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Babu kandula Jul 2014
133 billion pounds in America
4.2 million Tonnes in UK
50 million kilograms in Australia
230 million Tonnes in Africa
1.3 billion Tonnes in Switzerland
222 million Tonnes in Malaysia
580 billion Rupees(Indian currency) in India
33.79 million Tonnes in Saudi Arabia
What are these numbers?
Amount of food we are wasting per
Year
In Tonnes, Kilograms, pounds
I was shocked knowing about
These figures
Really if we can save this
There will be no
Hungry stomach in the world
What you say?
Penpal Mar 2017
World is given through her womb
Life by her love
She's a shooting star
Fulfilling the dreams of others
Forgetting her ones.

We don't dare to appreciate her
We don't care to her feelings,
Nor her dreams.
She swallows her pride
To serve us might.

Love her, she loves you tonnes
Ignore her, she loves you loads
Ignores our ignorance
And tolerates our flaws
Complaining never

Her cries are often unheard
With tears invisible,
Trauma a smile
Patience at infinity
With words unspoken.

She's a ocean
Vast to explore
Hard to understand
But plain as river
With thoughts deeper.

Her self respect
Often misspelled as ego,
Society mocks her down earth
And she raises like a tree
From a buried seed

Her every move
Is judgemental,
With several eyes poking her
And so she became unpredictable.
Never try to understand, rather love her.

She gives life. She is a mother.
She makes home. She is a wife.
She is a sister, a savior till the ends.
She is precious because she is a daughter
She refuses to retire because she's born a woman.

And do you feel she deserves just a single day!?
Zani Jun 2017
Welcome to the feast
We all come here for the hunger
Come and take a seat a while
Lets talk of friends
Lets talk of style


Elizabeth Squires
She is one to admire
Connecting the dots
So that love may transpire

Kim Johanna Baker
By God’s blessings and grace
Makes this portal
A magical welcoming place

Then there’s Temporal Fugue
Who’s magic awakens
With his humour
Much of my time he has taken

TSPoetry is a royalty
With his noble voice honours me
How much sense that I make
From the words that you’ve choiced

Donna Jones
The three line queen
Pure joy through her literature
Now I’m forever dreaming Haikus

Ouise Godsent Abode
He knows
With five lines he unravels
Then tickles your bones

z-blossom your stanzas
Are so pleasing to the eye
How the vivid words ring
To my ears as sublime

CGY Your haikus
They have blown my mind
To collide with Benji’s
Beautifully long, flowing write

Ghostwriter and Mykayla shea
Even though I rarely see ye
I’ve read through most your poetry
And hope that there’s loads more to read!

As for Clark Dave Hitchens
I just read him in my kitchen
This way I found a witty rhyme
But not to undermine his brilliance

Janae you are on it
Red Flag, Daydream,
Magic Kiss, Invisibility,
Brain *****

Vlassis I will quote you
When I need to charm a woman
Otherwordly Wanderer
When some hope I need to summon

God bless to Tyler Mathews
He is posting every day
I hope the universe conspires
For us to carry on that way!

To learn of freeform prose I can
Take a scroll to SR Millan
And if I want a treat dessert
Ellie Graves has tonnes and tonnes of work!

Zhanuary Arielle
So much passion your words tell
I feel I understand them
Natural imagery does us well!

Marie James Alexander
I pandered to the thought of you
When I put Ramen in my soup
I chuckle at some words you choose

Daniel Steven Moskowitz
Your poetry endless
Your writing is phenomenal
Your arguments relentless

Camiliamhd I wish that I
Could read what you are saying
When I read your pretty poetry
I feel like I am praying!

Vanessa Gonzales
She has got the attitude
With Fredrick Njoroge block style
They push onto higher altitudes!

Kesha You have peirced me
With your double barrel stanzas
I had to go read SoulSurvivor
To practice on my Mantras

Now that the round is over
It is time for us to feast
I thought that I'd invite you
So that we'd have a chance to meet

Thank you all for being
Thank you all for caring
Thank you all for sharing
Thank you all for reading

<3
Bon Apetit!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.

where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
             it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
          what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
          it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
   all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
  what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
              King Crimson's *epitaph
?
   or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
            and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
                flush!         echoing            flush!
sounds about right...
             sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
              that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
       we learned to lie -
   people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
   but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
          if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
    i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
                  it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
              as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
          but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
   or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
         all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
                     sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
  analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
                          we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
                          we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
   i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
           then you're sadly mistaken -
    all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
                bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
            in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
  yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
               Henry II, Richard I and John
                          like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
   and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
        sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
            exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
                exhibit c. a stick
        exhibit d.                               a riot scene.
Sheldon Dsouza Jun 2017
There once lived a boy young of age,
Candy he loved so much his teeth had caves.
Not one or two could satisfy his urge,
Tonnes could go down his tiny throat.

This one time to the market he went,
His mother holding him firm in the grasp of her hand.
Seeing him sad she saw him standing then,
"Go get some candy" she said putting two pennies in his arm band.

Off he ran to in search of candy prime,
His eyes moving vigorously from left to right in search of the candy store.
Then he saw it, that glorious gleaming colourful shop,
His one and final destination, his stop.

It was small yet filled with people from all over the city,
Every one, young and old wanted a piece of candy.
The little kid pushed and pulled with all his might,
A piece of candy he craved like the elders craved shandy.

The din and crowd couldn't lower his spirit,
His eyes set on this sugary treat, his favourite.
But till the time he could get to the counter,
The last treat the man in front bought for his little daughter.

The kid got all teary eyed and walked out of the store,
Standing outside he watched all the other kids happily walk out of the door,
Drops started falling to the ground,
The girl from inside watched him all along as he cried and frowned.

The little kid's world had fallen apart for a minute,
Till this cute brown eyed girl decided to do something about it,
She went up to him and asked him if he wanted some?
All she wanted was for him not to be so sore.

The teary eyed kid looked up with a smile,
He nodded in cheer as he wiped his tears.
A huge bit of candy he took as he reached for his arm band.
Searching for the two pennies to repay the little girl.

To his dismay only to realize,
The money had fallen down somewhere in the struggle.
Gulping down saliva he dared to let her know the truth,
"I have no money to give you", he said.

"Its ok", said she with a beaming smile,
The boy nevertheless decided to give her his favourite arm band.
That day those little kids exchanged more than just candy and a piece of cloth,
They exchanged smiles, kindness and pieces of their heart.
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-**** and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
I've always loved weeds and have been one for so long. We are many, mo cara, we belong
Raihah Mior Jan 2016
Oh ***,
you and your puns
I've had too much fun,
laughter- tonnes and tonnes

Happiness to me
is like sticky toffee buns,
bubble-shooting guns,
or late night cartoon reruns

But with you,
it's like a thousand splendid suns
Ben Jones Nov 2013
Outside an average sort of house
Upon a quiet street
There stood a man of honest heart
All grim and weather beat
His face awash with bafflement
A letter in his mits  
With Lots of Love from God himself
And golden twirly bits

He'd read it over breakfast
Then read it on the loo
Considered re-addressing it
For number forty two
Within the silver envelope
In angel script, embossed
Were plans to build a massive boat
Materials and cost

It seemed, he'd have to build  it
As the letter looked legit
So off he sped, to B&Q;
To show the holy writ
The manager was confident
The price was mighty bold
Delivery on Saturday
For every item sold

So late, on Friday evening
He popped out for a walk
Upon his road, he drew a boat
In vivid yellow chalk
When morning dawned, a knocking
And some paperwork to mark
For a thousand tonnes of timber
For construction of an ark

He set out with his hammer
And he smote the nail and tack
By afternoon, the road was blocked
With traffic tailing back
A keel was just discernible
Beginning to take form
By evening, the media
Was whipping up a storm

Up marched a bold reporter
From the Three Times Weekly Herald
He said "So you'd be Noah then?"
"Not me" said he "I'm Gerald"
"I got this 'Oly telegram
And God has chosen me
I fill a boat with wildlife
And sail the salty sea"

By night he was a laughing stock
On YouTube and the news
But a sturdy man, was Gerald
And most vehement in his views
When asked to show the letter
He graciously refused
"Just have a little faith" he said
"We'll soon see who's amused"

The church were being skeptical
And held the press at bay
The Council sent him letters
At a rate of four a day
The hull was soon completed
And he laboured on inside
Constructing some amenities
To house them on the tide

A swimming pool for waterfowl
A wall of rodent wheels
With bowls for every kind of fish
And a big one for the seals
A filing box for butterflies
To stow them all away
A pigeon hole for pigeons
For the bees , a large bouquet

