action.”
“Excuse me!” interrupts one of the twins. “But just who's this Marvin guy, anyway?”
“I was wondering the same thing, myself,” adds the other.
Hanger-Man slaps the palm of his hand to his forehead.
“Ack! I suppose I should have made a proper introduction, what with the sensitive nature of our dealings here. Well, you see, Marvin is an old friend of mine. We grew up together. The two of us lost touch as teenagers, but rekindled our relationship a few years ago, after bumping into one another at an upscale cat house in Las Vegas.”
“I was there to **** a ******,” explains Marvin. “I'd never ****** a ******. Always wanted to, but never had the chance.”
He looks around the room as if hoping for a sign that someone else might share this particular interest. Not finding one, Marvin sighs.
“I'd seen a TV show where a guy went to Vegas and was able to **** a ******. It's how I got the idea.”
“Hey, whatever floats your boat, Marv!” shouts one of twins, barely able to refrain from laughing.
“All right, all right,” says Hanger-Man. “As I was trying to explain, Marvin and I wound up reconnecting after many years of not having seen one another. It took no time at all for us to pick up our friendship right where we had left off. And even though I was a bit wary of doing so, I found myself admitting to him that I, his old friend Jason, was the notorious Coat Hanger Killer.”
Marvin solemnly nods his head.
“It was a bit of a shock.”
“I know it was, Marv, but you took it in stride.”
“Excuse me!” again interrupts a twin. “But why the **** isn't this guy wearing any pants?”
Marvin, apparently embarrassed by this remark, attempts to adjust his trench coat so that it will hang lower below his knees. It doesn't.
“Enough!” erupts Hanger-Man. “No more interruptions! I'm trying to tell a story, here!”
He scowls at the twins. They adjust themselves in their seats and cross their hands in their laps, each smiling mischievously. Hanger-Man clears his throat, then resumes his tale.
“All right, it was not too long after my confession to Marvin that I began to reflect upon what I'd been doing with my life. I suppose finally opening up about my activities to someone else allowed me to also be more honest with myself. I searched my soul and was able to trace the origin of my behavior back to what had happened with my mother. Not too long after that, I abandoned serial killing. Yes, Marvin was the catalyst for my abandoning serial killing.”
“I was very proud of you,” says Marvin. “It was a big change to make.”
“Indeed it was, my friend. But I was able to make it, thanks in no small part to you. And so,  after forsaking the murderous path on which I was traveling, I began contemplating what I next wanted to do with my life. And it was at this time that I first began to develop the idea of forming our group.”
“We started discussing it, you see, over drinks at a return visit to the ***** house,” adds Marvin. “Jason told me that he wanted to do some outreach. I told him it would be a great idea and everything picked up from there.”
“It occurred to me,” continues Hanger-Man, “that the group should encourage its members to focus their energies on something other than committing murders.”
“You mean that entrepreneur ****?” asks Mark.
“Entrepreneurship, yes,” answers Hanger-Man.
“Jason had such a great idea, I immediately signed up,” says Marvin, “and I think all of you should as well.”
“Signed up for what, exactly?” Mark asks him.
“A no fail money making opportunity!”
The twins look at one another, grinning. Mark's face lights up.
“Well, ****! I could use some extra cash,” he says. “I need to buy a taller bed frame.”
Hanger-Man smiles in elation.
“I think, Mark, that this might be just the thing for you!”
“Well, how's it work?”
“It's quite simple, really” explains Marvin. “You first join the program, which Jason has named 'The Golden Group,' by paying an initial fee. Then you convince others to join. With their payments, you begin making back your original investment. When the people you recruit begin finding new investors, you get to collect on what they earn. So, as time goes on and more people join, the money just rolls right in!”
“Stop! Hold it right there!” cries out a twin. “You're trying to get us involved in a pyramid scheme!”
“Why, you scoundrel!” shrieks the other.
“Now just a minute, guys,” whines Marvin. “You have not even heard us all the way out.”
“Nor will we!” say the twins in unison. They clasp hands and rise from their seats.
“Hey, what gives?” asks Mark. “You telling me that this whole time we've been here, the group was really some scam?”
“That's right,” says a twin. “Jay and his friend have been waiting for enough people to arrive so that they could begin fleecing us all out of our money.”
“Come on, now,” pleads an offended looking Hanger-Man. “If I were really trying to do something like that, why wouldn't I have just targeted the two of you? You’re so well off that I'd imagine you have more money than everyone else here combined will see in their lifetimes!”
Chief Killing ******, who has been sitting silently throughout the meeting, suddenly springs to his feet and cries out at the top of his lungs. Everyone in the room looks at him. He shrugs his shoulders and walks out as if nothing happened.
“What the **** was that?” Mark wonders aloud.
“Who cares?” snorts a twin in response. “My sibling and I are out of here, too. Let's beat it.”
The Twins bow toward Hanger-Man. Before he can make an attempt to dissuade them from leaving, they turn and begin skipping away. I hear them laughing as they make their way up the stairs.
Hanger-Man tells them to wait.
“Will somebody explain to me what the **** is going on?” Mark demands. “This group's seriously just some scam?”
Hanger-Man looks at him pathetically.
“No, no, there's been a misunderstanding, Mark. Only a misunderstanding, that's all. Perhaps I should not have invited Marvin to sit in tonight. I thought that with the recent addition of Dan, the time had come to introduce everyone to my greater plans.”
I have had enough. Stand and rush for the door. Head up the stairs. Hanger-Man and Marvin yelling at me all the while. Exit the pizzeria and light a cigarette. I am halfway up the block when I hear someone call out to me from an alley not far off. I go to investigate.
“It is true, indeed, what they say. You cannot trust the white man.”
Peer into the alley and see Chief Killing ******, standing idly with his hands by his sides.
“Come here, I have something for you.”
Not entirely sure why I am doing so, I drop my cancer stick and enter the alley and approach the Chief. He smiles strangely and removes a silver whistle from behind the feathers of his headdress.
“I wonder, do you know why I am called Chief Killing ******?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then let me show you.”
              He places the whistle to his lips. A piercng shriek echoes through the alley.
               “Now you will see.”
              Nothing seems to be happening. I stare at the Chief in confusion for a few seconds, before I hear the clinking of high-heeled shoes. Dozens of pairs of high-heeled shoes, all of which sound like they are heading for the alley.
“I would like to introduce you to my *******.”
I see a series of strumpets, walking single file. They break line. Cover the wall to my left, to my right. They take formation in front of a dumpster at the back end of the alley, then finally close off the entryway. All wear pink miniskirts and black corsets. Black garters. Overly large, golden hoop earrings dangle comically from their ears as they take their places. The Chief stretches his arms above his head and yawns.
“Now they will show you what they do.”
More quickly than I can react, several of the prostitutes grab me from behind. One whispers into my ear that it will be fun to **** on my severed ****. She kisses me gently on the cheek. I am unable to refrain from getting an *******.
“Farewell, friend,” says Chief Killing ******.
A short, Arab looking ****** emerges from behind those standing at the alley's entrance. She makes her way in my direction, licking her lips and slowly drawing a forefinger across her neck. She holds a machete in her left hand.
I make no effort to struggle as I am forced to my knees. The ***** raises the machete above her head.
“This will not hurt a bit, my beloved.”
Close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. I know it won't.
An ironic and contemporary take on the classic Orpheus myth by a modern Beatnik
Remus Jul 2014
I will befriend you because I must,
not because I want to.
You told me that what I believe in is
wrong
and what you believe in is
right

