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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
Patrick Austin Oct 2018
Please take a quick a moment to write a review.
If you were not satisfied, what could I do?
Customer care is always my goal,
to all future guests who visit my soul.
Closure’s essential to us moving on,
It matters to me why now you are gone.
Fearful my future will repeat mistakes,
I need to know first I might have what it takes.
Did I love too strongly at first when we met,
then settle for stable as needs being met?
Was it the fact that we need to work harder?
disappointments too much for you, so why bother?
With your help, my program can surely improve,
for now I am ready to make my next move.
Patrons of my heart may have different needs,
beyond conversation and sowing of seeds.
They may not discover the flaws that you see,
because they love past them, unlike you, with me.
Having a long term relationship end suddenly with no explanation is devastating. Please consider talking about things face to face and explaining your actions, choices and feelings. Anyone who does less, is not worthy of being in relationships. Wouldn't it be nice if people had reviews on Yelp after dates and relationships. I think better behavior when dating could result from this. What do you think?
I'm a **** in silverfoil
with an outlaw's Excaliber.
Bottle of Moet,
I'll glass 'em like a poet.
You don't seek my mad company,
but should you meet bad company,
don't woz your pretty head over secret ingredi-
ent in my  Punisher's Pigfeed.

Coz you gotcha self a guardian stalker,
gotcha back, aintcha noticed
how all of your opponents slowly
grace missing posters?
Guardian angel taking out his frustrations
on your every enemy: you don't know you need me.
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp  of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Sometimes you feel me on the night,
your own personal Dark Knight.
I firebombed Brighthouse
- why didja think that tumbledryer was on the house?
I won the war of all your stalkers,
but last code red cost me a cold blood rap.
'Cherchez la femme'
my ooh-la-la Remoaner
Knox Road tat. Reminds me ...

I'm your guardian stalker,
I went bit Christopher Walken
on your daughter's bully's father
in a black balaclava.
Guardian stalker, you know
that ****** dogwalker  
found sleeping with the ducks
- I did it for you, Fido too!
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
Emergency convening of COBRA
can't **** a man killed by love.
Even Walker, Texas Ranger
can't **** a man killed by love!
Knox Road = Norwich prison
We all know about Rudolph
and how his nose lights up the night
And olive, the other reindeer
Who help Santa with his flight

But, there's one who is forgotten
From the Christmas songs and rhymes
And I think you should hear about him
Yes, I think it is about time

Randy was a reindeer
He liked to play the reindeer games
But he too, was like Rudolph
And the others called him names

Randy, wasn't much at flying
Didn't like going out most nights
Randy, well, he was just different
You see, he was afraid of heights

He couldn't see where he was going
Either in the day or night
You see Randy needed glasses
He had a problem with his sight

His balance was in question
Always falling to the ground
If a reindeer falls in the forest
Does that reindeer make a sound?

He had a skin condition
He needed special cream to help
The harness didn't help him
In fact, it made him yelp

He was shorter than the others
And his stride was a bit off
And when Santa came to see him
Randy had a nervous cough

He didn't like the female reindeer
He liked the males, more than he should
Randy was "light up in the antlers"
And to Santa, that's no good

Santa couldn't fly with Randy
Randy's name, it was all wrong
It screamed out Broadway not of Christmas
It didn't work in all the songs

Santa said "you're a strange reindeer"
"You can't fly, you're blind and gay"
"And if you led my team out"
"We'd not be done in just one day"

"I'm sorry, reindeer Randy"
"I have to cut you from the team"
"They play one side,you're another"
"If you know what Santa means"

So, Randy, he just wanders
Round the north pole all the while
Bumping into things and falling
With his light antlers and strange smile

He's not a famous reindeer
And I think that it's ok
That Santa has a reindeer
Who, we now all know is gay.
i watched today
my childhood unfold as a 30 year old
but today it was different
strangely tempered
but some things never change
my dad still takes his aggression out
in THE most hilarious ways
my mom is still sneaky
and pokes fires
and im giving myself a heart attack
waiting for a high five

i love it
watching the waves roll in
and sweating like a monster
where else do you get that
better yet
how else are you going to cleanse
from the night before
how else can you get your dad
to bite his tongue clean off
or your mom to say "psssst!"

but theyve had 30 years
shes barely even scratched the surface
and im trying to write my will before i die
and ****
this pen is out of ink
ill write it in blood if i have to
and ill leave it all to the allusionist
or is it allusion-ee
all im thinking about is her
trimming
cutting
suffering the yelp of a dog in a ******* dress
raking
yelp
plumbing
yelp

all the while
the image spinning
like a weather-vein in a thunderstorm
pressing me on
into a place
where red hair
in my iced tea
is commonplace
ryn Feb 2015
His bicycle let out a little yelp as he slowed to a stop,
The lady was dressed the same as the night before.
He could have cycled on but he had intentions he would not drop,
For he had heard stories of such beings from old wives' lore.

It was important for him to address this spectre.
Motivated by the advice he had received from his dad.
To never succumb to fear if a spirit he should ever encounter,
For the fear would consume and eventually drive him mad.

He was brimming with confidence as he spoke,
"Hello there again, I see that you are still in a fix".
He was determined not to be made again the joke
He had sworn to not be taken in by the imp's mischief and tricks.

A sweet fragrance lingered in the air,
Teasingly inviting him to greedily inhale it all in.
A gentle gust blew, caught and played with the strands of her hair...
Enamoured by her visage, he secretly gasped as if the air grew thin.

Her face was still partially obscured by her black flowing hair.
She turned to him before she gave her reply,
"Would you please give me a lift, dear sir...kind and rare...
I do not wish to be stranded alone, unsheltered under the moonlit sky"
.
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
I assured myself again that I was completely alone. Gingerly, I sat on the corner of her popcorn-and-perfume-scented bed and allow my tingling fingers to reach out and open that sacred journal again to page one. I never really understood it but maybe if I read it one more time. “Things I Wish I Never Knew:

1. People are selfish almost always.

2. Shaking hands does matter. ******.

3. Wine hangovers are miserable.

4. Puppies **** behind things ‘cause they feel guilty; you wont find it until it smells.

5. Friends really do come and go.

6. Neti Pots absolutely **** and bring you nosebleeds NOT relief.

7. Attraction and love are different. REMEMBER THIS ABOVE ALL.

8. Joy is clicking add to dictionary in Microsoft word.

9. If you can make it through Taco Bell kisses, morning breath will be a breeze.

10. Be jovial, it’s a choice and a side effect of living in daily adventure.

11. Make sure that your family knows…” I pause because I think I hear footsteps padding up the fourteen red-carpeted steps to her bedroom. I know I can’t move, the old wood floor in this crumbling house will definitely creak and give me away, so I just sit on the edge of the bed at full attention.