A puzzle for the monkeys
A wardrobe for the moths
A lion for the antelope
A jacuzzi for the sloths
A fully fitted nursery
For when the ewes had lambed
The wasps would have a picnic
And the beavers could be dammed

Through night and day he toiled
He relieved himself in shifts
In time, he built a sauna
And a pair of turbolifts
The council grew impatient
And the neighbours were in fits
They begged him to remove his boat
Entire or in bits

Then promptly, after dinner
As he sat upon the deck
There called a suited doctor  
With a badge around his neck
There followed many questions
With a host of funny looks
While outside went from 'fine and warm'
To 'just the thing for ducks'

That night, began the deluge
So Gerald found his crew
He robbed each local pet shop
And attacked the nearest zoo
Collected every animal
And fastened them in tight
The waters coursed along his street
As dawn replaced the night

'Twas then a thought occurred to him
A kind of mental swerve  
His road was more a crescent
So his ark was on a curve
But just then the currents took him
He sailed off along the bend
For six weeks, going round and round
To land at home, The End

**
JAC Sep 2017
I like to call you
when I'm not really awake.
I only leave you messages, of course.
For I only let myself call
(I only allow myself
that poisonous release)
when I'm alone on the subway,
which happens very rarely.
So whatever I say gets lost
between forty-three thousand tonnes
of the strongest, sturdiest concrete
and the sky.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2010
Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
  
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010
C-wolf Mar 2014
My head is full of words 
But they cannot pass down  the streams on my face,
to the waterfalls in my neck,
to the steady river in my arms,
and explore the 5 sea-fingers
around the oceans of paper.
To battle the waves of rhythm
and dramatic pauses,
cliche's and stanza's with an ending of finesse.

My head is just a mess;
No real formation ofright nor wrong
of care or apathy,
Days go by where i mix the two like sweet and sour,
The casual joke comforts the bitter gloom.
                                      
My head is full of ****;
Tonnes and tonnes of it,
I cant even begin explain its contents or describe the frustration it brings.
I have no sense of rhyme,
no sense of time,
no sense of form.
My words turn from sadness to glee
in less than six words.
No sense of anything.

My head is an empty pit;
                            

I write more about writing poetry than poetry itself.
(Edit) finally sorted the terrible formatting, hopefully it's an easier read now.
Shiv Pratap Pal May 2019
Let's **** Gandhi
Let's **** Gandhi

Again and Again
Multiple Times

Gandhi Must be killed
He deserves to be killed

Because he killed no one
Neither human nor animal

Collect all your weapons
Load missiles and guns

Get some good Gun powder
Quintals and tonnes of it

Make sure to **** this time
Be sure, you mustn't fail again

But can you really **** Gandhi
No you can't, I bet you can't

You already tried and retried
But Gandhi remained alive

Gandhi Never died
He will never ever die

Gandhi is not a person
Gandhi is thought

Gandhi is Philosophy
Gandhi is Lifestyle

Gandhi is Liberation
Gandhi is Struggle

Gandhi is Courage
Gandhi is Peace

Gandhi is Gentle
Gandhi is Strong

Gandhi is Treasure
Gandhi is Heritage

Gandhi is immortal
You fools are mortal
You don't have the right to assassinate even if you cant agree.

Whether Mahatma Gandhi (Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi)  needs to be assassinated again and again? Will he really die?
Lalit Makker Mar 2013
i know it today,

life is a short stay,

amidst all wants and desires,

of which one never retires,

desires for self and self ones,

greed together of million tonnes,

such things though many times,

force me to think of crimes,

betraying someone's trust,

for things less worthier than dust,

seeing death every other day,

still thinking we are here to stay,

for and ever till,

our pocket affords the bill,

but no thought is given,

wether we go to hell or heaven,

our debts money won't pay,

karmas will be counted for each day,

during our life's course,

when we did things with force,

which was given temporarily to us,

to display whoz god and what he does,

acts of humans should be such,

giving an estimate of how much,

greatness would be in the one,

who owes such a nice son,

who loves him and all,

whoz values are infinitely tall,

whoz presence inaugrates all ethical energies,

whoz work is beyond all intelligent strategies,

who realises god's omnipresence,

and make him his life's essence,

remember all my dear friends,

when all of our life ends,

our powers won't accompany us,

as in life's course it does,

what goes with thw soul then,

is all of those times when,

we have made someone smile,

and loved some other for a little while,

laughed in someone's good times,

cried in other time of destiny's sad rhyme.

I know it today..........................
Joe Cole Jun 2014
T Rex thought he was the king but truly he was no such thing
he was a bully sad and weak who prayed on those to young to speak
Then came the day when baby Trice
got to close to Rexies lair
Rexie thoughg his luck had changed and now would play the Rexie game
Which was to take the young and weak
so soft and tender, good to eat
Rex thought I will have some of that
the baby trice will be quite a snack and fill a corner of my tum
But Rex had made a big mistake, oh dear a grave mistake
For round the corner came trice's mum weighing a bit
more than about three tonnes
Three big horns upon her head
One jab from those could leave Rex dead
She gave poor Rex an evil stare
said "Bite young Trice if you dare"
Then I will deal you a mighty thump
and I promise you your bone will crunch
Poor Rexie backed away in fear and in his eyes salty tears
People thought for many years that Rex was king and had no fear
But they didn't know Triceratops,  the bravest dinosaur of the lot
An un edited bit of fun
Geetha Raj Nov 2011
I hear you are getting married
I don't know what emotions it yield
I am numb when I think of you
Or is it sadness that I feel?

I'm reminded of the times together
Whether good or bad, I can't gather
I remember I was told that we had no future
But why exactly, I yet do not know...

Your sister compared me to a ****
With whom no man could have a future
For what erroneous sin of mine,
That mystery, I am yet to unveil!

To your family - we were not compatible
Or was it more to do with the dowry and sorts?
Compatible indeed, in monetary terms perhaps?
But did you not fall for me, to pursue more than worldly dreams?

Your reasons too, were beyond my reasoning
And your tears at times seemed forced to me
You said I was a fairy, placed high on a pedestal
Who could be worshiped but to the world could not be revealed.

You soon let go, marking the end of 'we'
A year gently passed and it was an ordeal
Yet I thought when I move out, you would feel
That we were the best, that was and could ever be!

And that with time life would bring you back to me
I wonder why I had cringed at being set free
Longing to be with someone, who'd never stand up for me.
And a year was gone before your call woke me from my dream

You said you had missed hearing my sweet, lovely voice -
And remembered clearly that I had a **** toned body
Gently reminding me that our love was dead and gone -
You told you did think of me, though you were over me long ago!

Numbed by tears, I heard you ask me to fall in love again
And claimed that my man would be the luckiest of them all
And assured he would be dead, if a tear to my eyes he brought -
For as a 'friend' you would guard me against all odd!

Convincing that you too longed to see me again
Promising me to meet up the next time you'd come
Leaving me, like the previous year, completely shunned
You hung up, leaving no more strength in me to summon!

-------------------------------------------------------
­
Now, I'm frankly done
I have cried enough without cursing you
Lied to myself, trying to cheer all
And held myself steady, in spite of all that dreary!

And one day you walk into my house
With my man, as an uninvited guest
With caution I welcome, trying to be courteous
For I know your ways, your ease at getting flirtatious.

You claim you are visiting, you have come for a wedding
I wonder why after years, you do not choose to go home
To your ailing father, nor to your aging mom
Nor to console a sister, over whom you had cried tonnes!

Or to your beloved fiancee - who was yours
Even when you'd called to tell me I was hot!
To that pretty face which had been waiting for your arrival
And will be betrothed to you, within a month!

Your ways have always left me awestruck
And yet I have tried to treat you with respect
But now, you have left in me no more emotions -
Than to despise a name that was stuck to me by birth!
Written on 17th May, 2011.
Sometimes I think, it is better to write. Than to have it all in me.
Let me see if I will live longer this way!
Anyone Sep 2018
.                         I was born with a defect.
It has a great impact.
One testacle, one less
Than everyone else.

I can't tell my partner.
She'll think less of me then.
Aren't they supposed to be a symbol
Of manliness? One less thimble

Of mass, results in a loss
Of ounces of courage,
And a weight of tonnes
On my shoulders.

I've been led into
Believing manhood is paramount.
Without it, I'm less of a person,
Less of a reason

To be whom I should; to be desired.

It's hard to stop thinking it
When it's you yourself telling it.
External influences become internal doctrine.
Inescapably real, incessantly there.

