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CK Baker Apr 2017
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park

the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
CK Baker Jul 2017
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip

secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall

sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck

packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task

sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach

paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale

down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
sunshinecoast porpoisebay sechelt
Jimmy Hegan Sep 2015
Competition is bad ya good.
It creates or destroys carrier,
Toppers are enrolled to better future,
Losers are badly treated and lost there life also,
Losers never becomes toppers,
What is the meaning of Competition?
To make our life or ruin our life.
To achieve it whatever way,
By crook ya hook.
Where these competition stands, is begin or end of the world.
Why there is no equality or equal justice in world.
snowshoecaptain Nov 2013
Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.

They come out wrinkled and cold,
their verdant skins hardened and crisp.

One crushing bite reveals
a soft yellow center,
soured cells seeping embalming vinegar.

Feathery dill disintegrates,
bringing biting flavor
to our cryogenic sandwich toppers

But, some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
Mia Lee May 2017
I popped a new candle out of its glass
flamingo decorated coffin and put it in a
larger once clear and full of wax but now
sooty vessel

I wanted to burn it but I bought it
for my mother the flamingo enthusiast
who has covered our house in flamingo
cookie jars and curtains and little flamingo
wine toppers so I bought the candle
for 7.99 to add to the collection

I knew she wouldn’t care about
the candle as much as the jar it lived in
so I rescued it briefly only to crush its hopes
by replacing it immediately in an ill fitting
***** home where another of its kind
had already died

The problem I face is that this candle
somehow escaped my murderous hands
by burning so incredibly uneven that the
wax consumed the wick rendering it
completely unburnable

I’m feeling a little disappointed but
I suppose congratulations are in order
You’re bad for me,
They think I don’t know that,
But I am mad you see,
And their objections only my rebellion begat,

You’re a rock star in the making,
So Mr. Rock star stop hesitating,
And just rock n’ roll my heart,
Play on the strings and give its beat a kick start,

Come on Mr. Rock star,
And just rock n’ roll my heart,
Just play on this beating bleeding guitar,
I know dancing to your rhythm isn’t smart,

Because you’re my worst possibility,
With soon to have fan girls and teen boppers,
Only to provoke in me jealous hostility,
With you’re soon to be chart toppers,

But Mr. Rock Star in the making,
Come on and just rock n’ roll my heart,
It’ll one day soon be breaking,
When your attention does depart,

So Mr Rock star in the making,
We only have this moment for our taking,
Where by we may some feelings impart,
So Mr Rock star for now just Rock n’ Roll this heart.
The Macedonians in this spectral fight would spend their last efforts to reach the heart of Vernarth and Alexander the Great, to try to ****** and defeat them from their captaincies that challenged Asmodeus. The colossal figure of the converted Sapsila had a longitudinal figure from head to toe of approximately four kilometers, all the maritime lines of Leros, Lipsi, and Pireas housed him in the hemisphere of contemplation where his skeleton was more sensitive than the geographical area of Sapsila, where the Achaemenids approached the longitudinal pectoral of several kilometers in length, pointing out the effigy of an immemorial Hoplite sedimented in this region where the feet rested at the height of the southern hemisphere of the feet of the corresponding Nótos and Vóreios that corresponded to its head. The Achaemenids reached the exact diameter of Vernarth's pectoral where it had the admission of the energy of the Kassotides, the same entrance hole that it had with the elder in the Bumodos, ad portas of the Gaugamela stage. Here his exoskeleton was transfigured towards the monastery of Atros with the cognition of the Katapausis, which led him through the hiding place of his epistíthios breastplate or iron and bronze breastplate, which exemplified how it was erected after the Achaemenids dispersed over the nearby line of Skalá. , where they will arrive with the Psiloi, for the purposes of raising the phalanxes that will lift with their feet the colossal figure of the Psiloi being nothing less than an archetype of Brisehal in the desolate Dasht-e-Lut desert, being from unpopulated places of devotion that again he was emerging from the empty glow of the Profitis Ilias. The specters abounded wandering alone as if trying to grasp the last sparks of the politics that remained for them to surrender from their own unencumbered solitude. Brisehal was a mountain with a canine head similar to Anubis, but millions of times larger towards the top and acid, like the hope of regulars to enter the garden-kingdom of Heaven. Before the day trembled with the movement of his trembling mocking strides, that Brisehal was from Das-e-Ruth from Arbela shaking day and night, embodied in the body of Vernarth, like the bombast of the archaeological sedimented hoplite of the Subclavian Kabbalah demarcating the entire pedestrian propulsion dynamics in the Achaemenids by his rib when he was soaked in Samael's silica, since he had been given a superior potion to close the Vernarth pectoral hole, and which has not yet been transplanted by the Kassotides. In such a way that all his anatomy would border the anatomy of his body gigantic free from Asmodeus, and from the whole cycle of tons of breaths of the shadow that conceived sparks of Shemesh on them, to revert the potion of Asmodeus to the degree of innocuous elixir.