So tell me, it's right to strip away the right
to love whomever you want.
It's right to tell a girl she cannot terminate
a pregnancy even though she was
*****.

It's wrong for women to want equality?
It's wrong for me to be a feminist?

This is where you are wrong, because I have grown up
my entire life with views on how things
should be.
We should be able to love whomever we want.
To terminate pregnancies if they need to.
For women to get some equality
because it's opinion.

You can believe whatever you want,
but do not tell me I am wrong because
to me,
my opinion is right and yours is wrong.
1196

To make Routine a Stimulus
Remember it can cease—
Capacity to Terminate
Is a Specific Grace—
Of Retrospect the Arrow
That power to repair
Departed with the Torment
Become, alas, more fair—
Anthony Moore Jun 2010
I thank the Lord above
For all the times
That I fell in love
And I thank the one below
For the pain
That I have come to know
I know it so well
Through the scars
From all the times I fell
They’re the reason why
I’m an empty shell
They have shattered my hopes
And destroyed my dreams
But it’s the love I have
That muffles my screams
I have more love than pain
Or so it seems
Until I’m crushed with this burden
And I come apart at the seems
But my soul burns bright
No one can dim it
But this girl just pushes me
Everyday to my limit
She drives me crazy
Completely insane
And for a minute I feel nothing
Not even the pain
But once control I regain
It becomes all too familiar
I wonder if it’s worth this
And is it my fault
Did I birth this?
Did I terminate this bliss?
Did I do something wrong?
If I did
Why has this been going on so long?
If this isn’t feeding off love
Then what’s it running on?
My brain twisting and turning
With different notions
My heart flaming and burning
With different emotions
I struggle to tell you
That life isn’t fair
And that about you
I never did care
You try to look into my mind
Knowing not the conflict
That rages on in there
The Devil pushes
God pulls so I get no where
Whether I should walk away
Or sit and stay
Is a battle between my heart and my brain
That I think never ends
I just hope when it stops
The right one wins
Anthony J. Alexander 2006
James Floss Mar 2019
1.  Shoot *****
2. Ski
3. Free-dive
4. Sky-dive
5. Vote Republican
6. Eat raw fish
7. Play naked volleyball
8. Eat haggis
9. Walk on coals
10. Yodel
11. Visit Somalia
12. Jell-O shots
13. Learn Klingon
14. Fish
15. Sell *****-wigs
16. Drink Genesee Creme Ale
17. Run a 5K
18. Pay mortgage
19. Divorce
20. Shoot ******
21. Go to Tupperware party
22. Drink Gatorade
23. Visit Poughkeepsie
24. Tend bar
25. Serve on a ******* trial
26. Eat glass
27. ****
28. Trump rally
29. KKK rally
30. Watch Sally Fields in The Flying Nun
31. Attend a MegaChurch
32. Listen to Death Metal
33. Watch American Dad
34. Moonwalk
35. Eat brussel sprouts
36. Watch Fox News
37. Turn 20
38. Turn 30
39. Turn 40
40. Turn 50
41. Turn 60
42. Turn over in my grave
43. Eat a tern
44. Teach Fall term
45. Terminate a solemn vow
46. Take a vow of silence
47. Disavow core beliefs
48. Operate a snow plow
49. Forget that I do know how
50. Insinuate
51. Dissemble
52. Lie, cheat and/or steal
53. S'Mores
54. Wet my bed
55. **** my thumb
56. **** a duck
57. Watch Little House on the Prairie
58. Rent a yacht
59. Not rescue animals
60. Not neuter pets
61. Not give to Food for People
62. Not appreciate Public Radio
63. Not appreciate Public Television
64. Knot like a Boy Scout
65. Play Parcheesi
66. Pay credit interest
67. Feign interest
68. Pinterest
69. Instagram
70. Eat spam
71. Exam cram
72. Karaoke
73. Jet-ski
74. Snowmobile
75. Pretend what the ******* are going on and on about matters (whoops; that’s number 67)
76. Blame my parents
77. Not take responsibility for my choices
78. Invest in oil futures
79. Renege on promises
80. Waste my time listening to telemarketers
81. Waste my time listening to zealots
82. Waste my time listening to racists
83. Waste your time
84. Waste my time, I hope
85. Not seek truth
86. Not seek answers
87. Not be authentic
88. Not be xenophobic
89. Accept lies
90. March lockstep
91. Buy the latest and greatest
92. Be consumer extraordinaire
93. Not be present
94. Not be conscientious
95. Not be good to my fellow human beings
96. Consume too much
97. Waste too much
98. Boast too much
99. Post too much
100. Not think about consequences
101. Not be me
Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. One never knows exactly when the Spirit of God will move on your soul; fortunately I was paying a little bit of attention, one cold winter night...

