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A Mareship Sep 2013
(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.

Etched into every tree

The word:

S U C C E S S)

I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.

I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.

My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).

Gobstopper ******* in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...

Bells,
Chiming,

Dark
Oubliettes,

Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
Ding **** ding *****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
um - unfinished and work in progress
island poet Jul 2020
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not

~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~


the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
he/she has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living  existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent  or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.

Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.

thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.

Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.

The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis”  which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
^ Motel, (pronounced as Muttle, as in Motel the Tailor from Fiddler o the Roof,
so named because of his mottled fur and markings
Anais Vionet Sep 2023
perroquet avenue lips
poems and polaroids
pornitography
hariness
protected by vickies
cleavite libertinism
third base
strobe-lit memories

slang..
perroquet = a delicious, minty French alcoholic drink
avenue = a shade of deeply red lipstick
vickies = victoria's secrets
cleavite = untanned areas usually covered by a bathing suit, and thus pale
third base = come ON, everyone knows
K M May 2015
Dear Cristina
my friend Cristina
The wisp of March wind
could not have come sooner
I just walked down the road
in the purple hour
through an unearthly tropical mist
that swirled around my body
like the ocean swirls around a dancing mermaid
like the snow that encircles your body in a snowstorm
like floating on the enchanting breeze of a love song
I don't go to bed until dawn these days
when the earth is blue and sad
and echoes the emptiness of the desert with no stars
it makes me happy
it makes a strange sensation overcome my cheeks
as my teeth are exposed to the air
and my mouth stretches
into a smile
it feels a bit like pain
but it's not pain
and it feels a bit like acting
except it's real
a smile from the dawn of man
a caveman monkey smile of vague origin and strange ceremony
a smile that might disturb and perplex
even closest friends
but it is not my intention to frighten
so it's for the best that I am mostly in solitude
and that the few remaining friends I had
are all gone now
I bounce around from place to place
5 places in 5 months
I'd forgotten what it was like not to have a home
it's nice
I was spoiled
but I can tell you for a fact
I know
I am alive now
no questions asked
no doubts
I'm sitting in a ramshackle old beach house that's haunted
with a ghost made of mold
surrounded by a clutter of bizarre and beautiful paraphernalia
dusty antiques that haven't been touched in years
and little statues in corners hidden by five hundred green plants
dinosaur plants
here and there my clothes scattered about
my open suitcases in a corner
my new acid wash jeans bunched up on the floor
The kind you've been searching for
for a year now
I spent my last 5 bucks on them yesterday
I haven't much in the fridge this week
so I eat potatoes
I'm still on Steinbeck's "Cup of Gold"
sipping it slowly like a fine wine
the March break kids are in town this week
shooting off firecrackers outside my window
and stealing all the cool sweaters at Goodwill
We should go to Paris
on our way to India this fall
we're gonna paint that town
literally
until then
read some books
and go to the movies at night
and when you put on your first shorts
with still-prickly untanned winter legs
think of me
Hope E Jan 2017
My time is not meant for those who pretend to know me because they have seen an untanned patch of my skin
Do not etch me into your wooden bedpost as another tamed *****