        “…No, ma’am, everything’s basically back to normal again, we’re getting the locks changed on Saturday. I’ll tell her you send your love.” The footsteps and voice were at the top of the stairs and I saw a shadow fall across the dusty floor in front of the white wooden door. I know it’s my neighbor Annie because she lives here. We grew up together. “Yes, ma’am, I love you too. I’ll try to make her call you soon. Bye.” Her phone beeped to signal the end of the conversation followed by a loud sigh. I peered from the bed into the hall and saw her sitting on the floor. Annie is a pretty girl. All the girls who live here are. We used to go to school together until my grades got too bad and I started my special school. We used to play in her front yard with her sister, Kelly. One time I kissed Kelly, but we were only seven. She is my only kiss. They both leave for most of the year now to go to college but come home for Christmas break. I will never go to college, but that’s ok.

        I felt my pants vibrating and the theme song to the TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire was somehow blaring from somewhere around my crotch. Before I could silence it, the shadow at the door became a tangible whirlwind of brown hair, sharp screams, and clawing grabbing fingers as she tried to wrench the ratty Moleskin journal from my fingers.

        “******, Cyril, I thought I heard someone in here. You give it back and get out of this house. You can’t, like, break into other people houses like this. This is just not what normal people do. Can’t your father control you?” At this point we’re both standing in the middle of the bedroom. I’m confused so I just dangle the journal in the air above her grasp. “It’s not yours and you know that. I know you at least understand that, right? Right, Cyril? What the hell would you do if Kelly had been showering or changing. Oh my god, ew, do NOT answer that.”

        “Ow,” I yelp as she scratches at my forearm to retrieve the precious journal. “Your claws are sharp, Annie, I have more scratches from you than I do Jimmy-cat and Jimmy-cat is mean, mean but fluffy… and he purrs but you don’t purr. Is that because you don’t like me?” I lower my arm and Annie snatches the Moleskine out of my fumbling fingers, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I hate it when people do that. I notice it, but they don’t think I do.

            “Cyril, get out.” Her right hand is now securely around the Moleskine and the other is shaking, pointed towards the doorway. “Now.”

            This is always the worst part. I walk out of Kelly’s forbidden bedroom: head hung as I creak down the fourteen red, carpeted stairs and make my way to the front door. It’s always quiet and I don’t like the quiet so whenever it’s quiet I count. I am good at counting. …Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…silence.

        I turn to her, “Annie, I’m sorry…”

            “Out.” She opens the front door and points me to my apartment, directly across the street. Its autumn now and the leaves and cold rustle down the street and I crouch deeper into my black coat as I step outside.

            “So maybe I’ll come over tomorrow?” I turn as I start down the steps, hopeful to have conjured up a smile from Annie, but all I see is the flash of brunette hair disappearing behind another thick, white wooden door.

            “Get off our property before I call the cops, you creep!”

            That’s what I’ve always been to these pretty girls: a creep. I don’t really understand what the word means, but I’m pretty sure from the way they say it that it’s not nice. Pops always tells me that I’m different because it’s better to be different. I don’t understand why Annie and Kelly don’t think it’s better that I’m different too.

            I decide to walk to Captain D’s and tell Earl hi because it’s Friday and that’s what I do on Fridays. Earl owns Captain D’s and has forever. Earl is my friend. Earl and Jimmy-cat at Captain D’s that I feed my left over fish are my friends. At least I think they are. I named the cat Jimmy-cat because Pops says mom used to listen to a man named Jimmy Buffett before she left us. I don’t remember those days.

            I turn the corner knowing Captain D’s is just 560 steps ahead and that to get back home I go 910 steps back and I’ll be at my front door. Counting is one thing I am good at; even the tests they used to make me take at the doctor’s office said so. I am good at numbers. Seven is my favorite number.

            I walk into Captain D’s and, like normal, its just Earl inside. He makes me two Fish-Filet sandwiches and we go stand outside. We usually don’t talk much, but I like that . I sit on the crunchy curb, put on my hood because the wind and leaves have made my ears sting. I unwrap the greasy paper on my first sandwich and Earl pulls out his red Marbolo’s and sits beside me lighting up his first cigarette.

            “Why do you smoke, Earl?” I ask him every Friday and he always responds the same way.

            “Eh. Why do the fish swim Cyril? Why do the Eagles and Crows fly? You know we don’t know why Women like shoes so much.”

I never really understand what he means but it makes me giggle and before we know it we’re both laughing. I’m pretty sure this is what friendship is. I lick the wrapper to get all the tarter sauce off and start on my second sandwich. Earl starts his second cigarette.

            “Where’s that alley cat you got trained up, boy? Go get ‘em and I’ll cook him his own fish patty.”

            He means Jimmy-cat. I wipe my fingers on my jeans, tear off a piece of the damp fish from my sandwich, and walk towards white picket fence that Earl built around the dumpster where Jimmy-cat lives. Jimmy-cat has a good life; he can eat anything in the green dumpster he wants and he is safe behind the big white fence. I don’t like the smell but maybe cats like eating and smelling the furry tarter sauce that clings on the sides of the dumpster. As I pull the lever to open Jimmy Cat’s home, I think it smells even worse than normal. After jiggling the latch a while, it clicks, and I swing the door open to Jimmy-cat’s house. It definitely smells worse. I step up one step and crunch on leaves and squish cold fries as I circle the dumpster. “Jimmy-Jimmy-Jimmy-cat, where-oh-where-oh-where ya at?” I stop as I enter the back right corner, I see Jimmy-cat but I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand what is wrong. He is covered in ketchup, maybe? But if that’s true what are the little white thingssss crawling around his stomach and why are they covered in ketchup and mayonnaise too? He is mewling and I’m scared. I smell fish. Fish and furry tarter sauce, one, two, three, four, my feet are crunching on the cold fries and leaves again, I know I’m at the door without even turning around.

            “Boy, what you doin’ in there?”

            “Earl?” …One…two… “Earl, can you help me? Earl, I, I don’t understand. I don’t like it.” …Three…four…five… “Jimmy-cat needs a bath, Earl, and something is eating his stomach.” …Six…seven…silence. Earl’s hand fells like a dead fish on my shoulder as he walks me back up to Jimmy-cats home.

            “Stay here, Cyril. Just gimme’a sec to see what’s happening.” Earl disappears into the leaves and fries and fur.

            eight…nine…ten

eleven…twelve…

            thi­rteen…

fourteen…

            silence.





            “Boy? Come back here now. C’mon.” Earl’s voice echoed around the green corners and I followed. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven I stand above Earl and I know the ketchup and mayonnaise and Jimmy-cat eating monsters are just on the other side of his crouched over body.

            “Well don’t be shy, come look.” Earl stands and I see his work apron covered in the ketchup and mayonnaise but beyond that in a bed of Fish-filet wrappers is Jimmy-cat and all the stomach eating monsters mewling at his stomach, as I get close I think they look kinda like little Jimmy-cats. I push my hood off my head as I lean over closer and that’s when it hit me, “Kittens! Jimmy-cat had kittens, Earl!”

