She kicked me in the *****
And I came crashing down
Next time I will wear metal underwear
And we shall see who falls.

Mwahaha!
(Twiddles fingers like a ******)

The lights all up around me
They dance and flicker
Swirling up and down each tree
As the music gets quicker
What a colorful holiday
Something new around each bend
We climb into Santa’s sleigh
And begin to ascend
The clouds fall below us
As we are launched into the sky
The turns we took were brusque
But the heavens never felt so nigh…
...
...
I cover you with a quilt
For the sleigh keeps climbing higher
Towards your hometown we tilt
I wonder, what will transpire?
There’s something big in the back
Is it full of coal?
Perhaps there’s something else in that sack
A doll, a plane, a little toy troll?
Perhaps we will find out
Your hometown draws near
Rudolf raises his red snout
Followed by the rest of the reindeer…
...
...
They shift their gaze
Towards a landing strip
People down there in a craze
We must look like a spaceship
They angle their flight
Right down the middle
It is quite the sight
And the thrill makes us giggle
What’s going on down below?
I ask Santa sitting up front
“I don’t really know”
He says as a reindeer grunts
“They must be waiting for you
Down there, to see what took place
For you came back with her,
That’s not exactly commonplace”
I look back at you, and you meet my gaze
Together we’ll get through
Of that I have no doubt
The sleigh is landing now
There is no backing out…
...
...
Santa pulls up on the reins
On the landing strip the sleigh glides
Only stepping out remains
As we do, the crowd divides
There in the middle
Surrounded by curious people
Stands a man with thumbs he twiddles
He looks more nervous than you or I
I grab your hand and look back again
This is it, we feel suddenly shy
Now’s not the time, so confidence we feign
We look forward and meet his eye
He looks at us and gives a sigh
“Dad?” you say
You look back at me, with display
Introductions are made
Feelings are conveyed
We no longer stand in a masquerade
Everything is out
The closet has swung open
We have nothing left to hide
You squeeze my hand
I coincide
As we look to your dad and wait
…
…
He looks at you with love
Then he looks at me squarely
Before he can say a word
Santa breaks in and shouts “let’s all be merry!”
The crowd breaks into laughter
As Santa sates the air with a magic
And joy fills everyone’s thoughts
Your father looks at us again
This time, with a smile, he simply nods

kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.

Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.

It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.

No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.

No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.

Agreed.

Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.

The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat.  Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.

Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.

Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.


11/5/10

terrible machines slipstream the extreme in-between where they grind the invalid star heaps into dust
there, they spike the lion's paw of life's Sphinx, methinks it winks at God's Riddle, and twiddles a thumb of some god, in a sky pod of dead people, hording jasmine and madness and pancakes, upon the everlasting Maybach sedan with the chrome piping and the platinum plinth, regal in ice and fire !
what aspires must be crushed into tiny little else. into neutrinos of speculation in the non rational abode of  our most holy joke. the spun spoke, in a wheel of cold lotus. we  know this is not a dream without motive. we know this because we notice, know this because it's flawless, and flawless reveals a mind of terrible machines that slipstream the extreme in- between  where they grind the invalid star heaps, into dust ! they might spike the lion's claw of Life's sphinx, where it thinks that most people are dead inside, that might can take a joke if joke is told in a void baritone with Gamelan Bells of Unbearable Revelation, the revery of a Greek nose on the face of a broken clock.

The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.

Remember, remember to vote by the fifth of November,
to stop the Socialist’s treasonous plot.
I see far too many reasons,
why the Socialist’s treason,
must be completely stopped.
There truly is a lot.

Everyone should be stunned,
but the world is numb,
and twiddles its thumbs,
as nations completely rot.

With their totalitarian hearts filled with hate,
the corrupt Socialists, ‘tis their intent,
to destroy the United States of America.

The Socialist horse has already been brought in the gate,
but it may not be too late.
We can still win,
if we capture the Socialist soldiers that came from within.
They are notorious for projecting the illusion that Republicans are an intrusion,
keeping us all busy fighting each other,
while they dig under our nation's foundation.
They wait for the Republic to collapse into chaos and destitution,
so they can execute their final solution.

They live by the saying “laws are for thee but not for me”.
They love to disguise socialism as democracy,
and Republicans as a threat to thee.
What they really mean is they are a threat to their hypocrisy.
They gaslight our nation into sedation,
wear us down to control our towns.

They wish for the sacrifices of our national heroes to have been in vain,
as they attempt to flush our Constitution down the drain.
Many are fooled under their guise of safety,
should they give up their liberty hastily.