Loss of masculinity,
Yet retaining functionality.
It seems people never notice something's wrong
As long as you appear to act 'normally'.
This isn't my story to tell. I am still on the fence as to whether I should have written it.  But it helps me to understand the people close to me when I use their perspectives in poems I write. Either way, here it is.
H Phone Mar 2018
I wish I was strong
I wish I was strong enough to get out from under the comfort of my sheets
Or the warm water washing over my body in the shower
I wish I was strong enough to open my books,
Instead of listening to the same five songs again
I wish I was strong enough to get over a loss,
Be it a failed exam or a boss I can’t beat in a video game
I wish I was strong enough to help my friends
Because that's the person I strive to be
I wish I was strong enough to keep that job


I wish I was strong enough to like my own works
But it’s hard to when they look like this
No rhyme scheme or metaphors
Only thing this poem has got going for itself is that repeating stanza
Real clever or whatever
You call it slam poetry
But you might as well call it sham poetry
Slam poetry
Because you need to be slammed drunk to enjoy your poems
And don’t even pretend like you didn’t notice
How no one seems to give a **** about this
This series of ‘works’ that you’ve been putting out
Where all you do is ******* swear and shout
At yourself
******* hell

I bet your last line would have been
“I wish I was strong enough to love myself.”
Boo ******* hoo
Too ******* bad
Because you’ll only love me the moment you realize
That what I say is true
I’m not gonna say that I’m only rude
Because I love you
I hate your guts too
much for something so…
Sappy
You’re a bit of a sentimental, right, boo?
If sentimental meant pushover

Criticism!
Sorry, didn’t mean to scare
Oh wait, no, I don’t really care
Because even you’re aware
How you’ve locked yourself in an echo room
And the moment someone tries to break through…
“Don’t worry, I can take it.”
And then you write something edgy like this
You can’t take advice for ****
Because that’s your ******* deal
You’ve got tonnes of people giving you the advice that you need to heal
And you ignore every single one of them
Acquaintances, friends, family
And what about me?
DO I REALLY NEED TO ******* YELL TO GET THROUGH TO YOU

But It’s pointless anyway
You’re on auto-pilot already
Just cut the act and write your cringy addendum poem
We’re done here
...
Adam Childs Nov 2014
I am honey coated
In the dawn yellow sun
As I walk softly
Through the glazing savanna
Intimately married to
My body I feel all
Her strength and power
My low center of gravity
Pushes down 2 tonnes
Of my power house weight
Almost buckles the ground
It is as though the earth
Beneath me becomes concave
As I stand on a spongy soil
As the landscape rolls up
To a brand new sun

If the rest of me forgets
Where I am going submerged
In flaky doubt my hard horn
Points the course through the
Clouds of apposing forces
As even the Gods are forced
To part the way like the red sea
As I plough through space and time
Nothing dictates to me
As I chase away darkness
And carve out doubt
Breaking spells while proceeding
All ghost will run from me
Possessed by the devil
I will DRIVE  him out
For I am the AFRICAN  EXORCIST

Careful where you step
Because I hang over
The savanna like a
Silent volcano
Run and hide if you
Ever hear the huff and
Puff of my disgruntled being
As you better get out the way
Without any delay
As I blaze new pathways
Showing you a brand new day
As I smash through obstacles
You or the world

I feel my center speaking
Opening , EXPLODING into
Inside out spaces
Multiverses are vibrating
As I ride on a wave
Of infinite forces
combusting
I am fired forward
With rocket fuel
As I reach new places
Expanding into worlds
Of high and far out spaces
Greater than I know

Hesitation and procrastination
Will be trampled on
All those blown over by life
Jump on my back
And I will stampede you
Through this world
So dare you attack
Or cover my track like weeds
With feeble words and excuses
As they strangle my future path
And my lava filled belly
Will blast them with fire
Melting and molding
My internal landscape
As I imprint my freedom

How I love you Black Rhino
You have my attention
So can you please point
Your horn in the right direction  
FORWARD AND UP
Forward and up for me
As I ride with the BLACK RHINO
I unwittingly wrote this today while someone in a zoo was being attacked by a Rhino , guess there is some thing in the air . I hope he is OK
David R Apr 2021
On the first day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the second day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the third day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the fourth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the fifth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the sixth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the seventh day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the eighth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Eight pointless wars, seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the ninth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Nine last elephants Asian, eight pointless wars, seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the tenth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Ten million famishing, nine last elephants Asian, eight pointless wars, seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the eleventh day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Eleven million hectares deforesting, ten million famishing, nine last elephants Asian, eight pointless wars, seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea

On the twelfth day of maliciousness my true love gave to me
Twelve million tonnes plastic waste, eleven million hectares deforesting, ten million famishing, nine last elephants Asian, eight pointless wars, seven world-powers downplaying, six countries' electronic waste, five pandemic viruses, four massive oil leaks, three million toddlers' deaths, two ballistic missiles and nuclear waste in the Pacific Sea
SJPugsley Apr 2020
In the land of Coleridge and his Ancient Mariner,
    In a time of coal fires, wooden boats and horsepower,
There is a story of the Lynmouth Lifeboat Louisa
    And the night horse and man over 13 miles pulled her.

Two of the afternoon clock struck a chime,
    On January 12th, 1899.
The wind howled and the sea it roared,
    Flooding ports and railways, taking off windows and doors.
The ship, Forest Hall, with masts a three
    Was being towed up Bristol Channel with a crew of 15.
Bound for Liverpool, at St. David’s Head she cast off,
    But the wind, it blew stronger and the waters grew rough.
Suddenly the cable grew taught and then snapped,
    The tugboat immediately came about to get back.
For over an hour they tried to re-fix the line
    But the storm was upon them, they had run out of time.
Captain Uliss made haste to anchor at bay
    But another obstacle was thrown in their way.
The rudder of the Forest Hall was broken by a squall,
    To the mercy of Poseidon and ****** they were all.
The ships’ anchor dragged, no purchase it found
    The ship was headed for Exmoor’s rough ground
At 6:33pm a telegraph was sent
    From Porlock to Lynmouth the Postmaster went
“Large vessel. Distress. Offshore Porlock”
    Five minutes later the first signal rocket went off
Out into the pounding rain they ran
    Those lifeboatmen and locals to lend them a hand
The waves loomed over the watch tower on the pier,
    Then crashed down in fury which deafened the ear
“Tis hopeless” the Coxswain, Jack Crocombe, said he
    “ain’t a crew in the service who could launch safely”
“From a more sheltered station we’ll call a new boat”
    And to the post-office they went, to send a telegraph out
Tap, tap, tap on the Morse key he pressed
    But nothing was happening, there was no line left
Blown down by the storm, and all hope with it,
    “The duty is ours, but we cannot fulfil it”.


Part 2:
“The duty is ours, it’s us or nobody” he shouts
    “it can’t never be nobody, go we must”
The protests did start, and questions did fall,
    But the Coxswain had an answer to silence them all
“Now, I know that we can’t launch her from ‘ere”
    “but it’s thirteen miles to Porlock Weir”
The voices were shouting, no one knew what to do
    But the Second Coxswain’s voice carried on through
“Jack, we’ll need ‘osses, every ‘oss can be spared”
    “if we got enough power, we’ll get her there”
The choice had been made, the die had been cast,
    The crew had a plan, a solution at last
Around came the Lifeboat Louisa, so grand
    Standing 34ft long and 7ft wide on land
3.5 tonnes was her unladen mass
    The add thirteen crew, oars, rigging and two masts
The shafts had been fitted to the carriage with ease,
    Rarely used but kept in the boathouse for needs
The horses were hitched, the carriage coupled on.
    In total, the train was one hundred and thirty foot long
“Right then” said the Coxswain “let’s be off”
    “up Countisbury Hill!” but as soon as they started, they stopped.
The horses did not pull together as a team,
    The wheels were stuck in the parapet, of the bridge over the stream
In minutes it was fixed, and it started again
    This time all horses were pulling the same.
Up Countisbury hill, they walked on and on,
    Until they reached open ground, then the protection was gone
The rain thundered down; the wind raged again
    Still the team kept on going, the pace slow and same.
All of a sudden, the carriage plunged to the right,
    A four-foot wheel came off, then rolled out of sight
“There’s a wheel off!” the cry rang “get them scotches under!”
    It was the front offside wheel that was causing this blunder
Nearly forty minutes it took to replace the wheel
    Still the great storm refused to heel
But then they were off, nearly conquered the hill
    But many more challenges faced them still.
The Blue Ball Inn marks Countisbury Hill peak
    And hot cocoa and brandy helped restore the weak.
Now they pressed on, ten miles to go.
    They were making good progress but painfully slow.