            “I think Jimmy-cat may be more of a Jasmine-cat or Jennifer-cat.”

            I laid down the piece of fish I brought and Jimmy-Cat looks up into my eyes and I swear he was happy to see me.  I looked up at Earl and he was happy to see me too. I sat down in the mess of wrappers and fries and mold and laughed and laughed and laughed.
(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages
      — is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
      coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
      to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
                                       The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
                                       The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable—
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
When the train starts, and the passengers are settled
To fruit, periodicals and business letters
(And those who saw them off have left the platform)
Their faces relax from grief into relief,
To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death”—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
                      O voyagers, O ******,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.’
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
                                  Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
And always will be, some of them especially
When there is distress of nations and perplexity
Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.
Men’s curiosity searches past and future
And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement—
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers. And right action is freedom
From past and future also.
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realised;
Who are only undefeated
Because we have gone on trying;
We, content at the last
If our temporal reversion nourish
(Not too far from the yew-tree)
The life of significant soil.
It's. Two in the morning and the fox began to Yelp and Yelp and Yelp .
Until the Dog decides I've. had enough fox disturb my sleep ,
I shall bark and woof and woof and woof until you go to sleep .
Then the birds sang and sang their morning chorus cheep  
, and all the while all I could hear was  
Woof. Yelp and cheep .
Yes it really happened
Melpomene Jan 2017
Breathing on the surface but smothering inside,
Pale face blue lips and wide open eyes.
Running desperately with no company and guide,
Too little time and too many disguise.

Like a lost site pervade with dreariness and spite.

Who would help you when they heard your yelp?
Hoped to be broach but no one actually there to approach.
Who would love you when you lost your dove?

Trapped in this coach and let the soul slowly encroach.

How would you feel when no one is there for you to reach?
Stares at the window just to look for a shadow.
How would you feel when  your heart starts to screech?
At last it became hollow and loaded with deep sorrow.

Like a letter unsent filled with unread content.

Holding on like a puppet that is being sway,
With those unsure senses and constraint.
Living faithlessly giving in all and ends up stray,
Nerves are brutally torn and mind gone insane.
Agnis Lynota Sep 2012
My throat is so sore from screaming in this sound proof room,
filled with terrors beyond comprehension, and my own doom.
Everyday I find myself screaming "HELP" until my lungs gives out,
due to the evil that renders my nightmares, except I don't wake and pout.
Instead I pinch myself in attempt to wake, but it seems as if I already am
Wether this pain is real or just a horrid dream I don't give a ****
I just want it to relinquish itself from my chaotic mind so I can be normal and fine
not just look to a worried friend and say "oh I'm fine", that common lie of mine.
I want to actually feel happy on the inside and feel worth the light of day
because I deserve more than this, I just don't know why life's treating me this way.
I'm tired of being that homeless man on the street begging for food and money
while being passed by people who think I need to help myself, doesn't that sound funny?
A bunch of people a day pass me up thinking I have the power to help myself
but yet their the ones who understand nothing more than their own wealth.
Though I may have the power to get myself out of this horror land that I'm in,
I am lost in this maze called life and with every turn I take I hope to win.
Yet, I'm still enclaved in my sorrows and no one cares to give me a hand
I should be used to it by now, it's been 18 years that I've been on this land.
But back when I was much younger, I was reluctant to accepting any help
until I fell hard, flat on my face, and everyone heard my sorrowful yelp.
Enough about then, I actually do have a positive ending to this story
because theres always been something that has showed me glory
and that one thing is what you are reading, my beautiful poetry.
Not only does it refrain from hurting me, but it heals my dignity.
Without these rhymes, I would not smile or know how to be
Oh poetry, it is you that I breathe for, and not at all for me.
Mfena Ortswen Oct 2015
Low lies Mr. Leopard
Locking eyes on his prey
Licking slowly his upper lip
It's antelope for dinner today

A yelp of pain carries across the land
One more antelope is dead in the sand
This hungry leopard feeds to his fill
Tearing apart the flesh of his tactful ****
It makes me feel so alive
As i watch it bleed
It makes me feel so alive
Its such a sudden need

The pain is like a rush
If you saw me
You would definitely blush
Because this is not who im supposed to be

But im afraid
Its who i am
The price must be paid
So that i can stand

Stand myself
Without this knife
I would crumble
And i would end my life

So i continue to cut my skin
I dont care if its a sin
Its what must be done
If im to continue to see the sun

Everyone needs something
To cope with pain
This is what i need
For there to be any gain

I love the blood
I love feeling it flood
Down my leg
Im not going to beg

For help
So inwardly i yelp
In pain
And i watch the rain
Of red
That will scare me skin
And i want it to end
But i cant stop
Its out of my control
I have no soul
Im just a robot
Who must bleed
I have to feed
On this bright red sin
So i cut again and again

But there has to be more
Christ has settled my score
I wont give up
I wont stay stuck
I will keep moving
I will let go of this knife
I wont let it rule my life
An old poem about self harm, but there is hope to get this past you dont have to continue down this dark path, there is a God who loves you very much, and he is there for you, he is a father to the fatherless.
Pen Lux Dec 2011
Here's something to impress you
it's my heart wide open, curious, fearless
approach me, remove the flowers from my hair
take them home and wait for them to die
then tell me about the thoughts that possessed you
in the moments you tried to cry, but couldn't.

There's always something eating away at you, isn't there?
Keep scribbling, croak louder! Wake the town, bring me down.
Take me take me take me down! Build the wall of silence just a little thicker
I want to be sure I'm not nervous, I want to release all solidity and flow
through you as liquid, as sunlight, as starlight as wishes as glances you cast me
that I wasn't supposed to notice, (but did).

I love you is a funny way of starting a sentence,
a sentence is just something we use to get through the day.
****** up communication building blocks burying me deeper
than I can climb and they're crumbling like your emotions when you've
got hallucinations spreading in your spine, breaking you down, back broke,
stomach chalk throat choke nose coke short ****, inhale me like you do your smoke.
I taste the same I taste the same.

Yes yes yes yes yes I forgive you, I forgive myself
self-love self-help self-yelp
telepathy wavves like fog in a graveyard
retracing your steps because everything's changing
and you're burning wood
cast your fires on me, I'll be your shallow shadow
and I'll guide myself as far as you'll let me,
don't drag me down
just take me there.
Quickly, before before before.

I start to miss you and I think
I'm just recycling my gatsby complex into something more tangible
than tangerines in the middle of winter
or a wind storm,
trying to eat when there's a lack of corn,
and you can't digest it anyways.

you don't
belong in this
wagon
this wagon
doesn't even exist.

I'm memorizing you in ways like cutting with knives
and thinking about listening but then getting distracted.