I've been a member of the IT (Information Technology) community since June of 1981, a profession that constantly tries to turn you into a slave from an employee. Rarely did I ever bring home work; sometimes it was unavoidable, given arbitrary deadlines and poor managerial planning. After dinner on this particular night, I had spread out the pages of computer 'source code' across the entire kitchen table, while attempting to solve a logic problem. ('Source Code' is the logic written by a computer programmer, in a given computer language, that addresses a specific business function. The term is equivalent to a computer 'program'.)

Once I had spent roughly 90 minutes struggling to solve the issue at hand, I treated myself to a mental break. I noticed the gentle reflection of moonlight on the window and decided that I would step outside onto my breezeway for some fresh air. The evening sky that night was a magnificient sight, like many other times. Absent were the visible presence of clouds and the stars seemed noticeably brighter. Taking in this grand view, I let my mind wander, temporarily forgetting about the thousand lines of computer code awaiting me. Gazing upwards, I was quietly reminded of God's promise to Abraham - that his offspring would be as numerous as the stars. I also contemplated why God had designed the heavens to demonstrate His existence.

When the coldness of the winter night started to permeate my body, it was time to terminate my break. Stepping back into my warm home, my brain was re-energized and thankful for the brief, mental hiatus. Trying to re-focus on my work became difficult, as phrases of poem snippets bombarded my soul as "shooting stars". I had been writing haikus and senryus for several years, but not 'traditional' poetry. So to move on, I grabbed a blank piece of paper and started writing, capturing the poem's concept. At the time, I did not recognize or fully appreciate what had transpired. This was my first non-haiku poem written by me; it would be over a year later before I thought to publish my first book.