Part 3:
The rain had stopped, the lamps shone bright,
    This brave crew continued through the night.
The party had by now reached Ashton Lane
    Where their troubles soon were to begin again
On this narrow road, the walls were strong and thick
    Impassable for the carriage, but Coxswain Jack had a trick
“We’ll pull the boat through the lane on the skids”
    “The carriage can go o’er the moors with the kids”
So once again horse and train were detached
    A new plan at work, only recently hatched
Eight horses pulled the carriage away,
    Leaving ten to continue to Porlock Bay.
The boat was pulled down Ashton Lane
    Later, all men agreed this was the worst part of the way.
Mud underneath, and walls closing in
    Barely inches to move and soaked to the skin
Boast, horses and carriage finally together again
    Made their way onwards, leaving the lane
Half past one, on that stormy black morn
    County Gate was passed, conversation was born
The crew started talking, spirits, they grew
    But a challenge was coming and this they all knew
Porlock Hill was coming their way,
    Navigating this death path was tricky even in the day.


Part 4:
Porlock Hill, as the locals say
    Is the devil incarnate come night or day
But the brave men from Lynmouth at the top they stopped
    Safety chains, drag ropes and skid pans were fitted against the clock
Four horses at the front to control the bends
    Ten at the back plus men to see this through to the end
Down the twists and turns the crawled
    On the drag ropes and harnesses, man and horse hauled
Round the last corner “We’ve done it!” “We’re down!”
    Sighs let out, smiles put on, it was an inspiring sound
Then all at once, morale took a plunge down,
    As they stared at the entrance to Porlock Town.
Old Widow Washford had a cottage this end,
    It would be impossible for the carriage to round the bend
The wall of the garden would have to come down
    So, the crew started trying to widen the ground
“What are ye thinking at this time o’ night?”
    “How dare ye start bangin! Gave me a fright”
Old Widow Washford’s head poked through the door
    Was there no end to the troubles faced on this moor?
Once again, the Coxswain had the answer and said
    “Don’t worry, we’re just widening the road dear. Go back to bed”
The old woman was dressed and out in a flash
    Shouting encouragement, soon the wall was hashed.
Six inches more, they needed to pass
    The corner of the cottage came off at last.
Five of the clock struck the morning chime,
    For most people here, that was rising time.
Out of the town, and past the Ship Inn
    The last part of their journey was soon to begin.


Part 5:
Half past five when they reached Porlock Weir
    They were soon stopped by people when drew near.
“You can’t go no further” the Anchor Hotel Landlord said
    “the road’s gone, Jack, to the beach, nothing’s left”
Only half a mile stood ‘tween the crew and their goal
    They would not let this stop them, oh no.
The top road they took, almost as narrow as Ashton Lane
    An exercise none of them wanted to repeat again.
The train drew on, till they reached a tree
    An old Laburnum standing between them and the sea.
Down it came and then back on their way
    The light was beginning to turn night to day.
The boat reached the beach, the flares had been lit,
    The ****** poised with their oars, ready to hit.
Holding the stop, Second Coxswain yelled “HAUL”
    And down shot the Louisa, into the squall
The oars struck together, through the roaring sea
    Sails hoisted, oars beating, wind blowing hatefully.

It was on the morning Friday 13th January,
    That Lifeboat Louisa of Lynmouth launched at Porlock from Countisbury.
Ten and a half hours, over thirteen miles
    This crew and their boat had endured many trails
The Forest Hall was reach, her crew all safe
    Back to the mainland they made at pace.


Jack Crocombe, George Richards, Charles Crick, Richard Burgess,
    Richard Ridler, David Crocombe, Bertram Pennicott, William Jarvis.
George Rawle, William Richards and John Ward
    John Riddler, E.J. Peddar and Richard Moore.

All of them crew members on that historic day
    And for this they are remembered in every way.


But I give my thanks to the crew mate who gave this story to me,
    My Great Great Grandfather, Lynmouth Lifeboatman
        William Sellick Pugsley.


Sophie J Pugsley
Great Great Granddaughter of crewmate William Pugsley of the Lynmouth Lifeboat Service.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
502 bad gateway bypass:
title - through the loops
body - target practice...


finally! it's done! 3 years in the making: since you can only
do certain things during the warmer months...
finally! it's done!
but unlike Nietzsche: there's nothing melancholic about
what has been achieved...
perhaps because he was referring to intellectual endeavours
and not endeavours of physical labour...
that's completely different: with completing some
manual labour endeavours: there comes this waterfall
of relief... a bit like being crucified...
3 years with good interludes...
                            how many tonnes of earth
and sand and pebbles? that one year where
the natural grass failed to take proper root...
having to resort to fake grass carpets...
   mind you: i was sceptical at first...
until me and my father laid it out...
                          not so bad...
              it's actually better than the real thing...
it's hyper-real...
             i can just lie on it... i don't need anything
akin to a rug to lie on it... and admire the sky...
          we've been waiting for over 15 years for our
next-door neighbour to put up a fence...
prior to that? the garden felt congested... since there was
no fence... instead? bushes... endless roughage...
here and there a makeshift fence...
3 years ago she finally gathered her resources:
well... her policeman son gathered the resources...
the labourers came... cut all the shrubbery...
flat to the ground... put up the fence... ****** off...
that's when the work began...
i remember those damp April days...
groundwork is such an unforgiving work...
   i had to wrestles with over 30 roots... sawing...
chopping... hammering...
well... if i wanted to replace these roots with
digging up holes for fruit trees... oh man...
the stuff i found... bricks... pieces of concrete...
pieces of concrete and bricks...
               how many times did we have to travel
to the recycling centre?
how many times did we order a skip?!
    **** me... at least 3 times...
   then there was the dismantling of the rotting wooden
shed... then there was the levelling of the ground...
putting up a plastic: sturdy shed... much larger...
then another little shed...
   so i have three sheds in my garden...
      and a very believable attic with more storage space...
i also have a little house that houses
a jacuzzi...
                 slabs... plenty of sitting area...
plenty of flowers... i forget the name...
   but a quasi-bush more akin to a tree of limes...
rosemary... thyme, oregano... wild garlic... that:
when watered come the night: a perfume of marijuana...
tomatoes, apples, pears, morello cherries...
figs... apricots... rhubarb...
        plums... oh dear: my plum tree that i planted
is chasing the eucalyptus tree...
         a bay leaf bush...
                  chives... mint...
                  i sort of am... a devil in his own garden:
my work! mein werk! me! i did this!
   after three years i can sit down on the grass...
look at the moon and the constellations and...
ah: sigh... i did this, with some help...
i was the one who unearthed all the roots...
i was the one labouring with tonnes of **** going
out and tonnes coming in...
sand, earth, pebbles...
                     i was the one more happy to use
a KANGO and a HARROWS...
                           me! me! JA!

it's as if the "pandemic" never really happened...
me? i was busy in the garden...
clash of cultures...
why do English-speaking throw their children
out of their house as quickly as possible?!
do any... help around the house?
how much money do you think i saved my parents?!
i just see lazy-*** "*******" slouching...
no wonder they get thrown-out of their parents
abode...
   i'm sort of like a tennis player...
my father is my trainer... well: yes, no...

i'm a ******* custodian of the household by now...
i cook the food... i clean the house...
i'm currently trying to get rid of a rat
that somehow managed to find refuge in my kitchen...
**** it: drink and explain...
the classical traps? yeah: i know...
it will break its snout...
he already managed to drag one mousetrap with him...
it probably trapped its tail...
rat being rat: he probably dragged the trap
with him into darkness... and by now has
chewed his tail off...

but i'm on edge... i have a "presence" in my household
that shouldn't be here..
thanks to my Nigerian neighbours...
the ******* "voodoo" overlord of the house-lord
is fond of feeding "pigeons" at the end of his
garden... leaving food around...
**** me... haven't been living in London
long enough?! you feed pigeons in the park...
ducks... swans... you leave food out in your garden?!
you're going to attract rats!
unless... like me... you purposively left
left-over food in a bowl for a fox you started calling
Brody who came round for about a month
because you missed having a dog / why the myth
that cats drink milk?!

that's what i miss most about having dogs...
that's what i miss about my youth...
come Sunday... ****** chicken soup...
and roast chicken...
sure... grandma always overcooked the chicken
to the point where: no one wanted
to eat the chicken *******... back then?!
who had a ******* thermometer to check whether
the meat was at 165 degrees Fahrenheit?!
no one... so... poultry chalk...