Re-birthing in the direction of “i thought you might”
dying downwards and backwards and all the ways you've seen me
because that's what I do when you see me. I die.
It feels better than being alive so **** me killmekillmekillme.

There! Right THERE! That's the separation.
Robert Gutierrez Jul 2014
Simple, sweet,
and so delectable.
The taste of your kiss
lingers on my lips.
Enticing and you have
me yearning for more.

**** visions play
in my head like
roll on a film.
Seduction surges
my body and
makes me stiff.

I climb on top
of you and
your body
intertwines with mine;
DNA stranded perfectly
together.

My arm wraps around
your back. As I pull
your body close to mine,
your gasp whispers in
my ear.
You want more.

So soft are your legs,
which my fingers
explore.
My hands are curious
creatures, and you are
too inviting for my
own good.

Another kiss. This one
is fire. Passion blazing
while flames and heat
transfer from your
mouth to mine.

Then we are one.
Two halves finally
Equalling a whole.
A light yelp
escapes your mouth
and transforms
into a soft moan.

We are soaring
above cloud nine;
higher than we could
even imagine.
You are me.
I am you.
This is we.
We are passion.
James Court Dec 2017
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).

Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.

All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.

"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!

She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Don't judge me, I was really high when I wrote this.
LycanTheThrope May 2015
A story within a poem

{~~~}

I’m the only one left.
My pack was killed off, one by one.
Death shadowed me
Followed everywhere I went
Soaking my fur black
Killing my sight

I remember the look on her face
Her fur matted in the chase
Teeth stained red
Eyes with a wild dying light
Her muffled breathing slowing
I felt her life stop underneath her chest

Then you came
You saw your trophy on the ground
Next to a live one
You drew a silver stick
The sun glinted off like water with light
You stuck it in my side

You drug it up my already dead fur
Ripping up my flesh
I felt it clack against my ribs
With a sick yelp
I turned my tail and ran
Away from your prize

I wandered the forest alone
With Death on my back
Running from you
The stick was still in my side
Red water ran down my skin
Pooling everywhere I went

I could smell you following me
That is all that kept me on the run
I could feel my life drain away
I was slowing
Enough for you to catch me
Enough to finish the ****


It was at the field of feathers you found me
Just beyond the pines
I was lying, panting from the chase
Death was staring me in the face
And when my vision cleared I saw you instead
Watching me carefully

You had your loud stick at your side
Your face was hard like rocks
You just watched me
I stared back
Prepared for death
I’d die the lonely wolf

Your face softened
You neared closer
I had no strength to protest
You dropped lower
Almost crawling towards me
While I was crawling toward the darkness

You were just a blur now
Your hand closed around the silver stick
While your other hand traced the wound
You looked at that hand
Which was now blurred red
You muffled something softly

I looked up
A growl rose in my throat
I could see it
I couldn’t let it happen
You jumped back
The loud stick raised at me

I dragged myself to my feet
Snarling while red water fell over the feathers
It was so hard to see
But I could smell it
The intention to ****
You edged back

I took off running
Coming right at you
You howled at me
I was at full sprint now
But your stick
It howled loud and quick

That’s when I felt it
The burning in my chest
My eyes widened
I fell and stumbled
Feathers stirring in the sky
I tried to prop myself up
But I couldn’t

You stared at me
I panted out what was left of the red water
I whined at you
Just turn around
I barked; yelped helplessly
It was too late

The bear that was behind you
Struck you down
Tearing your flesh wide open
The red water was everywhere
I couldn’t do anything
I could only watch

The bear finally stopped tearing
It’s black eyes stared at you
A moment longer
A heap of red flesh
Barely breathing
It wandered off into the pines

I whined at you
You cried back
Darkness was on the edge of everything
Closing in on me
Closing in on you
I could hear your pain

I dragged myself closer to you
Whining
I could make out your eyes
Wide with fear
I groveled closer
You gingerly twitched your hand

I was close now
I could feel your life against my fur
Beating slowly
Your were almost gone
I licked an apology on your hand
I’m sorry

You looked at me
Your hand moving up my drenched fur
You grabbed the silver stick
And slowly drew it out
It didn’t hurt
I was already broken

You looked at me
And breathed one last time
I saw myself in your blue eyes
You had a soul too
I filled myself with air
And howled for the last time

A ragged voice in the night
Blood-red feathers in the sky
Floating to the stars
I was singing for me
I was singing for you
I was singing for us

My shoulders slumped
I fell to the ground
My sight was gone
I couldn’t feel you dead-still next to me
But I could still hear
My song echoing

Wolf song
If we should die tonight
We should die
 together

{~~~}
This is more of a story
It's about a wolf whose pack get killed off by a hunter. This wolf is the last one left, and while he was laying next to dead friend, the hunter appears and stabs the wolf with a knife. The wolf runs for a long time, close to death. He realizes he can't run anymore so he lays in a field of dandelions  (described as feathers)
The hunter sees the wolf, with intention to **** him, but while he watches the wolf suffer in pain he realizes what he's done.
The wolf then sees a bear behind the hunter, and the wolf's protective instincts take over. He uses the last of his strength to attempt to attack the bear, but the hunter mistakes the wolf for trying to attack him. He yells at the wolf to stop, but he doesn't. He shoots the wolf in the chest, disabling it. The bear attacks the hunter and leaves him to die.
The wolf sees that the hunter as a soul just like him, and crawls to the dying hunter to comfort him. Licking his hand is away of submitting to the hunter, and apologizing.
The hunter dies and the wolf is filled with the sadness of loosing another pack-mate.
He sings a song for him, and himself.
The song is translated into something like
"If we should die tonight,
Then we should die as brothers."

© Copywrite Lycan
I wonder what puppies dream of.
Their eyes roll back and twitter away,
As their bodies twitch and sometimes frighten you.

They snarl, they yelp,
They bark, and they huff.

Is she chasing the birds out the window?
Scurrying after those squirrels?
Does she use her big curly ears to fly
Around like Dumbo,
Pulling apart every cumulonimbus cloud?

Dream on Eva-pup.
Dream on.
A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
    Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
    Lies desert in thy brain.

When first my father settled here,
    ’Twas then the frontier line:
The panther’s scream, filled night with fear
    And bears preyed on the swine.

But woe for Bruin’s short lived fun,
    When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun,
    For vengeance, at him fly.

A sound of danger strikes his ear;
    He gives the breeze a *****;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
    And seeks the tangled rough.

On press his foes, and reach the ground,
    Where’s left his half munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around,
    And find his fresh made trail.

With instant cry, away they dash,
    And men as fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash,
    And shout the brisk halloo.

Now to elude the eager pack,
    Bear shuns the open ground;
Through matted vines, he shapes his track
    And runs it, round and round.

The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice,
    Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged ****,
    Are yelping far behind.

And fresh recruits are dropping in
    To join the merry corps:
With yelp and yell,—a mingled din—
    The woods are in a roar.