Consisting of the voluminous being stretched out in the midst of Gnosticism that declared the figure of its proverbial monstrosity to be erected, born from the consciousness of the sectarian origins that placed it after a being harassed by Samael for centuries and centuries being condemned to be stretched in non-clairvoyance of those who did not really love him and yes, with the great profile of venerating the sublime sky that he knows in front of his eyes looking at the sky that divides Grikos and Skalá, after it was time to get up for the purposes of the Battle of Patmia in the Seventh Heaven, from where Vernarth ran terrified by the Olympic archaeological excitement in which this buried being was, being the same one that represented the god that Saint John the Apostle had mentioned to him referring to Geburah; where all the serpents or basilisks protocolized appeals of revolt against Alehisebenech, the serpent that will transmit paths from Dash-e-Lut on all the heads of the Achaemenids, asserting the judgment of Gnosticism when they were incarnated by Geburah and lost their night vision through nocturnal curtains that this abnormal god of the mesosphere, who was trying to eradicate them from the roof of the Tabernacle of Faith, pointing out that the noble harassments became more inexorable with the counterattack for those who suffered temporarily from the stubborn blindness that this god Geburah forged, as a God who claimed the abilities of Mars to constitute the existential fear that would ultimately intimidate even the Islamist soul that resided in these involuntary beings, being a trophy of their instincts and losing the chrism of the Hoplites for the reason of filling them in the glasses of the room chalice of Elijah, even if they do not attend the Upper Room but may be judicious to exalt the glory oria that resides in the front of the colossus, who personifies the versatile power facing the left where he carried his Xiphos vehemently, trying to adulterate them towards the sword of Samael. The lights of the sea were appreciated in the bay of Skalá exhibiting the ardor of the breakers as the arrest of archangels that took cover to slide in the toppers that were expelled when the mass was finally raised, flickering from a forest of life that would protect the troops of Vernarth, expelling them of every scale that could lodge in a decapitated teacher, being able to come sooty and representing in the Muslim Iblis that he would exchange the eternal nocturnal light, in advance when the first movements of the troops were unleashed, while some were in the stillness of the bonfires. pointing out the glimpse of the Iblis that came quickly to shoot fire due to its excoriation, showing that just by looking into their eyes, the Vernarth clone judged him at more than four kilometers of elevation, causing dissension by trying to stun them. Once again the embryonic action of Alexander the Great would relapse on Vernarth, who was laborious among all the Syntagmas that were conglomerating from the Psiloi, and already on their boyar horses, infants of the Ida and the newly developed wagons of the epsilon, pretending to debate them in doubt of the Exodus. that resembled in the infinitive people that flee from the Shemesh that whipped them from their scriptural registers, on the hands of cherubs with their hands hold the reins, with the patriarchs with the twelve crowns of stars that shone as in the Nile linking with the Sea of Patmia.
Battle of Patmia  Part  II
Glenn McCrary Apr 2014
I’m a grown man, but
Sadly, I’m beginning to think that just like everyone else
That multiple millenniums will have surpassed our graves
Before a day strikes that you’ll take notice
Oh, but wait you are conservative
Though you state that you are a democrat


Well, tell me what kind of democrat
when faced with opportunities or possibilities for change
outright vetoes it without consideration for experimentation?
I remember when I proposed to you the idea of baking velvet cakes in multifarious colors
You accepted and requested me to buy all of the ingredients
claiming you were gonna make the **** cake, but every day that you said you were
You never did.
You attempted to argue with me over trivial ****
like the fact that you don’t own the house
and that it along with all of the **** that you have could be gone
without a moment’s notice
I guess that’s why you are always threatening to put me out huh?
Because you are afraid of that fact so you try to project it onto others right?
What kind of life lesson is that?