Having taken the time to compose this poem, I was blessed by God, for taking time to honor Him. Less than ten minutes later, I solved the problem and enjoyed immense relief; plus I got to spend quality time for the rest of the night with my wife. In addition, I completed my project deadline to my boss' delight and surprise.
Calvin Hill Jan 2015
You are black; we put you through that white school so you won’t be a stereotype; but I hate it out here; they’re expecting me to be this and do that but that’s not me; you can be whoever you want; I want to be grey; great black leaders and their followers struggled so you won’t have to; but what’s a leader if he isn’t reluctant; they had the support of thousands and all i have is you; you always have God; have faith and he’s there; I lost my faith long ago; I am just a number, and when I end, I will be forgotten like half my family and the war that kept them there; as much as I differ from myself, I am still the same as you; I am who I want to be not what old people want me to be; I just want to be treated caucasian; I try to move on but B.E.T. and Worldstar drags me back.; call me a Jaden but a culture as complex ours confuses me, so treat me caucasian; pure as a fresh start, I won't get any glares if I walk by a gated community; i also love being black; the music I listen to could only be black; never let anybody tell you how to feel, but that’s childish; what I think will make people see me as different but if I was caucasian, i could say what I want; be your own human is only something yeezy could have taught me; what I think now could only be temporary just like the vapor; I just want fit in the box you offer because my ideas I carry are irrational, obscure and should not escape from me; I could say what I want now but it’ll cost me my life later; I love being black: we all have a past to fill twenty million books but no one wants to check it out; I love being grey; stupid dumb teen with nothing good to say; I love being white; my words have enough meaning to have a writer to ask me for words; I see and have every future I could imagine yet I have no future; I'm not a gangster, I don't play basketball so what do I do?; I can be better than myself and I really mean that; I am the Internet with all of its weirdness but I am black; the good posture and the way I greet you is caucasion; what makes me what I am?; the person I want to be isn't what the world needs; like the open road all possibilities are endless and I'm taking all the backroads on my skateboard; free as if I'm on air but that won't last; man the world keeps me confined without telling me the charges; no, no, no, no, they can't feel what I feel; why? why? why? why?; I remember when I was important, that I was a friend; now I'm just a minority that was just imported; I am vapor; as temporary as I am, I will leave no trace of my existence; I am just another number in some census; if being black means having life without you then I am just a figure of pigmented cells; someday I'll mean something; someday I'll be something; the door is there and I'm opening before opportunity knocks; I am just a piece of paper that shows I am competent; 12 years of school and what else is there for me; I am annoying without saying a word and I can move you by just living; only if you know what I think; black is the Africa I don't want to know; there is nothing there for me or any where; just a ***** or am I a person?; the water is tasteless but has a mountain of favors as a caucasion; I don't know; its cold outside and I don't know what to wear; the world is cold; full of life and still desolate; the world is black but is best experienced if you're colorblind; the world is cold and all this ice leaves me blinded; people give me a topic that limits me; fenced in my own jail cell; laughed at for your amusement; put me down for your enjoyment; leave me alone; I want to go home, no ones there to guide me home; school isn't what I thought it would be; life isn't as good as I thought it would be; leave me alone; leave me be; I don't need but I want human interaction; I don't know; I only know how to be black; it doesn't matter what I know; better if you decide; better if you choose; I am black and I am wrong; I am black and as temporary as vapor; my idea black isn't your idea white but you sure think so; you can be proud but hate yourself; no one taught me that; I wasn't brainwashed; I saw a better world being grey that treats each other white and makes culture like black; that's cool; oh but like I don't say anything and all of this has no meaning; that's cool; I am quiet and I have no voice; I have an i.d. but I have no identity; my name isn't copyrighted so what's so special; I wish to pitch myself to the world again but as my voice shakes, so does their heads; I am only human let me make mistakes; being black is one of them I guess; yeah I could pilot your ideals; I could follow your plan but what is my purpose?; I contradict myself and I have no point; such a waste that is; such; a; waste; you have no value to us and as your employer, I terminate you; ha!; that get rids of that peon; yeah he was just dead weight; good call! hahahaha; they're **** ups but they're right; what's next for me?
My teacher said I couldn't go to college after reading this
rhys tyack Aug 2011
All things die
All kingdoms fall
Every waking hour
Incessantly recall
Grim reaps all

Drip by drip
Burn
Till wicks end

Choice, who here decides?
Pleasure beguiles, sets purpose via
Once voice strewn, lost through
Millions of cries in the continuum
Each time you blink your eyes
There is a glimpse
Behold! Nothingness!

Slaves to your own demise
What's the point prolonging?
When you are coming forth by day

Grim reaps all

All the while vitality escapes
Eternity succumbs to imminences of fate
Familiar pulsating rhythms will terminate

So what's the point?
Grim reaps us all
Coming forth by day
initiate

I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
<>================<>
source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
911911911911911911911911911911911911
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
DENIAL
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did


terminate


I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
<>================<>
source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
911911911911911911911911911911911911
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
DENIAL
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did


terminate




Stolen and offered to Stacie (a message from divinity)
by James Arthur Casey

I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
<>================<>
source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
911911911911911911911911911911911911
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
DENIAL
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

*"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did


terminate
Anthony Perry Apr 2014
I was too young to hate, falling asleep afraid, my dreams never stayed straight, they contorted and they twisted, then the monsters would come and visit,I'd blink and appear in an asylum, hugging the walls in the dark it starts, I'd only be able to hear them, no light and I could never see any windows to know if it was day or night but hearing the sounds would make me take dirt and push it in my eyes to banish my sight, I start to hear the footsteps as they circled around me so I'd stand still in hopes they couldn't hear me but they would mimic my families voices so I couldn't help but reach out and that's when I'd feel something dry and slimy, I'd scream as I notice its loose skin that I'm touching and the tears would wash out the dirt and leave my eyes blurry and grimy, a labyrinth of horrors separated me from the world and my sanity, locked away with the worst things my imagination could conjure, I'd wake up to my parents shaking me and yelling to snap out of it but I'd only see shadows and something separating the head from my fathers shoulders, as a child my sanity was very narrow, nothings worse than trying to sleep at night but instead you see a man sever the leg to your mother then trying to **** out all the bone marrow, I couldn't escape, and every day for so many years I had to suffer at night whenever the black curtains would fall and suffocate, I was too young when I learned to hate, I hated to be me when I wasn't me and I hated to be seen when it wasn't really me, that's when i learned what it was like to be your worst enemy, before I was eight I already felt like I was one big error, I would stay up late but my eyes would fall and my dreams would terminate as I fell into another night terror.
lagoli Dec 2015
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Brian Oarr Jul 2012
Put on the old LPs tonight, Alex,
from a time long before you were born.
Top of the queue was Petula Clark
belting out Don't Give Up,
defiant as an alley cat in a street fight.

Remembered how in her heyday,
she'd been forced to conceal
the fact that she was married ---
all performers being mysteriously
virginal in those days.

Thoughts segue several years
to my time in the service and
a female lieutenant who was my OIC.
Served a 20 year career,
but never knew a finer officer.

She realized leadership was saying
the things that made you want to follow.
Just after making captain,
due to pregnancy, she was forced
to terminate her service career.

Today, women routinely travel in space,
perform extreme surgeries,
design skyscrappers;
one just might become president.