And round, and round the chace now goes,
    The world’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse, his rider throws,
    And more, Hill drops his gun.

Now sorely pressed, bear glances back,
    And lolls his tired tongue;
When as, to force him from his track,
    An ambush on him sprung.

Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
    And fully is in view.
The dogs, new-fired, by the sight,
    Their cry, and speed, renew.

The foremost ones, now reach his rear,
    He turns, they dash away;
And circling now, the wrathful bear,
    They have him full at bay.

At top of speed, the horse-men come,
    All screaming in a row,
“Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum.”
    Bang,—bang—the rifles go.

And furious now, the dogs he tears,
    And crushes in his ire,
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
    With eyes of burning fire.

But leaden death is at his heart,
    Vain all the strength he plies.
And, spouting blood from every part,
    He reels, and sinks, and dies.

And now a dinsome clamor rose,
    ’Bout who should have his skin;
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows,
    This prize must always win.

But who did this, and how to trace
    What’s true from what’s a lie,
Like lawyers, in a ****** case
    They stoutly argufy.

Aforesaid ****, of blustering mood,
    Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood,
    Arrives upon the spot.

With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair—
    Brim full of ***** and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear,
    And shakes for life and death.

And swells as if his skin would tear,
    And growls and shakes again;
And swears, as plain as dog can swear,
    That he has won the skin.

Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee—
    Nor mind, that now a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be,
    Conceited quite as you.
Bleu Ruby Mar 2014
I can't believe I've never been here
a little dingey and smelled musty, which put me off - but what do you expect
the service seemed a bit cold
Just be on the watch
and be wary of the ****** blonde
To top it off, there was a rude punk couple shopping and they continuously got in my way
they seemed pretty shallow and unwelcoming
plus they smell quite funky!
I suddenly liked everything A LOT less

DO NOT LISTEN TO THE NEGATIVE REVIEWS!
WHAT A GEM in the rough! WOW.
(usually HUGEEEEEEEE *** selection)
There were a couple of guys taking off their shirts
Oh yes oh yes oh yes! Vintage ******!!!
it feels SO good!
but not as good
I wasn't in the mood
already had that "worn in" feeling
(dark yellow sweat and green mold stains inside a fedora)
Ewww! tossed that hat back real quick.
This place is just not for me!
Yeah, no thanks.
a poem created by yelp reviews of two new york thrift stores. each line is from a different person's review.
Chris Bee Apr 2018
When I call out
into the nothingness of my bleak existence,
I desperately scream one thing:
"Marco..."

...and I let my absolute mundane, boring, maddening vacuum
absorb the echos,
and as the yell fades away to a yelp,
I waited for my answer.
And waited...

And waited...
And waited...
And waited...
And waited...
And waited...
And waited...
And waited...
And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... And waited... 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And waited... And waited... And waited... waited... waited... waited... waited... waited... wai...

"...Pollo," the void returned.
cicadas quiet
internet down
phones dead
can’t tweet
nor yelp
4 Square
won’t process
my payments
bluetooth cavities
iTunes tuned out
blogger blogged down
web surf ain’t up
G+ Circles broken
defriended on FB
Outlook e-mails
stuck in outbox
G-Mail postman
not making
appointed rounds
apps won't load
YouTube on hold
my e-commerce
bankrupt
Myspace empty
tumblr stumbled
LinkedIn disconnect
digital blips ain't blinking
not sure if I’m alive
I'm in a virtual
existential crisis
uncertain if
I’ll survive

Donna Summer
I Will Survive

Oakland
6/27/13

jbm
Ipp deeb oob voove

Shrek in the me
Hirk ma do dee
Irk groove verande
Trek goova grande

Move the book
Yelp in the hook

Panda in the look
And a bag shook
Never get the dook
Teens are on the clock
Slivers got the shock
Sam Winter May 2013
T*hree seventy-five. At my current muscle weight, that’s the amount of force, in pounds, with which my fist smashes into my opponent’s face. Flesh molds against my knuckles, vessels rupture under the impact; I am that unstoppable object, that destruction you can only watch. I am that confused, hurt, angry child. I channel it through my arms, conduct it through my knuckles, watch it spark and jump from fist to cheekbone. This is the therapy I so wantonly crave, so needed. The only place I can vent the full wrath of my frustration upon the world; or…at least, a single member of it….

Jump back three days.

     *Why can’t I see you more?
I text her. Because I don’t want a relationship. She says. I don’t need a relationship. I just want to see more of you. I tell her. I’m afraid I’ll invest too much. She says. I don’t understand. Is that a bad thing? Seven years of friendship, two of off-on dates and rendezvous. How could you get more invested? What else can you spill after your hearts in a pool at my feet?
I drank a lot that night.

Jump back four days.

     I’m coming out that way. What are you doing tonight? I always initiate…everything. Always the first question, the first proposal, the first, the first, the first. Am I that threatening? Going out with friends. Homework and going out is all this woman seems to do. Maybe one less night with friends, one more with me wouldn’t hurt? Cool. Celebrating a birthday with friends, we’ll be out and about. Maybe we should meet up? If I’m here, she’s got no reason to refuse me…right? I thought distance was our only problem. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me stupid drunk. What a stupid excuse. I actually want to see you stupid drunk. I will at some point if we keep things up.

     Long story short, a guy she sometimes ***** is going to be wherever it is they’re going, and she doesn’t want to have two guys she’s seeing in the same vicinity. What does that make me? I’m getting frustrated with all this confusion and sideways talking. My group incidentally ends up at the same place they are. I don’t even talk to her face-to-face. I’m such a sporting guy. She goes home...alone, to my relief. I get stupid drunk with friends. But never forget to message her back and act like everything’s cool.

Jump ahead a week.

     More conversations to clear up why I fill only one void in her life lead to more confusion. I’m frothing with it. It’ll be in my mouth soon. Wait…I taste it already.

     “Let’s drink and pick fights,” I say to a couple buds. Two hours out, we’re sloshed and trading licks in a back alley. The guy that had taunted and jostled me in the bar follows us out and picks a fight. Says I’m too drunk. Not worth it. I hide a smile, raise my arms, “Let’s see.”

     Shirts are off. Left hook to my ribs, I pivot an elbow, deflect with forearm. This leaves his side open. I duck his wild right-hand and drive a straight hit into his open spleen. He hits the alley wall. “Still want to take a drunk?” I taunt from my knee. He comes back, still sure of himself. I’ll show you what confidence does to us, my friend. He puts up a boxer’s guard and comes back, more cautious. Friends and enemies cheer and joan around me. I don’t hear a thing. There are thoughts. Dark, confused, smashed together, waiting to be dealt with. I focus on all of it. I focus on his face. I listen to the conversations that leave me more hurt and alone than they should. I lean into a false waltz stance, he doesn’t notice the feet. I notice his. He’s more drunk, on less, than I. Every time you breathe, I hope you think of me. The mass in my mind flows through my arms and legs. I charge and he punches straight where my head should go. I dodge right, grab his wrist, snap in and pull out, stringing him in an invisible flaying bed; my left elbow crosses his solar plexus, throwing him to the ground. Knees pin his arms. The hate, and anger, and confusion, and helplessness dissolve between fist and flesh, arc across the pain in my heart and the bruises and blood flowing freely from a fool....