Titles are not awarded for time served
and ***** licked in fits of feverish lust
Not your girlfriend barely a friend
Do you even remember why I was crying last august?
12/7/16
I was so angry that day
Jonathan Foreman, Daily Mail (London), August 18, 2013
The 16-year-old girl’s once-beautiful face was grotesque.
She had been disfigured beyond all recognition in the 18 months she had been held captive by the Comanche Indians.
Now, she was being offered back to the Texan authorities by Indian chiefs as part of a peace negotiation.
To gasps of horror from the watching crowds, the Indians presented her at the Council House in the ranching town of San Antonio in 1840, the year Queen Victoria married Prince Albert.
‘Her head, arms and face were full of bruises and sores,’ wrote one witness, Mary Maverick. ‘And her nose was actually burnt off to the bone. Both nostrils were wide open and denuded of flesh.’
Once handed over, Matilda Lockhart broke down as she described the horrors she had endured—the ****, the relentless ****** humiliation and the way Comanche squaws had tortured her with fire. It wasn’t just her nose, her thin body was hideously scarred all over with burns.
When she mentioned she thought there were 15 other white captives at the Indians’ camp, all of them being subjected to a similar fate, the Texan lawmakers and officials said they were detaining the Comanche chiefs while they rescued the others.
It was a decision that prompted one of the most brutal slaughters in the history of the Wild West—and showed just how bloodthirsty the Comanche could be in revenge.
S C Gwynne, author of Empire Of The Summer Moon about the rise and fall of the Comanche, says simply: ‘No tribe in the history of the Spanish, French, Mexican, Texan, and American occupations of this land had ever caused so much havoc and death. None was even a close second.’
He refers to the ‘demonic immorality’ of Comanche attacks on white settlers, the way in which torture, killings and gang-rapes were routine. ‘The logic of Comanche raids was straightforward,’ he explains.
‘All the men were killed, and any men who were captured alive were tortured; the captive women were gang *****. Babies were invariably killed.’
Not that you would know this from the new Lone Ranger movie, starring Johnny Depp as the Indian Tonto.
For reasons best know to themselves, the film-makers have changed Tonto’s tribe to Comanche—in the original TV version, he was a member of the comparatively peace-loving Potowatomi tribe.
And yet he and his fellow native Americans are presented in the film as saintly victims of a Old West where it is the white settlers—the men who built America—who represent nothing but exploitation, brutality, environmental destruction and genocide.
Depp has said he wanted to play Tonto in order to portray Native Americans in a more sympathetic light. But the Comanche never showed sympathy themselves.
When that Indian delegation to San Antonio realised they were to be detained, they tried to fight their way out with bows and arrows and knives—killing any Texan they could get at. In turn, Texan soldiers opened fire, slaughtering 35 Comanche, injuring many more and taking 29 prisoner.
But the Comanche tribe’s furious response knew no bounds. When the Texans suggested they swap the Comanche prisoners for their captives, the Indians tortured every one of those captives to death instead.
‘One by one, the children and young women were pegged out naked beside the camp fire,’ according to a contemporary account. ‘They were skinned, sliced, and horribly mutilated, and finally burned alive by vengeful women determined to wring the last shriek and convulsion from their agonised bodies. Matilda Lockhart’s six-year-old sister was among these unfortunates who died screaming under the high plains moon.’
Not only were the Comanche specialists in torture, they were also the most ferocious and successful warriors—indeed, they become known as ‘Lords of the Plains’.
They were as imperialist and genocidal as the white settlers who eventually vanquished them.
When they first migrated to the great plains of the American South in the late 18th century from the Rocky Mountains, not only did they achieve dominance over the tribes there, they almost exterminated the Apaches, among the greatest horse warriors in the world.
The key to the Comanche’s brutal success was that they adapted to the horse even more skilfully than the Apaches.
There were no horses at all in the Americas until the Spanish conquerors brought them. And the Comanche were a small, relatively primitive tribe roaming the area that is now Wyoming and Montana, until around 1700, when a migration southwards introduced them to escaped Spanish mustangs from Mexico.
The first Indians to take up the horse, they had an aptitude for horsemanship akin to that of Genghis Khan’s Mongols. Combined with their remarkable ferocity, this enabled them to dominate more territory than any other Indian tribe: what the Spanish called Comancheria spread over at least 250,000 miles.
They terrorised Mexico and brought the expansion of Spanish colonisation of America to a halt. They stole horses to ride and cattle to sell, often in return for firearms.
Other livestock they slaughtered along with babies and the elderly (older women were usually ***** before being killed), leaving what one Mexican called ‘a thousand deserts’. When their warriors were killed they felt honour-bound to exact a revenge that involved torture and death.
Settlers in Texas were utterly terrified of the Comanche, who would travel almost a thousand miles to slaughter a single white family.
The historian T R Fehrenbach, author of Comanche: The History Of A People, tells of a raid on an early settler family called the Parkers, who with other families had set up a stockade known as Fort Parker. In 1836, 100 mounted Comanche warriors appeared outside the fort’s walls, one of them waving a white flag to trick the Parkers.
‘Benjamin Parker went outside the gate to parley with the Comanche,’ he says. ‘The people inside the fort saw the riders suddenly surround him and drive their lances into him. Then with loud whoops, mounted warriors dashed for the gate. Silas Parker was cut down before he could bar their entry; horsemen poured inside the walls.’