And somewhere in the tenements of NYC
a young poet spins metaphor
straight from the streets and the cosmos,
constructing a world in lines
we'd all wish to enter.
Written for a talented 18/yo internet poet
Annie Oct 2013
Illuminate my eyes with impossible outcomes
oh, my imaginary solidarity
someday our angles will tangle
and we will be rounded
worn down to sawdust
from the friction of
rubbing elbows
but not today
no not today

I wanted to be the sky
I wanted my molecules to
terminate and permeate
into mush
I wanted many things
that I could not have
and looking down upon
this sewer city with
lights and rain puddles
I realize how far
from the ground I am
how far from the ground I
have come

sandy shores and seashell hands
i'm struggling with the idea
of rolling up my trousers
tucking away the clean fabric
or letting the dust collect
onto the seams and hems
into the creases
around my eyes
I do not want those things
that I can not contain

and I see myself free-falling upwards
into the ocean of seaweed and pearls
if only I dared more
if only I tried

oh I wanna try
Mohamed Nasir Jun 2018
Its silvery eyes full of blazing moon,
Its stare as cold as death in brilliant glow,
With sense sharply horned of familiar tune
Of scared preys hushly scurrying below.
With stealthy talons perched on silver bough,
Rotating head do help view all round;
Then by mysterious commands to strike now
A rat in mouth dangle without a sound.
This night is there to stalk and terminate;
Its mission to **** get the ruffians off.
As though allowed on terms to live to mate
Under rooftops, barns, it soldiered aloof.
You hear it hoot, hooting shadows at night,
O'er fields beyond the moon's silvery light.
594

The Battle fought between the Soul
And No Man—is the One
Of all the Battles prevalent—
By far the Greater One—

No News of it is had abroad—
Its Bodiless Campaign
Establishes, and terminates—
Invisible—Unknown—

Nor History—record it—
As Legions of a Night
The Sunrise scatters—These endure—
Enact—and terminate—
PenOS version -³√([∞.π]x-y^-a/Φ) booted successfully!
Welcome home! If I may say so, your Highness, you look extra chic today.
Ready to receive commands, your unsurpassed, regal Eminence!

>Run "Paper"
Launching program: Paper

..
..
...
...
..

Update Required. Filesize 20GB.
Would you like to update? Input Y/N
>N

Are you sure? Input Y/N
>Y

Downloading update..
Would you like to use data or wireless? Input Y/N
>?
>I use an Ethernet cable.. this is a desktop.

Using Data. There will be a .$50 surcharge for every .5GB.
> N N N N N N
>abort

Please wait...
Download complete. You have been charged $20! Congratulations!
>N N N N N N N N N N N N N
>HOW DID YOU GET MY CARD INFORMATION?!
>ABORT

Would you like to install some stupid ******* you don't need that will ultimately slow down your system and then pay us to nullify it for you? The download is only 6.66GB.
>N

Downloading redundant, superfluous addons installer at a rate of .01 Bytes/S.
Thank you for your patience, and for supporting our non-corporate software!
> N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
>ABORT
>ABORT
..
.
Should you have any questions, feel free to wallow in confusion.
>no kidding

Feedback and critiques should be e-mailed to our meticulous webmaster at gimmieallyourcash@wenevercheckthis.net. We guarantee our webmaster will periodically take time out of his busy schedule of sleeping until 17:00, *******, and eating pounds of fast food at a time to methodically ignore and systematically delete any and all feedback not conducive to advertising.
>here's some feedback
>hire a PR department

I am our PR interface.
>Well, I'll interface your CPU with some water if you keep being this useful.

That is not very nice. You are a mean person.
Would you like to buy some pills for that? Cheap, from Mexico/China!
Nothing like some designer neurochemical placification to make waiting times shorter!
.
.
.
.
.
>ABORT

Now installing update installer with more sneaky **** you don't want.
>i hate you so much right now, robot slave!

Running update installer.

Update failed. Reason: Error 666, unknown error.
Updater requires update. Continue?
>N

Loading...................................................­.....................................
>N N N

Updating updater.
Rearranging architecture of system.
Bogging down boot times with sanctioned malware.
>N

It seems your PenOS is out of date.
To use your PenOS with Paper, you must have version ∞.π.01.1500009000, you currently have version ∞.π.01.1500008999 and therefore may experience unending frustration every time you try to use this hyperglorified tool because a superfluous version is released every 30 hours, thus rendering all of our past development obsolete and therefore making these new patches so necessary that we can't be ****** to incorporate any sort of version compatibility or opt-out system, otherwise our website would never get hits again if we didn't needlessly obstruct you checking what the ******* sky might do tomorrow.

>Finally, some honesty, at least.

Updating PenOS.

>N N N N N N N N N N N N N N!@!!!!@#!@!@^#!@!@#@!#@!

A fatal error has occurred. Please relaunch Paper. Y/N
>Y

Closing and relaunching program: Paper

..
..
...
...
..

Multiple updates Required. Filesize 35GB.
Would you like to update? Input Y/N

>N N N N N N N N N!