Never entice a man with a need to portray his problems upon a heedless world.

     His friend steps in and plants a well-thought-out fist against my jaw. The one on the ground is down for the count. My friends don’t step in. They know me. I roll off him before his friend’***** can follow through. Now I have physical pain to channel, too. I grin and my assailant isn’t comforted. This is the release I need. This is my way out. This is what will help. *******, world. ******* girl. **** all of you for your games and your feelings and your mysteries. To hell with why you think you need to hide your heart. Wear it on your ******* sleeves. **** your dishonesty and your insincerity. **** your exes. May you all drowned in your lies and guilt and shame. **** you for assuming I’d ever judge any of you, for not taking my love at face-value, for thinking I had anywhere near the ulterior motives you all harbored. My left hand grabs his left elbow, simultaneously blocking a right jab and flipping his arm out of the way for the full force of my right arm into his ribs. A cacophony of bone and flesh giving way to my wrath meets my ears. He yelps. Never yelp when you’re trying to be strong for a friend. Keep your ****** lips closed, *******. He recovers only slightly before my right meets his face. My arc is perfect: the momentum of muscle as it curves the natural twist of a muscled arm, the darkness of my life gathering on knuckle-tips like obsidian gems glinting in the ***** hallway between worlds of vice and vindication, the cording muscle releasing the pent-up rage of a thousand lives gathered in one body.

     Connection shatters worlds. The horror of life bleeds across his broken window to the world. The reflection of my jeweled nirvana winks across his eyes. See the world I live in, failed rescuer. See the hopeless honor I hold in my *****. Sleep with the knowledge that even when you try, someone will always be there to flash the dark, jaded realities across your eyes…and bring you to my level.

     The other friends won’t budge ‘till I’ve stepped past. They part like the Red Sea for me. My ark is empty until I interact with the world tomorrow.

Brief peace is better than none.

-###-
Kayla Behm Oct 2014
Sometimes enemies are better than fake friends,
only because you don't have anything to lose in the end.
They can tell you they're trying to help,
but all they do is listen to your crying out yelp.
They're supposed to be there to have your back,
but sympathy and compassion is what they truly lack.

Enemies will hurt you,
they do it intentionally too.
They want you to know they were the ones who caused you pain,
and with everything they do, you'll question if they're sane.
But when fake friends hurt you, they do it while they're hiding,
because they want to see you break, almost like you're dying.

Life is filled with fakers,
and I just happen to be the giver, and them the takers.
The fantasy world is black and white,
and everything is just right.
But in our world there's color,
and our feelings are grain while they are Muller.

Choose your friends wisely,
because someone may be stabbing your back - ever so quietly
This has just recently happened to me and I hope nobody has gone through the pain I have. But if you have, I hope you can relate.
Cyril Blythe Jun 2013
Grumble

Of pugs. Or old men. Correlates to the grouping
of wrinkles: smile lines (down) whiskers (up). Synonymous to a gaggle of geese. Or women.
A grumbleman steps on the Pug's tail
and a passing girl hears
a crack, yelp, ****. She turns to help
but the grumbleman is gone and the pug
with him. She wonders why her neighbor's car
is still at her Mom's house? Why her Mom
wants to be called Veronica not Mary. One night she dreamed Veronica dancing on their roof
in the rain holding tight to an old red picture whispering to a woman on the lawn dancing
dry in white. She tried to call out to Veronica
she saw her slipping, but when she touched her lips
She felt them sewn shut with coarse, wet thread. Veronica turned and flew to her, to the window, grabbing her hands forcing fingers to feel
the brail graven into her Mother's giggling teeth that read, Don't look, your father will be bleeding soon. She awoke and her window was bound
in greased black leather. The floor ashen. Her lips still sewn
shut.

Anne stood,
picked out her fathers bones
Veronica had sewn into her
pillowcase
and
she
danced.
“She’ll get over it
it’s nothing”
everyone said
but no one truly knew
what went on in her head.
She slices herself daily
leaving her skin looking scaly.
From the pain she hides within her mind
she fakes a smile
everyone’s too blind
to notice she’s not okay
she just wants to get away.
Not sure where
not sure how
anywhere but here
will do for now.
for now or for ever
it doesn’t matter which
no one would notice
no one would care
- despair -
it’s all she’s left with
it’s all because of you.
nothing is going right
she’s better off if she’s not around
she’s better off out of sight
that way she’d be forgotten
and would no longer have to hide
the pain inside her mind.
She sat in her room
all alone that night
with all the pills in front of her
hoping that she might
just disappear for real
and never come back.
she started having second thoughts
wondering if should
because there’s no rewinding the tape
once she’s gone she’s gone for good.
“I’m scared, I’m alone”
she let out a yelp
although no one can hear
her faint cries for help.
tears are filling up her eyes
as she writes her final goodbyes
she can barely see what she’s wrote
‘sorry’ is the only word
she could make out in the note.
she then took out her blade
to slice her wrists once more
‘stupid dumb failure *****’
she carved then slowly shut the door.
a river of red dribbled down her arm
she knew that after all of this
she could no longer do any harm
to herself
or others
or anyone at all
she’s feeling even weaker
so now she has to crawl
to the other side of the room
where laid out on her bed
were all the pills she planned to take
to rest her worn out head.
One by one she swallowed them
until they were eventually gone
her eyes are gently closing now
she hopes this won’t go wrong.
all she wants is peace now
for her mind to be put at rest
living in another life is where
she’ll be at her best.
“Turn the ****** music down”
her Father shouts up the stairs
completely unaware
that his beloved daughter
is no longer there.
Her bedroom door swung open
as her Father went to tell her off
but instead he fell to the ground
in a state of shock.
The first thing that he saw
was his daughter lying there still
on the floor
in a pool of her own blood.
He shook her and shook her
but she never opened her eyes
this was when her Father began to cry.
He regretted what he had said to her
earlier in the day
“I hate you so much sometimes,
why don’t you just go away?”.
she showed no signs of life
and her blood was completely drained
maybe if he was nicer to her
his daughter would have stayed
maybe if he thought before he spoke
she’d still be here today.
The ambulance arrived soon
and they started to take her pulse.
no signs of life were there
so they started to give up
her Father could not bear
what was coming next
everything that had happened already
seemed far too complex
“she seemed far too happy though”
he began to weep
and the birds cheeps
began to fade.
Even the doctors heart was racing
now he knew what he had to do
he wrapped his arm around the Father
who’s heart had broke in two.
It’s his fault she died that night
he shouldn’t have been so heartless
and so cruel,
“I’m sorry sir, your daughters gone”
the doctor finally said
and once again the girl was right
no one cares until you’re dead.
Mon coeur...my heart
Is where I start