Survivors described the slaughter: ‘The two Frosts, father and son, died in front of the women; Elder John Parker, his wife ‘Granny’ and others tried to flee. The warriors scattered and rode them down.
‘John Parker was pinned to the ground, he was scalped and his genitals ripped off. Then he was killed. Granny Parker was stripped and fixed to the earth with a lance driven through her flesh. Several warriors ***** her while she screamed.
‘Silas Parker’s wife Lucy fled through the gate with her four small children. But the Comanche overtook them near the river. They threw her and the four children over their horses to take them as captives.’
So intimidating was Comanche cruelty, almost all raids by Indians were blamed on them. Texans, Mexicans and other Indians living in the region all developed a particular dread of the full moon—still known as a ‘Comanche Moon’ in Texas—because that was when the Comanche came for cattle, horses and captives.
They were infamous for their inventive tortures, and women were usually in charge of the torture process.
The Comanche roasted captive American and Mexican soldiers to death over open fires. Others were castrated and scalped while alive. The most agonising Comanche tortures included burying captives up to the chin and cutting off their eyelids so their eyes were seared by the burning sun before they starved to death.
Contemporary accounts also describe them staking out male captives spread-eagled and naked over a red-ant bed. Sometimes this was done after excising the victim’s private parts, putting them in his mouth and then sewing his lips together.
One band sewed up captives in untanned leather and left them out in the sun. The green rawhide would slowly shrink and squeeze the prisoner to death.
T R Fehrenbach quotes a Spanish account that has Comanche torturing Tonkawa Indian captives by burning their hands and feet until the nerves in them were destroyed, then amputating these extremities and starting the fire treatment again on the fresh wounds. Scalped alive, the Tonkawas had their tongues torn out to stop the screaming.
The Comanche always fought to the death, because they expected to be treated like their captives. Babies were almost invariably killed in raids, though it should be said that soldiers and settlers were likely to ****** Comanche women and children if they came upon them.
Comanche boys—including captives—were raised to be warriors and had to endure ****** rites of passage. Women often fought alongside the men.
It’s possible the viciousness of the Comanche was in part a by-product of their violent encounters with notoriously cruel Spanish colonists and then with Mexican bandits and soldiers.
But a more persuasive theory is that the Comanche’s lack of central leadership prompted much of their cruelty. The Comanche bands were loose associations of warrior-raiders, like a confederation of small street gangs.
In every society, teenage and twenty-something youths are the most violent, and even if they had wanted to, Comanche tribal chiefs had no way of stopping their young men from raiding.
But the Comanche found their match with the Texas Rangers. Brilliantly portrayed in the Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove books, the Rangers began to be recruited in 1823, specifically to fight the Comanche and their allies. They were a tough guerilla force, as merciless as their Comanche opponents.
They also respected them. As one of McMurtry’s Ranger characters wryly tells a man who claims to have seen a thousand-strong band of Comanche: ‘If there’d ever been a thousand Comanche in a band they’d have taken Washington DC.”
The Texas Rangers often fared badly against their enemy until they learned how to fight like them, and until they were given the new Colt revolver.
During the Civil War, when the Rangers left to fight for the Confederacy, the Comanche rolled back the American frontier and white settlements by 100 miles.
Even after the Rangers came back and the U.S. Army joined the campaigns against Comanche raiders, Texas lost an average of 200 settlers a year until the Red River War of 1874, where the full might of the Army—and the destruction of great buffalo herds on which they depended—ended Commanche depredations.
Interestingly the Comanche, though hostile to all competing tribes and people they came across, had no sense of race. They supplemented their numbers with young American or Mexican captives, who could become full-fledged members of the tribe if they had warrior potential and could survive initiation rites.
Weaker captives might be sold to Mexican traders as slaves, but more often were slaughtered. But despite the cruelty, some of the young captives who were subsequently ransomed found themselves unable to adapt to settled ‘civilised life and ran away to rejoin their brothers.
One of the great chiefs, Quanah, was the son of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker. His father was killed in a raid by Texas Rangers that resulted in her being rescued from the tribe. She never adjusted to life back in civilisation and starved herself to death.
Quanah surrendered to the Army in 1874. He adapted well to life in a reservation, and indeed the Comanche, rather amazingly, become one of the most economically successful and best assimilated tribes.
As a result, the main Comanche reservation was closed in 1901, and Comanche soldiers served in the U.S. Army with distinction in the World Wars. Even today they are among the most prosperous native Americans, with a reputation for education.
By casting the cruelest, most aggressive tribe of Indians as mere saps and victims of oppression, Johnny Depp’s Lone Ranger perpetuates the patronising and ignorant cartoon of the ‘noble savage’.
Not only is it a travesty of the truth, it does no favours to the Indians Depp is so keen to support.
Zev Sharma Dec 2020
As I sit here thinking about how time has passed
Wondering how it all happened so fast
We were both NRI's who shared the same last name
Bonded over various silly little games
Never really thought anything much of it
And from there we became closely knit