but? we all gathered to eat... leftover meat...
bones... even egg shells...
and the chicken soup... with the vermicelli...
who ate the remains?
the dog... the smartest dog i ever
could have been raised with...
Bella... an Alsatian...
     from the stories of my grandfather:
i was able to shove my entire arm into her PYSK:
gob... and she wouldn't mind...
   and i used to ride her... and she used to pull
the sleigh i sat on during winter...
when my grandfather broke the news to me
that she died... i wept...
hmm... i didn't weep when my grandfather died:
i got drunk post-ceremony of the funeral
and hit my head on the radiator: bled...
a month later i ***** out a tear out of my head
thinking: because the eyes do more than merely see...

i cried over a dog... we're so simple...
the simpler the gain the simpler the reward...
and animals give us both...
nothing's too complicated, ever...
but she would reap all the rewards from five people
sharing a Sunday roast...
i loved the way she slurped that rich soup
of bone and meat and vermicelli and what not...
however... since we aged at almost the same time...
she would never trust me to go walking with her...

mein gott... the joy she expressed whenever
i came back from England... she almost ****** her fur...
i loved that dog: she was my sister in a way...
it's so much more surprising to grow up as a single
child with an animal for company:
i failed at hamsters... as i failed at the lesser
Egyptian jerboa: ****** jumped jumped jumped...
until he jumped into a basin of water and drowned...

i was good with St. Augustine's Primary School
Budgerigars... since i was entrusted with them
over the summer holidays...
when i was: E-high... i.e. this high: _
                                                              _­

i wish i was more lenient with Axl: my dobberman...
but then he did try to bite my eye out
after i whipped him for attacking Bella...
mind you: he gave me an eternal memory...
so i was walking him and he bit into a pile
of ****...
   upon biting into it i peered in...
ugh... parasites... worms... the **** was filled with
them wriggling like a 5pm commute in
London...
a beautiful beast: but as thick as a brick...
me and this blonde friend of mine were
playing the earliest version of Nitendo
in my room and... ****** gave him a nose-ring...
my friend started bleeding from his nose...
we had to sell him...
            and once we sold him...
the people we sold him to wanted to give him
back... he's fishing for piranhas!
and as "abstract" that sentence is going to say...

3 ******* years... i had to sit under the eucalyptus
and the plum tree with two ciders admiring
my efforts...

clash of cultures... i've even started joking with my
parents as if we're peers...
i think we're going to die apart as peers...
why are English children ejected from
their households at such an early age?
do they, help, around the house?!
do they cook?! do they clean?
are they invoked to do some groundwork in
the garden? or... do they require some
Eastern European handyman to do their **** for them?!

just asking... i did my work...
i'm going to ask for a payment of...
three cartons of cigarettes...
for work spanning three years...
   i think i'm justified in asking for so little...
plus... i do bring in income to pay for the food...
rent? what rent? the mortgage has been paid
off since i didn't get married...
so... look at me: flimsy flying octopus!
ooh ooh!
            i'm making my bed as "we" go along...
and i'm sometimes having trouble sleeping
for too long... say... from 3am till 2pm...
by then the day is finished...
                
but it's not like my parents employed some *******
handyman to sort out their garden:
ich was da...
   i was there...
           i was there when... i was visiting my grandparents
and my parents wen on holiday
to the Maldives... and we left the care of our
former cat: Oscar... Darshan... to the neighbours
two doors down... Sikhs: you'd think...
sure... give him food... clean the toilet...
on an everyday basis: i don't mind:
but if someone wants to b a boy-scout:
a new found friendship...
parents get invited to their wedding: second... wedding...
the first wedding she married a female boxer...
blah blah...

two days prior to coming back i get an eerie sensation...
i call my parents: i need to go back!
i need to look after the cat...
they brush it off... he's just mad...
right... 2 days later... they come back to England...
"oops": the cat is dead... kidney "failure"...
this ******-Sikh alliance soon ended...
guilt + truth crept in...
oh... how beautifully it crept in...

from sadness i stalked the night...
i managed to find a leftover croquet "sample"...
if i took all the pieces out...
sure... i could...
   and i did... i walked into a World War I cemetery
and started to hack off a piece of gravestone...
the amount of anger i felt was right for the occasion...
i put that hacked off piece of gravestone
on my croquet trolley and dragged it home...

in the full moonlight i dug a hole...
placed the ashes into it...
enough earth for the earth to breath some more ash...
and lodged the hacked off tombstone
into the ground with a thunderbolt of
hand-movement...

oh... i'm not talking to these ******* two-doors down
neighbours... i thought they were suspect all along...
they killed: my: ******* cat...
are they doubly suspect? of course they are!
last time i heard Sikhs could be mistakes for Hindus...
ooh... now isn't a cow now all the more: JUI-CY?!
i feel a Hannibal Lecter gimmick coming along...
i feel like drinking a medium-rare steak...
i want to eat "mother"...

                      ... of course we will clash culturally...
three generations of Asians living under one *******
roof is the NORM... whereas in Western Europe
a guy living with his parents his considered "weird":
even though... that same guy is doing all the househoild
chores... so where are all the pathological cry-babies
playing video-games about?

and the price of living in London is now what?!
i've taken the Darwinistic approach...
where do i have ***? in a brothel...
sure... i'd love an American motel
or a Japanese love-hotel... i'm a little bit bound
to confiscating the pleasure chambers... " "... as it were...
rather: less confiscating them and more:
constraining them...

   but my parents will not die in a retirement home...
and by the time i inherit all of this...
i will have already filtered through enough
suitors of the opposite *** to tell all of them:
sorry... thank you... you're not bringing anything
but a headache to the "table"...
from tome immemorial:
that's how reality worked....
it's still working: it's working better than ever...

one drunk girl has enough ego-booster
to cling to me and tell me: oh... you're ****...
right... now i know...
        all the other timid ones think the same
but are too sober to say those same words...
am i? am i going to go out of my way
to satisfy this ploy?! this plot?!
nope...
            i bailed out long before bailing out
was a "vogue"...
back in 2007.... 2022 is a long time since 2007...

            you touch my Quarus....
you touch my Veroniya...
i'll ******* give you a toothache with a lawnmower!
i'm unhinged... when it comes to
the safety of my cats...
i'll ******* give you a toothache with a lawnmower!
i started rewatching American Beauty with
a remoteness of fleeing glee...

wow! that movie! that movie was so important!
i sort of live by it!
   like: i don't want to live like this mid-life
crisis realisation moment life ought to precipitate into!

mmm... hmm... pet-killing...
i don't care if you're Jesus or Ghandi...
****** would have never...
                   hide... just... hide...
               you ******* Uber-Tandoori bicycle peddlers...
nein!
               niet!
                 i'll ******* dig up your grave and
**** our ***-hole and eye-socket for killing my
dearest friend!
                   hush! hush! ******* Turbanator Mc-****-Lord!
this is personal..
                 you just allowed me for it to become
more expressive...
          ******* singe of Singh;
you don't... get... to... pay... off... vipers!
shut the **** up!

let's call it: Tweed Afghanistani;
spice imperium my ***...
in terms of food?
you need water, you need fire...
you need salt...
          you need time...
             you need... the fifth always escapes me...
like lightning escaped
the arithmetic of elements
for the ancient of days...
                           ah!                        OIL!