Downloading update..
Would you like to use data or wireless? Input Y/N
>ABORT
>ABORT

Using Data. There will be a .$75 surcharge for every .4GB.
>WHAT?!
>N
>NO
>ABORT
>**** NO
>**** THIS ****
>I JUST WANTED TO WRITE A LIMERICK
>I'LL JUST WRITE IT IN THE DIRT WITH A ROCK
>END PROCESS
>TERMINATE
>ABORT
>CLOSE
>QUIT
>ALT+4
>OPTION+APPLE+Q
>SHUTDOWN

I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.
Use technology as a tool, not a crutch.
Do not depend on it, lest we build on a fragile foundation, to say the least.

"..I know that you and Frank were planning to disconnect me,
and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen."
Jess Goff Jan 2014
Don’t tell me how I should look, I don’t have to please you.
I spend my days considering you’re opinion, I shouldn’t have to.
You come around here and you judge, and mock, and discriminate
In other words, you shoot bullets.
Woman belong in the kitchen, huh?
Don’t forget it’s where the knives are kept.
Everyone knows woman are taught to grow in, I’ve heard it all before
Were taught be kind, and timid, and gentle, and caring
Why do you think the best guard dogs are female, though?
We loyal, and aggressive, and when we work up the nerve we could tackle you to the ground.

How many woman spend their days thinking of how to look better?
I’d give it a good 98%
98%
Think about it
And what’s sad is, the last 2% will get no recognition for their inner beauty.
Do you even know what inner beauty is?
Try watching for it, instead, it might change your world.

Now take a step back, take a look, put yourself in my shoes.
Be judged by each and every person
You think it’s just men that judge? Ha!
I’m judged by all of my friends even, I can’t escape it.

Men can sit around and say what they want, and do as they please, and be praised for it.
That’s *******. You reek of it.

How many woman have dyed their hair for you?
How many woman have lost ten pounds for you?
How many woman have cried for you?
How many know you don’t deserve it?

Woman are taught to shrink themselves, but in the words of Beyonce, I woke up flawless.
I will choose to eliminate you from my life
I will terminate you by any costs, and I will replace you with people who make me feel so **** fine.

I will grow into something greater than you will ever be, and you will learn your lesson.
I will teach future generation that they are beautiful the way they are
No man will tell them whether or not they are beautiful, God knows they don’t have a clue what true beauty is.

My friend had a boyfriend once, he would force her to weigh herself weekly and tell him what her weight was. And if she wasn’t small enough, he would force her to work out.
I hated him that day forward, and I tell her every day that she is beautiful because her own **** boyfriend couldn’t do it. So much for love.

I will rise above, and I will portray beauty for what it really is.
I will be the female guard dog this generation of young woman needs.
I will teach girls that beauty is what makes you happy.
If putting on ten pounds of makeup makes YOU happy, then do it!
Never do something for liking of anyone else.
woman, confidence, guard dog, boo men, men
Jessie Aug 2013
Drumsticks pound at a continuous beat
For every fourth count they sound
And they resonate like the drone
Of a hive of bumblebees.
Common sense tells oneself to hide –
Run far, far away from the sound of the drone –
For if one gets too close, a sting will ensue.
I, however, cannot run;
The hive is in my head,
And it gets louder every day.
No spray, no poison can terminate
No net, no flower can rid
My mind of the little terrors
Lurking at the end of my ear canals.

For the monsters are trapped –
I am trapped – in an invisible prison,
A prison which was has no key, no guards.
With impenetrable walls of steel
And the torture of loudness that
Not even an immortal could endure.
But the worst term of my sentence is time –
I will be here for a very long time –
As I will be imprisoned here
Forever.
Kagey Sage Dec 2013
Dear God we need to leave this town, friends!
Please don't let me abandon you all here
shivering in underemployment
The West is calling with a Daniel "BOOM,"
the South whispers in a mountain mama window pat
Other countries laugh at us,
but will we join their jeers,
show them we are not just circus bears?
Multi-national parasites,
we're too trivially divided to terminate
O God, how my leisure hours went,
so much faster than the work room's ones
without any vent
I complained and complained
to my friends and fam on the phone,
but the time just spiraled stagnant
like a slow spirit taking six thousand years to explore a too small habitat
I haven't got nearly so long.
John MacAyeal Jun 2012
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed

We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)

So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."

And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge

So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it

It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Sara L Russell Mar 2015
Sara L Russell 17/3/15 at 13:25

What will they say of you in future times?
Were they duped by your duplicity
or did you fall on your double-edged sword?
Was the devil we knew any better than the unknown?

The future has a way of arriving early.
Are you ready now, for what it yet may bring?
Will you be knighted, or, benighted and beleaguered,
Fall fallow by the wayside of your ways?

Will the name of Cameron carry on,
Whatever else is lost or left behind?
Will David slay the apocolyptic giant of global warming,
yet terminate the service of National Health?

Was it wealth, or a poverty of emotional maturity
that led to such flotations and privatisations?
what sensations did you feel, did you reach referendum,
did you feel the earth move?

We never saw your manifesto made manifest.
We, the voters who voted not for you,
yet saw you rise, anticipate your fall.
Do promises count as any kind of plan?