They have damaged alliances and stoked the fires of war.
They tax our retirees while rewarding our enemies.
They have intentionally hindered military aid to our Israeli confederates.
They have failed many of our military veterans,
that have come on their knees with broken psyches,
while continuing to feed our enemies.

In the meanwhile they drained our petroleum stockpile to provide for the vile.
They wasted our nation’s FEMA funds on the illegal ones.
They print more Bens to implement short term mends.
Their heavy inflation is crippling our nation.
They fuel racial division among man,
encourage violence to begin,
unless we grant them more power within.
They appease the mobs if it will help keep their jobs.

Many lies they have spread.
One even led to a madman taking a shot at Trump's head.
We thank God that Trump is not dead.
Another one lain in wait at his golf estate to assassinate.
Again, we thank God that Trump is not now the late.
They once peddled a fake dossier,
with hope that it would put President Trump away.
If you aren’t already aware,
they’re practicing banana republic lawfare,
to get him put in ironware and fitted for orange outerwear.
They’re trying to drain the billionaire.
They thought they could give him a major scare,
to get him to surrender in fear.
But they were wrong.
He continues to stay strong,
has a growing throng.

They participate in many criminal activities,
it sparks theories of conspiracies.
They marginalize and persecute the theorists as enemies.

They think facts should consider their feelings.
If one points this out it sends them reeling.
Those that deny their misinformation,
have their speech labeled lies to be censored from the nation.
They control most of the media,
and wish to rewrite our history in the encyclopedia.

The Socialists wish to abolish free speech,
and to be able to teach defiers a lesson.
First they must outlaw your Smith & Wesson.

They seek to destroy the owner of X,
because he won't support the Marxists.
He has been a global voice of reason,
loves to mock their treason.

They use government funded education,
to brainwash future generations,
malnourish kids of essential knowledge and good morals,
to make them ignorant depraved government slaves.
Many colleges are scamming our youth,
and withholding the truth.

They wish to dissolve traditional fams,
and convince kids to be trans.
If parents attempt to protect them,
they run the risk that the government will nick them.
If you don’t affirm their delusions,
they will see that you are met with a nasty conclusion.

They harm our little ones,
feeding them social media carcinogens,
to rot their mind, body and soul,
that they might become societal tumors instead of productive bloomers.

Science to them means whatever they want it to mean,
and it is the absolute truth, so it would seem.
We are expected to live with faith and reliance on their fake science.
If you pry, defy and not comply,
you could kiss your job goodbye.
Those that show no defiance to their fake science,
believe they will get reprieve from the Socialist’s persecution.
It seems they now unofficially practice a state sponsored religion based on this fake science as well as perverse, unethical and immoral behavior.
If you practice a religion they haven’t approved,
they might have you removed.

Their D.E.I. hire doth conspire to move even higher.
The serpent whispers in her ear,
“do anything you want,
no matter how severe.
It’s OK, it’s for your career.”
She stabbed President Biden,
and ain't even hidden,
that she aims for more power than Poseidon,
to wield the Tridents of war.
Now she’s the Democrat’s presidential nominee,
without even receiving a single vote from you or me.
But it’s ok, because they say, it’s all to protect our democracy,
run by their bureaucracy.
She hides behind Biden’s name,
so she doesn’t have to accept the blame.
She claims that she will start doing her job,
if voters finalize the motion to give her the promotion.
She has taken as her running mate,
a Manchurian candidate.
When he debates it sounds like he isn’t sure,
that he actually agrees with her.
As our current Border Czar,
she allows in raiders to get votes later.
She looks the other way,
while the largest slave trade in the world is made.
Our streets are filled with fentanyl,
because she refuses to finish the wall.
She thinks it would be nice if she could abolish I.C.E.
She should have thought twice before suggesting that bad advice.
It has all led to a lot of strife.
Now our nation is torn.

The United States of America they seek to destroy.

We must fight the plight of the Socialist’s might.
Socialists need to be ripped from their thrones,
and be no longer known.
We need to unify our nation with one determination.
Act forthwith lest our family and friends turn to foes.
Our communities need mending and socialism needs ending.

Holler patriots, holler, let the truth ring out.
Fight patriots, fight, never surrender.
Vote patriots, vote.

God save The United States of America!

© [2024] Author: Emet Ezer  All Rights Reserved
Inspired by John Milton's “In Quintum Novembris“

As the mind grows weary
in the plum void darkness
a hand twiddles and bends the
vibrations around your
body into a swirling
spiral, hazy lazy magic spinning
sound fog brushing and breezing
around your mind massaging your
brain and igniting a slow pulse
like an ember kissing a flame
in your chest as the warmth  winds
around your body like the ripple of
an opal Venus choral dropped in lava
lasciviously  lounging in your eyes
as if a phoenix sang an ode in the vast intersection
of time and space colliding together
to make a gravity that slowly compels you into the
wormhole of your self--
the door to many things and realms craving to be opened
if just to get some fresh, rain embraced air...
the smile says everything.