A journey as long as present and past
Over metaphorical oceans, oh so vast

Tranquil seas of turquoise blue and emerald green
Oasis to seas which for a time were violent and mean

Mon coeur...my heart
Would not be torn apart

A berth in a favorite Mediterranean port
Provided safe harbor of a sort

Reminding mon coeur...my heart
It had yet to reach the start

An unexpected voyage to an uncharted sea
Would lead me to believe there was something more for me

A voyage that made up for the many years of frustration
That always led to perpetual exasperation

Mon Coeur...my heart
Had at last reached the start

An open sea to travel
Honest words that never felt the gavel

A closeness
An openness

Both of which had not been felt
Both of which made my heart melt

Impeccable conversation
Invigorating recreation

She had to be made for me
We fit together so perfectly

My best friend...ma chere
My Elmo to her Carebear

Sunny days
Stormy days

Through those we made our way
And together forever we would stay

The journey over an endless placid sea
Was not meant to forever be

Shoal in the night
7th of June if I remember right

Mon coeur...my heart
Was finally torn apart

I know that all happens for a reason
And some are only with us for a season

But little does that help
All I can muster is the weakest yelp

For what I lost in the end
Was my best friend
This one truly does come from the heart...I am in a better place than I was on the 7th of June, a day the in the historic words of FDR will "live in infamy".  This poem has been quietly simmering the past few days and was inspired, in part, by a double entendre.  I am strong, for that which does not **** us, only makes us stronger and I will persevere.  As for mon coeur...my heart...I'm not sure if, when and where that might start.  Thanks for reading...Live 4 Love
Scottie Green Apr 2013
In the midst of my carefree, self-indulgent weekend, pushing down smoke with every breath, and searching concrete floors for something to lift me gently from ground, I met a guy at Emo's yearly "stoners holiday" concert hosting a number of Dj's and a half performance from Devin tha Dude.
Standing at the bar, and pushing back elbows to try and get a chaser for the half bottle of whiskey I had left, two young men appeared in front of me. One with curly, sweaty, brown hair, an angled face at every edge, and dark begging eyes- like a child's eyes as they ask to have ten more minutes before bed. The next guy came up behind his friend's right shoulder. His presences was lighter, but I noticed his sun-blonde military haircut looking as soft as it probably felt. His eyes were a shy green, matching his tattered skater v neck, and his small smile.
Before the sweating, curly headed man standing in front of me could get any words out the blonde boy, with the light presence said that he wanted to show me something. With no time to respond, he pulled his hands from behind his back.

His left hand was missing his index finger, and the four remaining seemed disproportionally long. Like the legs of a tarantula became his boney fingers.
His right looked swollen. In my daze I don't remember if he had three, four, or five fingers on his right hand.
His thumb and pointer were swollen huge; his palm was convex it lifted upward and took to the sole of my hand when I shook it--like a hug.

I, regrettably, had let out a small yelp when I first saw them.

His right reminded me of the large Mickey Mouse gloves that kids purchase from small stands at Disney World, and I didn't at first think it was real.
It was the softest hand I've ever felt.

He said it didn't hurt, he was born that way with 1% of his DNA amiss, and he could write and do everything else.

He put his hands away--folded them back up underneath his arms against his chest.

We kept catching each other's eyes briefly before I let mine flutter to lose his gaze.
And I didn't know what to say as his friend spoke in the background of my thoughts to my best friend.

I had so much trouble looking at him the rest of the time. After seeing his dimly lit eyes looking like they were seeping with some need for reassurance.
It wasn't that I thought his hands were ugly, and I didn't have the normal flight feeling; wanting to get away from a random guy I met at 1 am.
I even thought he was cute; his surfer necklace, soft smile and his seemingly huggable personality.
I was scared that if I looked at him he would see the, most likely unwanted, pity seeping from my eyes too.

I wanted to apologize for my initial reaction, but didn't know how. I was so stuck in my thought process. I can't, for the life of me, remember his name.
Sun Drop Dec 2017
I stare at the eyes
of the man with no face,
his fingers like tendrils
that weave mortal fates.

A long slender tongue,
which doesn't exist,
slides into my mouth
and I cannot resist.

A pitiful yelp,
and a desperate gasp,
serve only to feed
our vile attack.

Into my throat
we continue to ******,
penetrating the mind
while defiling trust.

But I'm no longer me.
With a flick of my wrist,
I dispose of my corpse;
I no longer exist.
Odi May 2012
Take your medication darling you are no better
than the lies you tell
and theres a light inside us all
that only dogs can smell
-- even they get their skulls smashed in
In a house of glass of rubies and jewles
in a world where the sun doesn't set
I am blinded by the harshness
of it
too much of a good thing
is never a good thing
haha
smell me now
smell me now
feel your
pulsating
-something else that taste like the memory of you
because once someone is gone
they've never existed
not even your corpse
looked like you
now you sway from clouds
from that same noose you built of maple wood
and Tony's scars--- honey
baby please
but sweetheart
you know I hate those names
sweet pea
Put a gun to my head and tell me im beautiful
I can breathe like you
I poked my finger into your unflinching eye
not a yelp in surprise, darling
people are lemon tainted goldfish
bitter and boring
(I should really try not to use the word and so much but sometimes things don't make sense- and we need connectives to explain them)
explain this.
But cat's know this of humans
they are born with the innate knowledge that
people are **** they will never love you for long
that human loyalty is fickle
impermanent
so they daze off indifferent
independent
while dogs will chase you around, crying
when you are gone
I am a dog
woof woof
bark for me baby
you little *****
on the floor
I am still trying to make your feet reach the floor
But the noose was wound too tightly around that lamp
you had pretty feet
I always looked at hands

If I could lay under you and catch your death as it fell
I would swallow it and leave it there to rot
where all the dead things are
I looked for a heartbeat but there was none
crystal windows reflected blue skin we were swimming under water
this aint no fairytale
sleep, must sleep.
Melissa Blair Apr 2013
I can't stop to chat
Sorry, I'm really busy
There's so much to do
I'm getting quite dizzy

Wallpapering, painting
And a whole lot of chores
Along with scrubbing and replacing
Handles on doors

Carpentry's enjoyable
A skill that I relish
But it tires me out
So for a break, I'll wish

Got a five minute break
Rush a quick cigarette
And a well-earned coffee
Then back off to work I set

Packing my boxes
And many a bag
Put them all in the attic
So tired, it's a drag

Hoovering all day
Kitchen needs cleaning
For the fourth time today
Then the garden needs preening

Make something to eat
To recharge energy
Sit down for a moment
With another coffee

Then it's time to go shopping
For food, drinks and more
Come back to yelling
As I walk through the door

"Mel, help me out!"
"Mel, pass me that!"
"Mel, clean the carpet...
The pup crapped on that!"

