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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men

it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient

here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
False Poets Aug 2014
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste

born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes

blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction

the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of

but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't

For Crumble
Jaxey Oct 2018
Roses are red
Violets are blue
But now so am I
And it's all cause of you
Now instead of the roses
My writs are blood red
And the violets have stained
The side of my head
You hug me and cry
And I say it's okay
But you always come back
With your violent bouquet
Please no more bouquets
Maegan deme Oct 2018
people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.

there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.

love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.

what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.
we've reached everything, but haven't found the end.
is writing just a super-task of infinitesimally unfinished words. or do you have to furnish all the poems with fancy oak and gold
John Dewberry Sep 18
by socialization
call it government inoculation
propaganda machines
curteousy of those in power
but existed long before
and was created, perpetuated, and spread
by the people
who create images, write rights
to ‘right’ the writs written
and adopted by politicians whose personality
was created and nurtured by you and I
and by them and us
we created politicians
bolstored their success
now we are reaping the
dissatisfaction of what we created
we ****** up
This is no longer an issue of partisan politics
we must all change our ways
John Dewberry Sep 20

We are merely writers
Of lives passed lived
when writing writs  ‘rights’  wrong writings
rightful rites
are signed over with the blood of fallacy
By intellectuals and cynics alike
Who’ve given up
Rights within us wrongfully appear in dissonance
Reflecting the stories from the past
taken for education but lessons ignored
The system has failed you
Histories created

And we remain
None the wiser
Philomena May 2
Red drops onto the spotless counter
Bright crimson against the pale white
A singular red circle in a sky of while
Another drop falls and joins it
Smaller than the first
Then another and another

She looks in the mirror
Maskera streaked like smoke trails against her skin
Pain in her eyes
Her lips quiver and she bows her head
Clear drops falls among the red on the counter

The tears continue to fall as she looks up again
She wipes the tears from her face
As her hand moves over the skin a trail of red appears
Her eyes focus on the smear of blood
She once again wipes her face and she knows what she must do

She takes a breath and looks to her arms
The small cuts seem like whispers in the night
She opens up a makeup compact case
Inside a dozen pieces of broken glass
Just as broken as her

She picks up a curved one
Originally from a glass she broke in the kitchen
About two months ago
Just another incident in a never ending stream
It looks like ice as she sets it against the white counter top

She lines each piece up in a line
Almost like a small army
Preparing for battle
However the war rages inside her
And the end is nowhere in sight

She looks over them
Some duller, older than others
She mulls over them as she makes a decision
And sets a few to the front lines
Looking up once again she takes a breath

Her tears have halted
And her breath stills
All waiting, anticipating
She chooses one
The glass feels so familiar in her fingers

The tip sits pressed against her skin
She winces as she pushes harder
And finally rips through
Skin tears from skin
As the glass glides through her flesh
Like a marathon runner crossing the finish line

The red arises from the depths
It pours over the edges of skin and slides down her wrists
It drips to the counter with ferocity
And soon the drops of red become puddles.

She chooses another recruit
This time a flat piece of glass from a window she dropped
Again it tears into her as she holds her breath
Blood flows and spills against the white
And the tears begin to flow again

Looking down she sees her wrists
Blood covered
They feel so weak
She begins to sob as she lets them fall to her sides
The pain of existence right there on her hands

She sits against the wall until she finds the strength to stand again
The blood on her writs gone from a running stream
To a dark paste
Blood on the counter a aftermath
Dried and black

She picks up a piece of clean glass
Presses it in the open wound and slides it through
The dried blood quickly overcome with a fresh spring or crimson
Once again the drops fall along with her tears

She turns the water on in the sink
It flows clear as day
Clear as the glass sitting beside it
She runs her writs under the cool stream
And winces as the water hits her wounds

The blood runs away and the gaping gashes are all that's left
She grabs a towel and puts it under the water
It dances across the counter as it smears the blood
She wipes it again and again until it all disappears
She runs her arms again under the water cleansing them

Lastly she looks to the glass
Bloodied soldiers only partially lined up
Several scattered around the counter
Like bodies on a battlefield

She scoops them up and washes each one
One by one
She sets the sterile glass back into the makeup compact case
Laying them to rest
Until they will be called to duty again

She looks down at the clear white counter
And turns off the water
She tosses the towel and looks up
A shell of a human being is reflected in the mirror
She wipes her tears again and leaves

Off to fall into the inky blackness of sleep
Hoping and wishing
That if it be even remotely possible
She could wish herself to death
And never wake up
SJG Oct 20
I’ve been working this for years: solitary writs for solitary queers,
flubbed kisses beneath Bridget Riley prints – I could not get right.