we're not friend: better we become enemies
than pretend to become friends.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
what of nature is eaten by the mouth of man,
      so too eats the genitalia of
woman with as much ferocious gluttonisation -
   no serpent of eden care more
for the reality that's bound to tempt the choice:
either know or be known -
     below the standard equator of the body
as the point of disembowelment and Cesarian birth...
   spewing toward a heap of two tonnes
of sardines with a stench that can't classify
**** for the scent of strawberries...
               proof of solipsism? a man sitting
on a toilet for an hour with a newspaper...
   disproof of solipsism? a man easing a **** out
on a crowded train... ****** expressions?
piquant... yonder! the lustless ******! or what
would be said when the gyroid was out of place
when anything concerning sine and cosine
      reflected the one plausible coordinate of
tangens... namely 0... so in whatever algebraic
form interweaving sine x with cosine z + + +...
you'd still get the tangens either side exponential,
and your own summary, bound to that
infamous biography of never reaching fame...
     and that myth of Atlantis and the serpent there?
  more like an octopus that fiddled and slobbered
the **** than said: of this fruit an addition
to your "natural" duality - to encourage your number,
replacing dualism with a dichotomy...
           rites of passage for the ceramically fainting skinned -
ivory and squint, then
           diddly-and-piglet-or-flamenco-skinned-squat -
wide-eyed... or listening to how the Bulgars settled
in Europe and became ethnically cleaned with
     neo-Cyrillic... or as some say: proto-Greek revisionism...
       some words are familial... i can actually attest them
a phonetic synonymous that's familiar to the ear...
but the little words... remain with origin bound,
rather intact... only nouns get ***** to assimilate...
it's the little uh huh and um and om and
      so many in between that never reach cleansing
a tongue fully...
                  to be said: kinda slavish,
             archaic ***... *** that also said:
Commodus was one of the 5 good emperors...
    and was falsely depicted in gladiator (2000)...
and the *** invented stirrups to shoot arrows with
while quickly moving and suggesting a Mongol to come
along with the perfected idea of that: and pure stink
   of forgotten hygiene... memorised by
        the inflamed library of Baghdad and the pyramid
                 of Iraqi skulls...
the Romans made use of the calvary by employing
only eunuchs in their ranks... well... given no
stirrups... you're bound to make scrambled eggs
   along the ping-pong gallop...
       could ever a modern woman become a Helen?
perhaps a yacht might sail... instead of a thousand worries
to contest her husband's pride: a thousand quid...
  but it would never be such a gesticulation for
making worth of a woman to discredit a man...
            Kant said: i'll marry, only if i marry what i am
already married to... which is a transcendence of
what a man usually is married to... a woman...
  a man can marry his work...
                  it's either:
a. arbeit macht frei... or it's
                                   b. frau macht knecht...
well... it's sad... does it matter whether it's a universal
truth that has no guiding concern for
particular applicability and therefore a non-statistical
verification that splinters off a pathos of
  idealism all too readily accepted?
          and slogans avoid the details, i.e.
a. work power free
                          work empowers toward a freedom...
     is that the irony of suggesting
                                 that the Nubians built the pyramids
    and weren't the original air-coolers with their
   duck-feather fans and that the Jews profited from this?
as in
          b. woman power slave
                   women empower toward slavery...
sure... patted on the back and constantly bridging
gaps and licking lesions of man's struggle...
                       work "sets you" free...
                      and in that "      " bubble you can also have:
sets your apart from...
       sets you against....
                                  settles... the notion of freedom...
                   sets freedom... against you...
                                     so many variations of slogan grammar...
      well, akin to the 20th century shogun snail whipping
you into: ya, mein herr...
                                   and of course, there are the lucky few
that sorta revel in what otherwise are told to do:
            let me shove that remote control up yer ***,
and i'll make it less painful... i'll smear some lard
around your **** and you start pampering a bottle
of johnson & johnson baby powder...
      for a quest into averting the extinction of snow.
Deyer Mar 2016
My landlord is renovating the neighboring room.
I inhale, eyes closed, and I'm faced with God. Unable to speak, I listen as he tells me that life is worth living and that love is worth loving. He says that I'm doing pretty well despite the circumstances and that often an ounce of a smile is worth ten tonnes of agony.
I inhale, bleach and other cleaning solutions siphoning reality from my extremities, replacing it with a calming alternative.
Josh Morter May 2013
Eyes feel heavy
Lids weigh tonnes
Counting sheep by the dozens

Pillows not soft
Beds not warm
Quilt lies rigid
Curtains not drawn

Of course at first when I layed down
It was for the purpose of sleep
Yet it has not come to take me
So at midnight I'll a creep

Make my way to kitchen
For a late night snack
Open up the Milk
Take a swig from the carton, then put it straight back.

Creep back quite slowly,
licking my lips
I do love a good midnight milk trip
Treading careful over creaky floorboards beneath
After all I don't want to reveal that
*I'm the milk thief
Written on 01/05/13 by Josh Morter ©

Another night of failing to sleep, atleast I found something worthwhile to do with these forgotten hours
jobeth Apr 2017
i am one to talk
in my head i rule galaxies
glitter glimmer shimmer
carrying tonnes to spare the time

i pardon the satchel of hopes
like a pendulum
swinging and swaying
waltzing back and forth

tick tock tick tock
mimics the hourglass,
its contemptuous spine of granules
are close to burying
a hole on the ground

oh crystal skies
you were once so blue

now i face the darkened hall
air filled of hunger for time
and i take the final cup
of orange, purple
and blue.
Seema Jul 2017
If you rock me down from a mile,
I'll still be smiling like a crazy fool
It might hurt me for a while
Coz I am not made of sheep wool

The hatred you flare from your gaze
Shows your inner most reflection
The invisible flames that blaze
Has burnt all my forward affection

There,
Chuckles a voice, only eyes could read
From behind the screen
Someone has planted a poisonous seed

I can feel the evil smiky grin, hissing
And your eyes fixed reading the fake
I purely feel your emotions, missing
For you've been long awake

The delicious words spoken in tongues
Seems,
More like a ******, pretending to be God
The enmity loads darkness in tonnes
And slithers you, with a lizard tongue sword

I've never seen you in such a state
It's now visible whose behind it all
You're just one of its bait
It's just fishing, from the otherside of the wall

The attraction is quite magnetic
As the devil now, sounds more like God
Making lives his slaves as pathetic
It doesn't seem, like it's bored...



©sim
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
from under the iron curtain... not quite though:
in a study of the form of: immediacy...
a spare 30 years (circa)...
    from under the iron curtain thrown
under: the silicon curtain...

                 what science fiction ambitions:
what new worlds: new species of interest?
          concerning some "here"... and
                                obviously some "there"...
glued together, by -
                        the already mentioned study
of the form of: immediacy -
            i.e. more broadly known as the word
being...
          more broadly known as the word:
                                                           being...
for what is... and in that: the suspicious
utterance of "what" in conjunction with: is...

but it's hardly a book burning...
        i once cited a myself in transit...
        i once cited my self:
                            in the reflective sence...
not compounded in the reflexive immediacy
of myself... that...
    writing is not an invitation to speak...
it is an extension of thinking -
            i too have... had... avenues closed off...
for a while...
        as long as the substance is tame...
         but writing was never an invitation
to speak... it was always an extension of thought...
i privy the wanting ****** to entertain
his or her: caged tongue...
to labour with insane dignity to...
have that freedom of breath:
   without a single word being uttered:
   a feast for the eyes...

    of freedom of speech though:
  is... speeking freely... an invitation to... think?
what "book burning"?
             video-mash-up and a ******
variation of "*****": misnomer alley...
           no rigid lexicon for a... stalemate...
some grand unmoveable object of the tongue
to lick...
   to write is to extend thinking:
it is never to script someone...
   however... to speak doesn't invite me to
think... i would be too gullible for that
to be true... too forcefed a bulimic "rhetoric" /
and question to tow...

i have yet to find that speaking freely
allowed a chiral complexity of thinking freely...
as a reply... antonym...
     book burning: audio book... burning?
for the privacy of the eyes...
less this... feeding of echo... and more... echo...
speaking freely is not an invitation
to think freely...
                     i hope writing has
enshrined this facet of distinction...
                    it's such: oh such a "minor" technicality...

but i've used this phrase before...
from under the iron curtain we came...
and enjoyed the remains of the free world...
for a circa of 30 years...
                from under the iron curtain ******
under... the silicon curtain...
                  
/ / / / / interlude... of a soft-core existential nature:

  well the absolute joy of... shaving...
i perhaps did that once...
concerning as most would have called it:
on the face of a late-teen and early 20s colt...
***-fluff...

       as one had to... since the hairs resembled
the crop of cranium...
and weren't stiff enough: ***** enough...
for the guillotine of all ******* drops...
to form a beard...

   oh i had ambitions! i had ambitions
like you've never seen!
to add to a full crown of hair... allowed
to grow long enough and gear up for...
a 14 year old girl's wet-dream in school
of a french braid...
          i had such ambitions for a beard
so long... so long... it would...
tease the length of the whole torso...
from chin down and down to...
the bellybutton!
    in a thick iraqi braid...
       i wasn't so lucky on the face as i was
on the 'ed...
     bets are in... chances of me...
going bald?
   chances of me... having hair on my...
stomach region... my chest...
and patches of my back?
         bets are on... the horses are funny...
sorta running... mildly giggling and
playing: goof... shimmering...
the size of their teeth... as big as their *******
hoofs!

my idea of a haircut?
                      grow it to about bearable...
a comb to the left... a cut on the side...
to comb (hand brush) to the sides...
  and then... cut it down to a bare minimum...
not a skinhead...
   my head isn't best shaped for a king skin...
as one girl told me in high school...
i don't have the...
    well formed pariental / occipital coupling...
one of these bones is diminished in:
curves...
   i curious observation...
i guess that's called an invitation to:
pressure...
        a side-project of the occipital bone
being less protruding...
                          a schlawic shorta shin-diggy-oh...
girl spoke like a confirmed:
proselyte of the soul...
                       of language i can confirm...
it didn't matter it was...
a roman catholic school... in england...
some... confirmation... bias?
then i'd have a confirmation name
to boot with my two already given and a surf-name
surprise!
but i'm still: e = mc...
                     a horrid acronym...
                         eschlert = matthias ck-on-rad...
oh... god! yes!
i love the sound of my own voice so much...
i'm a gifted orator... frequently...
at... some ****-poor party revival
once a year... at... Nuremberg...
    yeah... i love my voice so much...
    i've ejected it from imitation thinking:
internal "monologue" and "air"...
i like it so much: i like it most when
it shuts the **** up...