You're right, I agree.
We should sleep on the hammock by the howlite beach
and fall asleep as the indigo water lulls us to sleep.

Not the news that was inside of the brain
And the crisscross of what was there before
Dear love who pushes everyone around
They say that slaves are long gone but I see
That love is the one holding the reigns

In speed we know not where the thoughts come from
So whatever is produced seems like truth
Spreading apart time like a deck of cards at a table
The Piper makes sure all the dust is away from the stable
And the brain recollects only what it wishes to

Sister to be so far away from home makes my heart to stone
There was a place I wanted us to go together but now no longer
Singing in song to press the ear to mother earth
Pressing my lips to the bright blue sky kissing God
We poets are nothing but mathematicians with words

To pray in the soft humid light of Middle Europe
Living in solitude away from a life once known
To dance underneath the milk spilt sky of stars
Breathing in serenity once only permitted for the Gods
The table has turned and it is exactly the same as before

Money in the eye of the internet - though I hate to admit it
She once said, "You look good sitting there" and I laughed
The shadows spread across the walls of my mind
And all I have to show for it are thousands of pages
And lacking anything I can honor as time well spent

Piano Gould plays fast and in sync with the madness of men
The madness of the world and the madness of his own mind
Swirling eclipse churning the sea ravaging the natives
Burning the trees with ****** as the ***** of the sea
Suit up their pants, button up their tops, and fasten their ties

Sun on my back like a cape or hot stick of boiling butter
The two together laughed and drank and spit on each other
Leaving the soil black where once it had been white
There is love again, there is Her promise with her fingers crossed
Away from the public one will always think of the door

An lo' the rejection slips that burn in the pockets like coal
The train leaving the station, you on it, knowing not where to go
Sea breeze leaks through your auburn hair as the mistress
Twiddles with her candy cane and combs through her hair
A promise to see the whole world in just one blink

Courtesy forsooth I tell thee that ****** was never a sin
Nakedness was God's wish and the robes must come off
The sheets of our bed are on fire and the windows are closed
I hold my breath but yet still breathe from my own nose
The hare eats its carrots as the fox waits to jump from its own hole

Fingers dance upon the ice covered plain field
The soldiers swords are ready, they've eaten their last meal
The blacksmith's hammer swings and is getting worn down
The queen on her pedestal is presented with a newly sewn gown
We peasants with pens praise Shakespeare for his ingenuity
Lo' in secret with his estate and his money, he truly was one

The hard-workers with their hands and their blades and their resentment
Make anything presented with them show a veil of false sentiment
Writing too long for my trusty pen to hold anymore ink
At times I think I've lost my mind, my heart tips on the brink
Where Lear entrusts his daughters, the chorus readies their mourners

That moon of mine
Hides in clouds above the rail line
While wind twiddles tall grass
"I'm all for you," you said
"And you're only for me."
I'd be ****** if I'd let on
I haven't felt this lift in so long
I might have forgotten I'm alive
So these lips shut
What wants out I leave to rust
While eight fingers entwine
"What?" you asked with a smile
"Nothing but happiness."
I'd be ****** if I'd let on
Both naked now I'll sing you a song
And maybe staring you'll catch my drift

She stands there,
simply,
cocking her head like
a dog.
She doesn’t understand
the glare of your eyes or
the dip of
the corners of your mouth.
She is innocent,
staring at her Converse,
toes turned in,
hips jutted out.
She twiddles her thumbs,
pulls at her shirt,
just so her eyes don’t
have to meet yours.
You take her in
your arms, but
she pushes you
away,
taking with her
the perfume smell of
gardenias that
you miss.

I scramble around a petrol token mug
purporting to be an ash tray stained in neglect
needling between ash and cigarette butts
looking for some spent tobacco to recycle
and breathe in the cancerous smoke of belonging.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I am strong when you are feeble", he said.

The doctor twiddles his fountain pen
a parting gift from his late father
held with the poise of grace
and wielded like a lance
the pen can do many things for he and I
prescribe or chastise
the freedom with solitude
and the four white walls
of limiting restraint.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"We are symbiotic you and I", he said.

I wonder though is it:
Mutualistic
Commensalism
Parasitism or
Neutralism -
Who benefits who?