On days when I am out and about
Yeah sure I buy things for myself to eat for lunch
but then when I come home I always have to debate with you
over my next meal
It is always a constant battle between me
and your distorted logic and reasoning


Me: “Mom I haven’t eaten anything since pizza time earlier may I get a bowl of cereal?”
Mom: “Wait until I get off the phone.”

Thirty minutes pass…

Me: "May I eat now?"
Mom: "You shouldn’t have to eat twice if you ate a whole pizza.”
Me: “It was a small pizza and that was around twelve this afternoon.”
Me: “Your logic is distorted; Everybody eats more than once a day.”
Mom: “Anyway you can eat the other cereal not cinnamon toast crunch.”
Mom: “Distorted? Every adult that buys their own food can eat whenever they want otherwise there is no logic in your reasoning. I don’t have to feed you. You don’t feed anyone with your money.”
Me: There is 100% logic in my reasoning as well as everything I say regardless of who is feeding who and one less thing that the population needs to be fed are useless and fabricated theoretical fallacies over useful and valuable facts; At the end of the day nobody wins.”
Mom: I would like you to move out as soon as possible so that there will be no need to feed or conversate with you.”
Me: “No conversation with you is worth even one syllable that is why I avoid talking to you; I’m wasting my time right now even texting you.”
Mom: “Then stop.”
Mom: “Just get out of my house and you won’t ever have to talk to me or my relatives.”




What the **** am I then? Just a man with some paper and a pen who has some poems day and night profusely spilling upon the pages in spite? Just a fan with some extensive knowledge of past and current chart toppers turned to developing a passion within disc jockeying?


NO! I’m just a man who is disgusted to even have ever been given the blessing to title you ingrates what I call the curse that s my family.
Àŧùl Jul 2016
The one who knows all definitions,
Is the one Webster who wove it all,
But the Webster spun it so wicked.

Knew the Webster about negatives,
Allowed them to seep everywhere,
Provided not a one stop solution.

That is why people die of bullets,
They perish of many grievances,
Unable to bear the load they are.

No matter which the district,
Whatever may be the town,
Whichever be the parish.

Disciples and toppers,
Students and scholars,
They all come to perish.
My HP Poem #1094
©Atul Kaushal
Broke A Musician Mar 2014
Life in the music industry is hard,
tougher when you discover how it works.*

Dreams smashed, heart broke
and bad taste in my mouth,
signed to a music deal that *****.
I write the songs, they profit.
I tour til I'm hoarse and my fingers bleed,
they profit not me.
My label takes a big cut of all I make
I got excited getting that contract.
We got people to buy your downloads.
We make you number one like chart toppers.
Way it works in the industry.
Way to create fake stars who can't sing,
buy tracks from no broke no names over seas
and at home then claim them for your own.
No such thing as realness in music industry.
What I got was empty promises
and more empty promises.  

I can't afford to buy gift cards for people
playing popular apps.
I can't give them free downloads of apps
and demand they buy my songs in return.
Way it works and how I get a number one.
Broke A Musician Mar 2014
I should be happy
I should be jumping for joy and thrilled.
What I am is tired of touring
and depressed.
Why'd you lie to me?
Why'd you tell me all would glitter?
Why'd you say you could take me to #1?
In your dreams do you have a conscience?
You don't have one when you are awake
and your lips are moving.
Why didn't I listen when I was told
all that glitters isn't gold?
Music industry is based on fake chart toppers.
They tell their people to buy their people cards
to buy their own downloads.
Way you hit #1, way you get that grammy.
Unless you luck out and sing songs about
gays that land you on talk shows.
Maybe I should try that ****
or get a fake reality show.
Got my eyes open and know how it works
thanks to a fake music producer
telling me I could be number one.
Seema Aug 2017
Thin as a stick
A child so brave
Piles up bricks
For food he craves

***** torn t-shirt
With a quarter pants
He seems quite hurt
As he plays with ants

He works to feed
With what he earns
Little boy weeds
In the sun, he burns

With face turned red
He strives his best
Lives in a strawshed
He hardly has his rest

At the age of ten
His family got killed
Ever since then
His never been healed

Now, his sixteen
Well built and tall
A learner so keen
He's learnt it all

Time flew with work
Night spent on study
Ears closed on mock
He was almost ready

Ambitious and smart
Graduated in toppers list
Now his real life starts
On a good salary, he sits...


©sim
Arry Sep 2018
I've renamed this system with two words called, "Marking Scheme",
Cuz at the end of the day it's exactly what it seems!