itchy fingers and pervert eyes...
and domineering eyes...
the kind of eyes that... see...
your and you're...
       the apostrophe and the A like a halo...
hovering above: giggling...
infantile joys...
   never to be revised... but such...
pitiable domineering affairs...
no wonder i never advanced into
the realm of b.d.s.m. of adult joys and
advanced cinematic arena hard-ons:
        
  this one time i can don a hugo boss...
adventure... im grau oder schwarz     (ц)...
                                             (ш)...

all the other letters are kosher...
     but that dream... of a beard... as long...
as the king's hair...
gone... in an instact...
it takes about a month...
  before... everything return to: shabby...
the unkept beard... the irritating moustasche...
and then...
a miracle of having sat at a turkish barber's
with my eyes closed: as one does...
before a mirror... when someone is being
invasive...
      and feeling each and every snippet...
i should have taken
a before & after of my... "vlad the impaler"
deeds with every contort: matter...
a sense of making a rhombus into a sq.
or a sq. into a rhombus...
     oh... hair is easy... cut to a minimum...
a month passes... some jelly is used
in the last 3 weeks of extension...
and then... back to canvas (a) exhibit (0)...

       no point asked for a barber...
the man can cook, the man can bake...
the man has enough fudge muscle to shift
2 tonnes of soil in under 4 hours...
enough leg for 14sqm of experimental golf green
addition to a garden...
otherwise littered with patch-works of
gravel and project: drainage... another tonne
of shingles and pebbles...

    couple that with... a keen insight into...
the barber project... and arrivederci
                                migliore "tenuta"
    correttezza / bellezza: "mississippi"...
          cappoh: cchinno...
                           marble... cake...
                      gas-tap: top-off: shh!
                                      it's a lean...
              a leen in a lean in a: gwan-pazzio!
sounds sounds... suoni! su'oni!
                                      sounds sounds...
there is a morbid sense of meaning... but...
it's all lost to the interlude!

                 there is nothing more gratifying...
than being able to curate your own beard...
and find the sort of cranium crop top
to count the months in a year...
                       never working from:
                                       pelzkopf...
a dream of... roman brush... mochicans...
dipped in... woad blue / purple... / / / / /              

in the democracy of poets...
        in the republic of philosophers...
it has always been like so...
that philosophers dictated a republic...
that the poets... would have to...
somehow... dictate... a democracy...

i have in my possession...
a very strange book... "strange" that it is...
or was part...
of a 20th century curriculum...
a standard of pedagogy from 1967...
   O-level standards...
             we were taught latin: once...
cicero was a go to... beginning
with latin grammar...
first came latin grammar...
then... anglo-saxon shrapnel: "grammar"...
evne the term...

asyndenton... definition?
               this is the absence of conjunctions
between co-ordinate clauses, phrases,
     or "words"... the precise connection
              being inferred from the order of words
and the general sense....

      cicero's "modus operandi" of style...
      -que / et or....         and / and...
              or? speedy gonzales:
   que: what / and...

                   this the "copulative" sense of...
"missing" in-and-between...
                          nouns, adjectives, verbs...
   "words"... synonym pirrouete peacock fest
of grammar "technicality"...
        a "word" for a philologist
                    is a "thing" for a philosopher...

i will not... equip myself with...
what latin grammar i might have...
learned... to have studied such a book...
and its zenith of the year 1967... in a catholic school...
at least a catholic school said:
perhaps - "perhaps" insinuated back then...
latin grammar first...
christian dogma... second!

                adversarities: conjunctions:
                     sed, autem, vero...
example?
                   no example... contrasting clauses...

what of the conjunction: qua - i.e. as being?
or quo?
              privy: quid pro quo...
and one wonders...
the notion of "ego": had to became...
elaborated... isolated...
     given the asyndenton(s) of descartes...
i.e. (ego) cogito ergo (ego) sum...
well then! so much free room and reins!
to isolate the supposed "abstract" he-oi!oi!oink!
"says" so!

we pretend to move forward within cicero's
confines... back in 1967... this was standard
pedagogy!
latin grammar... what am i working with:
said the plastic surgeon to
the jack nicholson joker in that: Dt: fat...
Boatman: a tool a crude scalpel
of grafitti...               ahoy! ahoy! spare island!
Fwyday! vitch iz Velsh! i say!
oi oi!     hell-oooooooooooh!

             almost a sanskrit word...
so it must be!
    hendiadys and the asyndenton...
         the first... in sanskrit...
      please...
                हएनदऌअदईस
           ­       HENDIADYS...
that's as far as i will ever get...
no amount of diacritical marker excavations
will keep track of this:
experiment B'ah-Bel...
              yes... a drying up on the first
conjunction: the natives still speak:
Bay-Bel...
            B'ah-Bel'...

  the pashtun language... afghan women...
landay... something beside the ebb
of the strict skeleton of syllable
count of of a haiku...
or... i'm still token best **** in town
when it comes to:
misnomer: freely open noun usage...

the use of the pronoun IS
implies... there's no pronoun associate
worth a gender neutrality...
          IS is a pronoun...
              how can... IT... also a pronoun...
be... made... double neutral:
when "it" is already facing a neutrality
focus of quiz?

       an abstract noun... though?
to a cicero... an abstract noun...
with... hindsight... would be...
a... microscope...
   an adjective prefix...
   and a bypass of nouns into the verb...
prefix dear verb...
when will that suffix become
a noun and not a doubling of a verb?
of what? of scope!

     to denote an act rather than engage
in it!
          ******* scissor sisters grammar
of the modern age...
they should have taught me latin grammar
than given me
abortion conundrums to begin with:
failure! best kept secret!
aged 16... would make the vatican
proud!
      it's not that i own a baseball cap
that i can flirt with a "noah"
of n.e.w.s. with...
              it's not that...
so much for education...
in 1967 a catholic school would do...
the nun's project proud...
2004? what nun?!

                solitudo erat ea quam voluerasmus...
there was just that seclusion we had wanted...

an "antecedent" noun...
                    i much prefer an "antecedent" verb...
a variation of hammering...
or ******* in "fixes"...
   when there was once...
a turmoil of the jist of knee-armed...
and then... electric: sorrow-sowing of...
the nearby: "fix"...

          this language is best be forgotten...
the otherwise fictive rigour of teaching...
barbarians... a quick-and-easy...
acquisition of... latin: my dear... sir...
because... the english are the afghani sort...
first served: first come... though... last
to topple... anything... worth remembering
a past with 'em: therein!

i call sir! my immediacy...
funny thing... calling "my" in a borrowed...
body... which you... also... cling to...
with a tongue of transcendence...
and... a body's worth of an anchor:
and so! in reverse!
this body of no transcendence!
the old empire...
and this... jailor quizz...
the "asyndenton" of the hebrew...
in... how niqab is your...
                                             niqqud?!
ah!
               שׁ (š)... translated:
                             szkoda: shame...

and שׂ (ś)...       ślizg: slide...

that the hebrews... kept the ancient latin...
play on an asyndenton...
but kept it: vowel primo-intact...
   beside... a mere play on conjunction words...

i giggle... what have i to add?
beside a... ha ha?!
Julian Delia Aug 2019
Last July was the hottest month, ever.
That is, ever since we ‘officially’ started tracking weather.
The Earth is lying on the bathroom floor, wrists severed;
I wonder whether this is a storm we can weather,
Or whether we’ll all perish together.

Greenland lost 12.5 billion tonnes of ice sheets.
That is,
The island that was 80% ice is becoming one, giant, puddle.
The earth is about to be slain, a warrior conceding defeat;
Huddle up, give your loved ones a cuddle,
For we are so troubled that any aliens out there must be truly befuddled.

My generation was born with a guillotine looming over our heads.
An impending sense of dread,
As corporations put on their executioner’s hoods,
And reach for the lever.
A sordid reality in which to save the planet,
One must fight one’s own government;
A reality in which we may have done permanent damage,
A reality in which valour gets no monuments,
But only condemnation and incarceration.

Remember these names:

Julian Assange. Currently awaiting an 18-count indictment charge from the US.

Edward Snowden. Could face up to 30 years in prison if the US get their hands on him.