Do we bathe in each others glory
holding hands in the lost age of reason
comfort in the loneliness of winter
or just a dream of the endless
a figment of the imagination
and the passing of time
looking out of frosted windows.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I lead you in the dark, I am your light", he said.

I sometimes step back into the gloom
He fills my capillaries
clogging up my arteries
with his dark and mischievous veins
calling out to faceless strangers
walking past in the haze
the ones the others do not see
just out of line of sight
mottled and disfigured and blurred.

"Have another drink on me", he said.

I am distracted by the minute
leading this shabby existence
and the opening of unpaid bills
and the carnage of last weeks washing
and the bottles of empty beer discarded
like a tramps ***** in the drying sun
monuments to a day before when we were younger
and wrestled in the long grass of salvation
and the long summer days of liberal libation.

"I am the one and only constant you will ever have", he said.

Without him I will be hollow
like a rotten tree trunk
gashed in initials of love letters
with a pen knife
saturated in the remains
of fortified wine bottles
and leaf litter molding
in the dying frost of spring.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
Just don't ever talk about us, is what he meant.

I’ve had trouble writing
all throughout this trip

you’d think in London,
an unfamiliar and
wild place,
I would find inspiration
in everything
but alas,
I have found
none

writing has become so integral
to my life
that I sense changes,
in myself,
when I cannot make
them

a man puts a bag above me
my sister twiddles her thumbs
women too old or too pretty for me are everywhere
but two perfect ones are in the next section up
my hand writing is messy
it’s warm in here
it’ll be cold at 30,000 feet

why can’t I write
about all of that?

I get angry
or
annoying
when I can’t
write

I sometimes put bars on my I’s
sometimes not

I tell everyone else my thoughts

my friends, my family,
my mom, my dad, my
sister, my hobo on the
street, my anything else
but the page

yet the page is the only one that doesn’t go
“shush”

a lady texts
someone was working below the toilet
I’ve got a **** week ahead
the exit sign is interesting to me
my music speaks to me too much now a days

I feel better

the ink on the page smiles at me

Scribbled
Tidbits
Fidgeting
The twiddles
Of a warrior
Wandering
Wayward

You told me I reminded you of a painting you once saw.
Acrylic strokes, not able to spot a single flaw.
You described
every crevice,
every edge,
every brush of colour.
I pictured a girls eyes gleaming as bright as the summer.
Shaking your head you told me to search.
Deep down you said there's more to her.
An ocean of stories having yet to be told;
a heart is the one thing that never grows old.
You went on about her left eyebrow
and the creases in her lips.
How lost she sometimes looks,
and the placement of her hips.
Imagine a girl only loved by some,
people only notice little things about her,
like the way she twiddles her thumbs.
Look at the way her collarbone curves,
I smile,
your voice telling me to give it the appreciation it deserves.

RICHES
Land of multicolored dreams, where paper's made in pretty reams.
Land where pleasant peasants play, with quills made of peacock feathers,
Exercise in penning skills.
Bank notes made of paper, along with glossy magazines.
Elegant women popping pills.
Stinking rich images.
'pon covers of said magazine.
Magazine holds bullets, aimed at the perfect queen of hearts.
Writers twiddles and fiddle with their pen.
Oh joy, the reader sits and grins as here she goes again.
(c)Livvi

Playing the waiting game,
one fiddles with his feet,
or twiddles with his thumbs,
As he fancies of a beach,
pressing his teeth against his gums,

Of the worlds he could explore,
he finds himself indoors,
and forms clouds of distant lands,
In the wait of kingdom's come

I am an addict.
An addict I am.
It's not going to damage my health.
In fact it's going to help.
It twiddles with my mind.
I go to bed, lay in the fetal position on my right hand side.
I have a compelling addiction to writing words.
In singular syllables.
Words and paragraphs.
I'm kissing punctuation some what poorly
Words are life and life is words
(c) Livvi

he's a superstitious fella,
that's the rumour people throw around.
he often sits inside, twiddling his thumbs,
thinking of what could possibly go wrong.

there are whispers around town,
questions in media about how he acts.
people always talk about him,
and wonder if he'll ever admit it.

most say no, many say yes
and almost everyone, always
just says to ask.

but he's a superstitious fella,
that's the rumour that's true.
he sits inside, twiddles his thumbs,
plays with his hair and straightens his back.

their questions and thoughts about what he is
float around as he thinks about what everyone is saying
and wonders what could possibly go wrong.

a superstitious fella could never sit outside
in the coffee shop with his friends
or a bowling alley with his family.

but this superstitious fella is unique indeed,
because he sits inside and wishes the day away.
this superstitious fella bites his tongue and cheek,
because this superstitious fella is me.