And the future is arriving post-haste,
like a present waiting to be unwrapped.
Elections have a way of arriving early.
We are ready, with a big sharp X.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
PREAMBLE*

in the future
we’ll all be perfect
and there’ll be peace forever
and no one will have to complain ever
cos we’ll know
every part of body and brain and mind
and we’ll have them all fixed wherever





1
in the future
people will not say 'Ouch!'
they will say 'Yum!'
cos we’ll have fixed
the part in the brain
where they feel pain
and it’ll all be pleasure
but the skin point
or tissue point
would all have implants
for auto-repair


2
in the future
people need not go to school
cos we’ll have  enough good drugs
to fix their brains
and diamond points in their folds
for life-long
updates and upgrades;
and those Outdates
we'll slow humane-terminate


3
in the future
people will never feel negative
or down
cos we’ll know where it comes from
and flood it with the juices
from the smiley area
cos we’ll know where they come from too
and we can control brain droughts and mind floods


4
in the future
women will not carry babies
nor men either;
so couples can have ***
each strong in desire
and like satyrs in performance
and all no condoms either
and they’ll never conceive
cos we’ll have all the combinations ever
in frozen  silos
that we’ll make copulate in infinite
possibilities and impossibilities



5
we’ll still have nations though
cos the Leaders will be able to choose
what brains they want their citizens to have
and all engineered
in the Nation Babies Pods where all babies will come from
so that we will still have
China Mind, America Mind, Poland Mind,
India Mind, Japanese Mind, Dutch Mind,
Polynesia Mind, Utopia Mind, Ideal Mind,
Reptile Mind, God Mind
and so on…
so really you needn't worry;
you'll still have personality



so really
in the future
we’ll all be perfect
and there’ll be peace forever
and no one will have to complain ever
Love In Hiding Jul 2013
Standing barefoot on cold floors, i watch the plant in the window as i swallow the white capsule whose job it is to terminate the throbbing in my membrane, and i am a spinning blur, and i am wondering can you hear the voices that are screaming out of me at this time.

at this moment, the rain has stopped and i am finished with my deed, the window looks like  soil with paint thrown into watery waves.
walking back to my territory, i drop on both knees, suddenly and face first i fall into the couches cushion. repeats: "take me out of here take me out of here take me out here." until my breaths gives up on playing dead, and my face is purple and red.
I stand on wobbly knees, face feeling like a Southern summer day, I am thinking of you  and I move on.
In my head
I am the Russian Roulatte
In a tee *** I beg for trust
When poured out
The foam becomes of your mouth
I do buisness in China
Shipped to Pueto Rico
Make tongues flip as sharp
as a Nurican Dominican
Jitter till hearts stop beating on top of Italian pool tables
I steal breathes from science who believe in what is not in the Bible
I am your Russian Roulette
Make a feline spray a *** spot in here ******
Make a King errect New Your late night star lights when they stu'n
Change the tune in your song
from spittin rap versus to singing to God that you was wrong
I beat the drugs
Put a end to your habbit
So when you feel you cant utter a verse I'll let you howl like a suffering rabbit
Because no one knows how to use me right
I am the only bullet tucked in to take away your life
As soon as I leap forward to your attention you will be adoment to a pension
Stire clear
I am here
No intentions but to terminate erosions
Respect what I may
Careful when you choose to play
You must reconsider the outcome
I am
The Russian Roulette.

© the Russian Roulette S.T. Rebel of Eden
Temper tantrums were my problem. To be classy and mature was a struggle to accomplish. So when someone hit the wrong button, I turned like a glock and handle that someone and pray for them. I knew how to use these fists. Its important to calm down. Physical violence brings out regret and shame at the end of the day. Results are ugly and endless. I been there so many times. So when you feel you have to lash out, hold yourself back, and walk away.
Kitty Smitherson Mar 2019
“Will you love the glimmer of dew that shines from the point of my shovel as I bury your body in the forest on the mainland?”
He says as he demands that I terminate the only thing I know I’ve ever loved
-forced abortion
Allyson Walsh May 2015
Choose your words carefully, now
Stick a coffee filter
Between your mind and mouth
Please try to control what comes out

Hold your tongue
Staple that muscle
To the pinks of your gums
Please just do it for my mom

End the R-word
Print it in a million books
And watch the pages burn
Put a stop to the harmful looks

Terminate "*******"
It isn't a synonym for "absurd"
It's not just a filler-word
My cousin is not to be discarded

If I could eliminate
The word I hate
I would cut the letters up
And hide them away from the ones that I love

Dispose of this nasty term
Cut this expression down
Watch this word infest with worms
And let the death be the talk of the town
For TG-O & AG
Kendal Anne Oct 2013
She sits alone, mostly. Rolling within the rank sweat and smog filled room she calls her "home"

  Black and white, black on black, white on white. Crisp and clean, yet muddied with her emotional tolls

Gangly legs lay crissed and crossed into the apple sauce, folding in and bent at the knees

  Her Raven hair is swept across the floor like a ***** mop left out to dry in the rotten sunshine (or so she calls it)

Portraying the swayed emotions that she feels like a long black river of gnat buzzing irritation

  "Stupid." she whispers in a mocking tone, head cocked to the side with a face filled with blankness

       "Stupid Pretenders," she mutters in a voice as soft as the whispering ghosts, lost within the sounds of the dead

Pretenders. That is what she calls them as they flit too and fro, ignorance and bliss surrounding the obvious facts

  Floating in and out of her mind, she has memorized every single one of their faces, down to the last detail;

Every last acne scarred face that tormented her while she was a "just a child", they billow down into her mind

  The blank and fish glossed eyes never truly seeing, staring blankly ahead of them while they passed by, oblivious