Appreciation won't be allotted for the efforts you made,
Things would always come back to the ultimate phenomenon called "GRADE"!

Toppers choose PCM and flunked ones go with Humanities,
You not only disappoint your folks but also the society,
And leave no scope for popularity!

Teachers accuse the child saying he/she doesn't possess wisdom,
We lack it because of only our Education System!

Critics never stop......taunting non-symapathetically,
Would never glance to the other side but tell you to study systematically!

UAE's got oil, Korea's got television, and Japan a lot of technology pioneers,
Meanwhile the birthplace of talent...is busy producing Engineers!

We don't become learners but academics become a constant debt,
Cuz out of the 132 Crore people....not even a single one has a different mind-set!

Walter Lewin once said,"If a student finds a subject boring...then the teacher must be dumb",
Now if he would have been Indian....What different song would he have sung?

Utkarsh Upadhyay~~
Àŧùl Oct 2
20 years ago, I wrote my final exams for grade 8,
And I was among the toppers in the school.

I still remember the socks for the winter break,
How can I forget it, my godgranny wove that out of wool.

She's still alive, my godgranny,
Godsent angel is that lady.

I have little to no memories of my biological grannies,
Both paternal and maternal passed away whilst I was young.

My godgranny now has a gummy smile,
She closes her eyes as she smiles for a mile.

90+ years of age now, she has seen many summers,
And she has also woven so many woolen socks.

Parameshwari Ðéví is her kind name,
And now she's a greatgranny.
My HP Poem #2004
©Atul Kaushal
We'll either be
chart-toppers
or
toast toppers
and according to
my bruvva
it'll definitely be
one or t'other,

my bruvv's older than me
by about two years
which in real money
is half a century,
so
he should know.
Yenson May 2020
I will not attend The Stealers Ball
even if Venus is there with Botticelli's maidens
all in sheer chiffon and the flimsiest of satin and silk
with gilt-edged invitations to dances in scented gardens at dusk

I will not come to the discuss of knaves
though the best tales and most colorful reveals
festooned barbs and tomes in mendacious lyrical myths
are spouted by miscreants and rapscallion in odious delight

I will not imbue Bacchus's finest brews
from opulent vineyards fertilized in blood & sweat
the ripen fruits on stained grapevines in chalky's domain
where moors are furrowed ploughed & scattered for masters tables

I will not be entertained by magical displays
the sleight of minds and the rats in toppers and tails
hood-winkers wares arrayed ingloriously in snow white cloaks
peddling to the sightless wringing communal applause in dungeons

I am not engaged with the whimsical maladroits
stages are theirs as are the drama in Le Cimetière des arlequins
where the walking ghosts in ghastly laments barter fares for Hades
I will not fall or sink neither will I fear for I have no blood on my hands
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Bringing up codes, and encrypting data, making theories of our own
Having anger issues, lifeless opportunist, fail every scheme
Are we on the timeless trace of being on the same page
Jimmy Page, are we talking about the influence of honest people?
Writing, and suspending and hiding behind the ambivalent
Feelings, and deafness, in Cohen's songwriting
It took to me sleeping on my sides, with my torn pages laying them
Believe in your individual soul, are we hidden in bounds of songs of hate and love
Looking into civilized citizenry, are we truly unbecoming
We reveal more than what we see, or can we look away
Amnestic, it looks like peace again, or noiseless?
He died with loveless purpose and the silence of crime and punishment, and that's where our observed sentence, ends needless to say?
The journeys seem like the conflict of the future, we are selflessly emancipated, amicable people of many educated toppers
We might look to go to better places, we might be miles off
Raising torrents, lovely rains, the journey ends in the blink

Writing lives, I draw myself to my unregistered war, looking to yield my progeny
Persons and prohibited people can be aggravated, can we friends meeting together at the justice or the jejune sense of adolescence
We could find resolution in our own caveats and deride, and rob ourself out of the potential for echoes of your thoughts
That can be called out as ideas of some other person's open book
Or you read him/her like an open book?
Wanted her to live or die with a graceless look?
Did you find your own identity or falling in love?
Didn't we do this before, behemoths broadcasting my edict and red concussions?
Doesn't this sound suspicious, and lucid and obvious, we were never really imperfect?
Do you handles and shoes come with the bags, or shoulder your erudition, by the educated mind that looks like
You can keep those cars, and think why the hell would I reserve myself to the life of a convict?

— The End —