"Mel, make a coffee!"
"A sandwich might help!"
"Then get back to work!"
I can't help but yelp

Back to more painting
And scrubbing the halls
Cleaning the windows
And papering more walls

Then rest for a while
With a lovely big meal
To end the working day
And help muscles to heal

I'm aching all over
And I can't seem to sleep
So restless and sore
The job-pile's too steep

Toss and turn all night
I'm going insane
But I have to get up in the morning
And do it all again
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
She wore black except the white heels and pearl earrings. Coughing would show weakness. She swigs her water. The subway-car slows to a stop, “STATION A-4” and Blythe glides out into the underground bustle. It’s routine now to be ignored. A laughing blonde on her pink iPhone bumps Blythe and gives a startled yelp. Blythe pierces the Barbie with a glare and starts up the stairs to the office. A clock reads 7:57.

Late.

Again.

She rounds the corner and sees the sign, “Cound Industries- over 100 years of family service.” Pushing in the wooden door and ignoring security she marches to the IV floor. Marketing. No one says hello or acknowledges her presence. She is phantom. Everyone knows its terminal and that she’s the last of the Cound family line. “Three months, max. It’s a very aggressive cancer.” The doctor told her that at Christmas and it’s now Valentine’s Day. She shut herself in her office. Blythe sighs for the first time. She took out her kerchief and coughed. Blood spots. The red blood was not the only red she planned to see this Valentine’s Day. Today, Blythe Cound decided to take her life and make it immortal.

Steeling herself with a ***** shot she tucked the ****** rag back into her coat, which she then removed to reveal a flowing white dress. “Maybe it will be Owen, he has ideas on how to fix this place. No more charity to start with.” The whispers of her “friends and coworkers” filled her mind as she observed herself in the mirror. Ninety pounds, hollow cheeks, and the wedding dress of her grandma baggy and yellowed. She coughed up blood again, this time on her hand. The urgency hit her. Re-dressing in her long coat she left the office for the last time. Ever. Twenty minutes later she entered the soup kitchen. She sat in the back observing the scene. She chose the young boy, maybe in his thirties. She approached him and grabbed his hand. “Come with me son.” Her voice was harsh now. He obeyed. They went left three blocks to the Courthouse. They entered the probate judges office, signed the papers, and “Cound Inc” officially had a new successor. She died two weeks later.

The boy she married was named Cyril. He abused his newfound power and eventually was deemed by those in black ties to be, “mentally insufficient for such a stress-inducing position.” But, Blythe’s plan worked. The news stations ate the story up. You should’ve seen the headlines. They say “Cound Inc” lasted only two more years before declaring bankruptcy. Some blame Blythe. Some blame Cyril. None blame the whispers.
I am a Jar of Jelly, crying for help.
A restaurant in trouble, bad reviews on Yelp.
Garbage service and food, soggy bread and kelp.
I am abandoned on the shelf, like a cold little whelp.
What is lave?
Diana Garcia Sep 2018
Here comes the epiphany
The moment where I finally gain some sanity
Before I was aware now I’m finally self aware
I can finally see what’s in my 1000 yard stare
When did I ever become so eager
Where did it begin?
Maybe it’s the child that’s lost within
who was deprived of attention
Finally the attention did come but it was unfortunately through molestation
My heart races for it, my mind paces for it
People I love find it hard do ignore it
It’s about time I stopped boring it
It it it it it
**** attention
I don’t even need a mention
Why should I cry
Pry my heart and let it dry
I’m so angry at myself
How the **** did I put my own needs on the shelf
**** this
No more excuses
It’s time to stop being so useless
People see I don’t take care of myself
Why did I put my dignity on the shelf
I need to stop substituting those things for the elf
I don’t need help
That’s why they all yelp
I need to get off my ***
I have no reason for sass
I’m not the ****
I’ve got a lot of more to work on than I’d like to admit
I’m like a roller coaster
Bowie
left town
blasting off
from a
Lafayette
rooftop
his ***
spewing
a rainbow arc
liberally
sprinkling
Gluten-free  
golden glitter
onto chichi
Houston Street
bistros
liberating a
fawning glitterati
eager to prance
about a
shanghaied
High Line

for a
NY second
the best dressed
homeless dude
in NoHo
spotted a
Pale Duke
apparition
fluttering over
a posse of
faux
figurine
graffiti
splashed across a
Banksyless wall
tagging the
sunny side
of the finest
neighborhood
car wash

a ghostly
Lou Reed
dressed to the nines
in sleek
Transformer drag
watched
chuckling,
scratching his *****
humming
the final bars of
an Eno
inspired
Perfect Day,
marking odds
when a
long overdue
Iggy Pop
will crash the
Pearly Gate
mosh pits

Ubering
through
the choppy seas
of urban sludge,
lightning bolts
streak down
the sullen faces
of cash strapped
honey dippin
lust for life
hipsters,
luxuriating in
a well nursed
millennial
angst
stew

Fun City's
frenzied
bare footin
Little Monster
darlings
imprisoned
in soulless
high-rises,
still a
quarter shy
from annual
bonus time,
pace
white
stained
minimalist
spaces
indulging
notions
driven
by economic
compulsion
to dial up
flush with cash
fund managers
to seek
margin loans
on their
large positions
in alpha rich
distressed
asset funds
while their
diamond collared
Schnauzers
wait outside
the corner
State News
licking the
oozing sores
encrusting
Lazarus's
feet

Ziggy's
lapping tongue
marks time,
waiting for
the stretchy
panted painted
ladies scoring
Iman's
organic rouge
at a corner
bodega

listening to
a sidewalk
trash can
yelp today's
Daily News
headline
"Major Tom
Myna Hero!"
bekighting the next
15 minute legend
a talking
Myna bird
named
Major Tom

the vigilant
Major
alerted occupants
of a Brooklyn
townhouse of
a furnace leaking
carbon monoxide
when he stopped talking
and dropped dead

a veritable canary
in a coal mine story

a special service
marking
Major Tom's
supreme sacrifice
is planned,
in the spirit of
neighborhood
beatification
the family
implores those
wishing to express
condolences
in lieu of flowers
to please occupy
Prospect Park
to drive out
the rapacious
squeegee men
and feed the
hungry pigeons

Bowie's earthly star
may have gone black
but the ashes of his
disembodied voice
will forever
mark the city
like the
ubiquitous
gray splot
ashes of
pigeon
guano

David Robert Jones
1.8.47 - 1.10.16

Well Done Beloved
God Bless and Godspeed


Music Selections:

David Bowie, Dollar Days

David Bowie, I Can't Give Everything Away

David Bowie, Black Star

Jazz Messengers, Wayne Shorter
Lester Left Town

1.17.16
NYC
jbm

— The End —