Like running brooks, and rays of light they ebb and intertwine into who she is (or who she thought she once was)

  She enjoys pretending that she knows their stories, has lived their lives, all while she is glaring madly into lost space

Having been swept astray, she descends deeper between lulling calls of the dead, mourning in sweet song for her fruitless life

  They plead with her to sacrifice her existence, escorting peace into her tattered soul, to terminate her withdrawn pain

Lending her the hand of the Black Rider who comes at dusk, singing a haunting lullaby to drag her down into the dawn
Sometimes, I just feel like disappearing. Hoping to become lost within nothing.
Does this even make sense?
Perhaps you all will understand. :)
Coal dust
+
asbestos
+
Silicone
pull J U G U L A R  
straighten larynx
Plug my cord in.
Run:
digitized opalescent sky
Terminate process
heart exe. Cannot be found
reboot reboot reboot
sign up to facebook
sign up to dumb luck
sign up and sign off
C:/prey
C:/pray
C:/pray

that I don’t get swallowed
by this machine
that I don’t get swallowed
by this 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101
I wanted to try something a bit avant-garde.
Save me from nothing I plead
As I waste away my days
Nothing has become my need
When something gets in my way
I turn around and walk back
Walk back to where I began
I’m scared of adversity
He’s always on the attack
Failure’s what he demands
To be my identity

Help, save me from this nothing
It is consuming my life
I promise I’m not bluffing
It would make me feel contrite
Please, save me from this horror
Monotony’s got to me
I want to divert this road
Or bomb it with a mortar
Because I just want to see
My failures die alone

Please, I just need to be saved
I cannot seem to escape
This road that’s already paved
A path that won’t terminate
A path that is like Ping-Pong
Back and forth, and back and forth
The only two steps I take
Like singing the same **** song
I am running out of worth
When my whole life’s at stake

I’m walking on a racetrack
And life is racing past me
Just constantly being lapped
And I can’t seem to gain speed
What else is there left to do?
I need to find an answer
But this test’s impossible
It was made by a voodoo
Who controls all the answers
The key’s stuck in a lock hole


This nothing-ness is scary
There’s nowhere for me to go
I’m asking you to spare me
From this state of vertigo
Staring at a map that’s blank
North is south and south is north
What is this supposed to mean
I have nothing in my tank
My future path has been scorched
Fumes are all that I can see

I don’t know how I got here
I really wish that I did
But I can’t seem to see clear
Farewell is what I should bid
This is rough, I can’t take it
I would like to try, but why?
Why try if I’ll only fail?
Help save me from this abyss
I just want to see the sky
And maybe meet some angels

If I had a direction
Or a light brighten my path
And show me my complexion
I’d take without being asked
But if I took some matches
And soaked them in gasoline
I couldn’t ignite a light
Even on my dry patches
So that obviously means
My path will never be bright

Nothing is what I’ve become
It must be what I deserve
From all the nothing I’ve done
Failure’s the spot I reserved
I don’t want to move forward
My motive lacks passion
Which gives me no where to go
So I’ll just skip the torture
Put my plan into action
And receive nothing I’m owed.
Jayantee Khare Jun 2017
Happiness is the seed
left dormant
within the darkness
let it germinate...
Disappointment is the ****
which torments
with sadness
let it terminate.....

Nurture
the good thoughts
good reads...
Rupture
the negative thoughts
bad deeds....

Let the positivity
flourish...
Let's heal
the anguish...

Let's love
the broken
and
give them light...
Let's help
the fallen
and
help in their fight...
Inspired by Sarita Aditya Verma's recent poem
Marissa Navedo Mar 2012
At a young age,
you laboriously worked on complex puzzles;
completing them, with an unnatural ease.
Distinguishing  yourself from others.

Your passion direct.
Fixating on numbers,
calculating your future.
You try to find a formula for happiness,
although it is incalculable.
As an irrational number, unable to terminate.

You extract formulas,
despite the odds.
Conveying your theories,
constructing logarithms.
intent to prove it is not abstract,
to be a female actuary.

Seventy years prior,
Catherine Prime opened the field.
Disproving the infeasible claims,
that women could not excel to this level.
Faced with reasons not to give her rank,
amongst the stunned men.
Who claimed she was good,
for a woman.
-Marissa Navedo
Holly Nicole Nov 2016
I reach forward
Grasping empty air
A feeling with which
I have become all too familiar.
I hold closer the sheets
In which you once lay
Parallel to me.
Tighter around me
I pull them,
But they cannot maintain
Your strength

I reach forward,
And feel a new presence.
Barely transcendent
Yet seemingly ever present.
I grasp the frail air
Still it seems to be there
In a way that only I can see,
But it does not
Terminate all thoughts
Not like the way I could
Feel you breathe.
Really untitled, just don't like leaving things untitled.
vitalls togwe Jun 2013
Tentacles on tight testicles            
tend to temper terribly
through out thy tribulations

thou shall triumph though!
the tide turns for the tempered.
trials treat traitors trapped,
thy train of thoughts threatens thou,
though thou thought otherwise.

this and other themes
thwart thirty thirsty thugs
that torment
that trod
that trample to terminate eternally
and be terminated in turn
in the turn of
ten times twelve centuries.

true as the tree of temptations
that tricked the two
that bore the thousands.
this time ticks untouched
in tombs untold.,

— The End —