Chelsea Manning. Spent 7 years in prison.

Abdullah Öcalan. In prison since 1999.

Edem Bekirov. A man who has been dying in prison for the past year.

Benny Tai. Sentenced to over a year for fighting for what is right.

Nasser Zefzafi. In prison for the next 20 years.

Kerry Shakaboona Marshall. A man who received a life sentence aged 17 years old.

Simon Blevins, Richard Roberts, and Richard Loizou. Sentenced to over a year for fighting fracking.

Tim DeChristopher. 21 months for fighting oil and gas pipelines.

Stella Nyanzi. The raunchy Ugandan poetess who cannot be tamed, no matter how many times prison beckons.

This list is basically endless.
It is saturated in blood that drips from the corners of the page,
Soaked in the rage of brave men and women, living in a cage.

Depression. Exhaustion. Numbness.
Oppression and a lack of caution,
Leading us to this dumb mess.
This can no longer be the norm.
We can no longer conform,
Nor can we compromise or haggle;
We must reverse our own demise,
For this is our generation’s battle.
The pain of our extinction.
The rule of law

There was a storm over Sahara; waves of sand flew up, up, up
– I wrote "up" thrice because my grammar checker tells me I can't
it tend to be intrusive,- transformed into white dust it mixed
with indigo clouds, drifted to Algarve and shed tonnes of dust
layers of dust everywhere the morning village looked like
a ghost town, we scan the sky hope for proper rain the type
that clean and makes you wet, but it is a perilous wish, a deluge
can last for days inundate the basement and drown a family
of mice that live in accord are so discreet I have not seen them;
more than can be said about the eleven million illegals in the USA
that with the blessing by rancorous Democrats that let them rules
the political agenda and give lawbreaker a safe heaven, where  
they are free to insult the president and the rule of law

law
Neeve Mar 2014
The laundry is piled to the ceiling,
The first layer of paint is peeling,
There are mud-prints all over the stairs,
Am I supposed to care?

I have eighty-nine tonnes of homework,
My mother keeps yelling to "get up!
Put away those dishes over there!"
Am I supposed to care?

The teacher is mumbling and teaching
And suddenly now she is screeching,
"Pay attention! Sit up in your chair!"
Am I supposed to care?

I lie awake most nights crying,
With idle thoughts of dying.
Reality is my nightmare,
I just wish somebody would care.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
to note, i am always eager to become
a sponge at the end of the day,
having soaked up anything of interest
throughout the day, to later squeeze it
out onto a page with words,
four points of consideration,
and the obvious fifth unrelated to yesterday
through to today: sunsets in march.

1. the documentary film
        cyborgs among us -
   and my, what a dull etymological
study...
            cipher- or even psy-
                        psi-? that's stretching it...

2. making dinner today, schnitzel
    with home made fries,
    plus two salads,
       grated apple and carrot
         with sour cream and garnished
to taste, the other being blanched
   leak with a mix of mayo and sour
cream, opening the richness of the mayo
with white vinegar, sugar to taste...

   the anatomy of a poached chicken
corpus that was used to make a nice chicken
broth, soup, with added carrots, an onion,
leak, root parsley...
        what is the most tender meat on a chicken?
answer? the neck.

3. if you're not serious about drinking
on any said day, don't begin with a monkey,
i.e. 100ml of any 40% alcohol, esp polish
*****, unless if course you want to wake
up an unsatiated  monster
   who will rob the ******* drinking cabinet
and sit in minus 6 degrees at night
on a balcony blinking at the moon
    writing berserker poetry wishing
it was (i.e. the beast, high on shroom) -
ease into a soft pouch of Bailey's liquor
and you'll be fine...

4. never mind the cyborgs,
   the mutants, the anomalies are already here,
well, seeing what the end result will actually
be for the average boy genius,
tattoos, piercings, cyber-punk
    and implant magnets,
    not exactly the upper tier of the mad engineer
and his special guinea pig at the cyber Olympics,
after all, to compete is not to distribute,
and to not distribute is to face that music
and speak of the middle men of power
who already have the high end and the low
end of th robotics enterprise,
    thanks to the cyber punks in the dingy
caves, cyber-hacking templates for
those in the higher and highest stratum
of the movement...

the mutants? 20 / 19 is the magic number,
    from the onset of chernobyll and my birthday...
if the Scandinavians had a whiff of the fallout
and we're talking atomic winds...
    and my great grandmother telling me that
as the breeze past the were lanes in the trees
interchangeable autumn and spring,
  couples of metres of autumn, then spring,
autumn, spring... in one giant bogus farce...

     сорок город... or rather city no. 40...
the  facilities, built by the soviets
in retaliation to the amrican first drop...
    for every worker of the facility
  and agent was ascribed to monitor their every move,
city no. 40 was not like your romance with
the Greek city-state, it was deemed a closed
city (an official term), people could leave it
and come back, but no one could
go in without military planning,
     city no. 40 was revealed after
Perestroika as ozoirsk, prior to residents
of city no. 40 had to lie that they lived
in cheladin on Lenin st.,
    the city itself? claim to fame as providing
Litvinenko plutonium tea...
             beneath it, and beside it,
death like, a bed lined with 30 tonnes of
plutonium waste, and 50 tonnes of
weapon-grade plutonium...
         the Маяк incident of 1957...
nadezdha kupetova added just the right
of glamour to the streets of Paris...
another worthwhile mention
of closed cities around the world,
similar to city no. 40...
   well? what a nice bedtime story they
tell you, about the city of Mercury, Nevada,
otherwise known as, area 51...
    i guess it's better talking about aliens
than talking about what's behind this curtain
lies... area 51, Mercury, Nevada, has as much
to do with aliens as Charlie Chaplin has to
to do with ******, because it's not as easy
as pointing out that ****** actually borrowed
Charlie's moustache.
Steph Aug 2014
i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
i’ve filed away centimetres of mortar
hours after I was ordered into bed
i've slimmed myself down before I was noticed
until i could slip through the cracks
“it must be her fault if she’s trapped.”

people hear me singing. they must think i am not captive
people see me smiling. they believe that i am free
but most days the tonnes of concrete around me are just too heavy.
some then tell me i do not need to destroy myself -
i tell them that otherwise i cannot breathe.
i always sleep with the windows open.

i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
most days i want to take a hammer to my painted wall
to hell with the iron chains.
i want to take rainbow shard and chipped mortar mixed with tears
to build my own **** house
one with wide open windows and wide open doorways
to hell with the bolts on the gates.

i spent fourteen of seventeen years trying to climb the wall
the next three trying to outrun it
i haven’t found where the bricks have stopped to catch their breath
i am not in the habit of giving up.

and when the bricks, one by one, do lift from the wall
and the shackles slowly rust away
i suppose i will be told to shudder at this thought
i suppose i will be expected to thank the gate-keepers
for making **** sure I wasn’t allowed to live
until they decided so.
Jermon Jun 2018
Too shocked for words,......
A scream....  Blank.
Under. Murky brown? Pitch black?
Nothing.
A hand.... Water? Tonnes..... Waves..
Slamming into me..... Drowning...

Breathing? Gone?
Nothing.
A hand... Two....
Drowning....

Confusion. Screams. Terror.
It was all too much. Waves....
Too strong, The water was too strong.
She was gone .... going....
We couldn’t get her out
Two hands. Not enough.
Have we lost her?

Gulp.
Water beating against me.
Two hands? Six?
Air squeezed out of my lungs.
Pitch black.
Stay strong.
Terror...

Air. Light.  Life?
Dazed. Shocked. Petrified.
Breathing.
Sprained ankle? Twisted leg?
Who cares,
I’m Alive!

Weak, but breathing.
Shocked. Tears of shock.
A dream?
No, the feeling’s still there.
Still wet. Had I let go?

Alive. And breathing.
But,
Had I let go?
27.02.2018
Trying to capture the horror of a traumatic incident that I experienced first hand.
An 11 year old girl, was drowning, believe it or not, in a drainage, because it was raining heavily and the drainage was overflowing, and then she went under the drainage cover with the only part of her out was her hands which her friend and I were holding. But we couldn’t pull her out because of the force of the water. We thought she’d drown, she was completely under sewage water. Luckily, parents came by and pulled off the drainage cover and pulled her out of the water, head first. This sort of thing can easily happen in Sri Lanka because we have heavy rainy seasons and incompletely covered drainage lining the streets.
The authorities refused to do anything about the open drainage in front of our school, which is where this happened. They even said “We cannot do anything even if a child DIES”. Which, to us, as the children they speak of, can be very traumatic.
I was shocked for days, and that’s when I decided to write a poem.

— The End —