the mirror plays favorites
she twiddles the beauty queen’s golden hair
she puckers up so lipstick can be placed on her full lips
her hair the perfect length to play with
not dry, but smooth and so healthy

she picks the prom queen’s silky dress with dignity
it’s perfect for her malnourished body
it lays and sits so beautifully
the mirror sees her and appreciates the craft she created
grins, and puts silver and gold expensive earrings on her ears

but when i approach,
she turns her face in disgust
throws an outfit at me; ripped jeans and a tacky t-shirt
she says i’m too fat and that i should keep my legs far apart so people don’t notice how weird i look
she grimaces at me and i walk away bashfully
‘never letting her look at me again’
i say
but
i always come back for her critical opinion
and i accept it
that’s exactly what i am
not beautiful, a fat failure

"...I WOULD GIVE YOU BACK YOURSELF..."

( for Jeremy Lyons )

Here in our summer
is Edward's thrush

as it "twiddles its song."
perhaps the very same one

flying through time
from mind to mind.

Here in this moment
I see through Thomas's eyes

that I "have two
million things to learn."

I walking across the landscape
of his thought.

I too forever" in pursuit
of spring."

Time holds us
in his hand

man and bird
sharing the same moment.

The shell blast
over Arras

as Easter commences
its offensive.

The man you were
lost  in light and twilight

I following in the footsteps
of your words.

Look inside me
See nothing? Look deeper
Hding under my beating heart,
Just behind the shimmering silver skin of my soul
A foul entity sits on a pile of dirt
One eye half gone, the other not quite whole
His skin a foul purple, reeking of lost things
This cursed creature sits and twiddles his thumbs
He watches through my eyes as I smile and I cry
And just when I think that he has crumbled away,
He suddenly climbs up my spine
And clambers into my head to play
He plays with shadows, he plays with light
He dissolves the clarity of wrong and right
He toys with puppets, all connected to my limbs
And as he plays he whispers
“No pain, no gain, precious heart,
You must break before joy you meet
This game I play is a practiced art
A game that you cannot hope to beat.”
And he giggles, and he shows me
All these ways that I could die
I could jump and try to fly
I could wear a necklace of rope
I could choke on broken hope
The silver shimmers in my hand
Promising a much better land
But in the reflection I see a new face
And my heart begins to race
For the face is not mine, but instead
my soul mate, who would shatter if I were dead
This tricky beast living under my throat,
He can dance and he can gloat
But no matter how many needles
he buries under my pale, scarred skin
I will always find my love again.

*And this is what will save me.

Everyone was
So happy
And secure

Here in America

And in a heartbeat
My how things have changed

Suburban households
Are on food rations

Shipments
To markets
Are infrequent

Hyper-Inflation

On top of that
The power grid
Keeps failing

After the EMP attack
They get it going
For a while
And then it fails

It was only a matter
Of time

And I knew it would happen

And we weren't prepared

Sure we had a few months
Of food prepared

But that was all

We should have had years ready

Like an old man
I move slow and steady

Never know
When my next meal will be
In America
The land of misery

And the drones keep
A constant eye out
To make sure

You stay at home

If you're out
Past 11

A UN ******
May put a bullet
In your dome

No longer
A citizen
With your rights

And with their
High tech gear
The military forces
Own the night

Life is fleeting
And it seems to me

That there may be a disaster coming
That will bring great misery

And everything
Is always so **-hum
My family sits arounds
And twiddles their thumbs

Don't have
All the necessary
Emergency gear

A troubling time
May be quite near...

Her lies are consistent
Her smile is hollow
But when she wears upon her head
Her crown of despair
You're in for a surprise
Because she twiddles her thumbs
And her dull eyes spark a resolution
To a plan she forms within her mind.

Her heart is kept
Frozen in time,
Out of reach
Far from those she may spite.

Her hands are cold
Her sneer is dreadful
But when she wears upon her shoulders
Her cloak of vengeance
You're in for a surprise
Because she taps her chin
And her fingers bounce with joy
Against the blade she wields beside your bed.

a spoon
gently drags
across the
bottom of
a bowl. the
lovers laugh.
the servers
are leaning
against the
walls and
glass windows;
the water in
the aquarium
glistening
in sunlight.
afternoons
at the diner
are peculiar
and quiet.
visibly warm
— the air
outside.
inside —
condensation
on the table,
through
the cloth.
interesting
things don't
happen here;
just this
over again.
a man leans
back in his
chair and
scribbles
in his
notebook.
a waitress
twiddles
her thumbs.
i ask for
another cup
of coffee.