Place a plastic amber shopping bag
around that naked lamp bulb
and hold me through the night.
SJG Oct 26
There’s poetry in the facts,
But telling the truth could get someone else killed.

Remember what’s true.
Construction is a variable,
And art is variables too.


For thousands of years
The world was a stone
God would ring up
But no-one was home
Anthropologists believe
Nothing really lives alone,
Boiling in the human stew.

Sometimes, I confess,
I get a little misty-eyed
For the working society
In my childhood lie;
I grew out of that skin
But I see things the same;
More with each passing year,
To tell you the truth.

I’m feeling in. I’m freaking out.
Tried fleeing north but heading south.

Magic and wonder,
Friends available all the time;
The job isn’t too much,
And the birds have enough worms,
And nobody has ever gone mad
Or starved to death,
And this town is very nice
And everybody wants to be everybody’s friend.

When you get out on bail,
You’re free to come around.
We’ll play Pictionary
And wax sweetly over organised sound.
We’ll roll onto our private sides
When it’s time for bed;
And happy dreams might comfort you.

My fiction is freaking out.
Nobody lives, nobody shouts.


Now what, what does your history say?
Is there a drawer at the back of your mind where you tuck tough **** away?
Do you believe, believe in mysteries?
Do you say it as they say it?
Do you see it like they see?

Yes, you’re an animal,
And I guess by those standards,
You’re doing pretty fine.
No rhinoceros has ever ordered
Discount art prints online.
Do you keep up with the moral toss?
Do you change things up by changing your views?
Do you play Devil’s Advocate
To keep things new?

The last of lifeboats have been co-opted by the sharks.
They’re asking you to grow up.
They’re suggesting you’re not smart.
They set the rhythm.
They know the truth.
They close the deal on love,
Capitalist Realism in bloom.

And if you loved me,
You’d agree.
If you loved me,
You would agree.


I’m living it up.
I’m getting it free.
I’m flirting with human emotion.

I’m learning to die.
I’m getting born.
I’m made of sterner stuff.
I’m, I’m, I’m, I’m,
I’m flirting with human emotion.

And I don’t know what I do.
I don’t know how to settle **** with you.

Been receiving writs about what the flower saw during its brief time on Earth:

“Oh no, this isn’t good. This won’t do.”

“Apparently, you’re meant to bend towards the sun, but is that all you’re meant to do?”

“I am helpless. Stranded in a plastic ***, waiting to be watered, eventually succumbing to the Winter’s mild ice.”

“Sometimes, the bees drop by to say hello, but never without taking something of mine.”

So sad falling out of touch with
Everything that got you displaced and
While the future and the past are absent, the manacles remain.

If you want, we can go sofa-surfing.
Keep our heads quiet until there’s some kind of revolution, oh,
I try being nice and pleasant,
Very passive, very sweet.

This junk shop art form
Ain’t grim enough for the both of us.
Sooner or later, ****** are gonna take it,
Pry it from our cold wet hands,
Like bleeding peacocks in the snow.


So filthy and so comfy
Practising Wiccan for the freaks in the basement.
And what’s next? Displacement?
Or something like that?

Hey, open your eyes to beauty, friend.
Somewhere, the sun-kissed tourists
Are breaking fresh bread.
Somewhere, the fishing boats are bringing their haul home.
Somehow, the mind has no impulse to wander,
And the heart bears no desire to roam.

But, my god, Marianne,
Don’t you think it’s time we began
To whine and ***** and moan
Like wild dogs nipping at the elephants?

You think it’d be lovely for me to be with you?
Well, you’re probably right. What can I say?
I saw myself as some botched brain surgery patient leering at an all-hours muse, snug in the safety of my bed.

And madness keeps lurking,
Off to the races and cited often,
A psychogenic itch at the centre of things, never reveals itself, never sees itself to soften.

— The End —