Wherever you would go, you would see the Sharma bros
We shared our excitement and our woes
Complained about school, talked about Minecraft ideas
We reminisced over the US, and now it's time to see ya
I'm not really sure how I'll say goodbye
I'm not sure how our friendship happened or why
But I know I'll really miss you when you leave
Your absence was a thought I never concieved

Minecraft, Angry Birds Go, Bad Piggies, oh them all
They just won't feel the same when you're gone
I still remember our hopes of becoming internet sensations
Our endless talks on how to achieve our aspirations
Moving to India was hard, but we shared this difficulty together
Like two brave Steves fighting off the wither

I remember our first sleepover; it was a new experience for you and me
Getting to know you better and cutting down oak trees
We talked through the night about anything and everything
Addictively competing to see who was recieving the lowest ping
I had been alone in the US, never really found someone quite like me
You turned out to be so similar, sometimes I think we share a family tree

We always talked about going back to the US and how it was so much better there
And now when we are both returning back to our old homes, why does life seem unfair
We lamented about what all we gave up when we left the US
But never talked about what all we gained by reaching this address
They say you only realize the value of something when you lose it
I have Skype to play with you, but alone I will sit

We often play online, but there is a value to your presence
Even while we enjoy ourselves, I will lose your essence
I hope that you have a safe flight and journey
And will definitely come and meet you some time personally
I hope our stars align
We shall meet at least one more time
But for now, my dear friend Rohan, I shall say goodbye

If there is ever any problem, remember that I will be there to pacify
Be sure to send me a picture of your untanned hands building a snowman
We shall surely make some more memories and have something planned
Kevin Riley Jul 2020
There you go again, digging around
in the fly-covered entrails, looking
for the undigested piece of gristle
your mother forgot to cut off your steak
when you were 6.  All the while
the untanned hide sits rotting in the sun.

There are a few bare patches.
Scars from a recent rut?
Two holes where the arrows entered
the flank and lodged in the lungs.

Its takes forever to work
the skin soft with the brains.
Fingers raw, arms tired,
and Christ…the smell!
But it might keep you warm
in the lodge this winter.
Praise Nesvinga Aug 2020
Her glare aspires an enticing haze of admiration that slithers with a quiet fervour through me.
Her eye lashes like a clump of blowsy daffodils are pulsey with a leaping erraticity.
Those light brown irises fizzle and swivel the air around with a brooding handsomeness.
Appealing to the eyes as the colourful herbaceous borders of a typical English cottage garden, she's perfect with every glance.

Her affectionate but unmistakably spectacular eyes, gleam like a pawn-warmed chocolate under the beauteous arches of her eye brows.
Nicole's skin tone, slender and untanned with a velvet gold looks as though sculpted on her fine jaws, taut with contempt.
Heart-stoppingly beautiful, her teeth glow with a healthy sheer brilliance exposing a succulent compassionate smile.
It's her voice tone, yes that tone that suspires fizzes of throbbing excitement ripping through my chest to every corner immune of stimulation.

The sublime length of those caramel legs hurtles unchecked surges of murmurs hissing ' perfect ' in hushed and reverential tones.
Yes her three themes in one touch, scours as the unsettling sensual curve of her mouth swarming before my eyes mistily.
The flaming shudder from the softness of her palm skin vibrates any nerves with a reverberating hostility.
Her pure slivers of expessionate kindness, her ease that throbs with an inexplicable carnality, never fails to remind me how Nicole is perfect with every glance
For Nicole Sibanda
Me Dec 2020
The untanned soles of your
naked feet the most
vulnerable part yet facing
my palm now
I'll slowly embrace
the crocodile woman

— The End —