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Prophet  Ezekiel I finally brought about his company he was the prophet who want to see a sea creature for a long time had been walking back int osee looking sideways at a ******* like me and knowing I noticed that he was not looking back at me because my *** is all eyes on the ocean I just came out of saw it shot down and saw it die in vein I was drownding and had not one person to tell by all mean I was on land as eziakal was in his dream to God Ahh Ezikal was prizedforward what every prophet is a bag of seed an instance when the drop there dream of there furry cat and and have to organize the people to get up off there ***** and plow the land so excited all the people they even invited the people who got exciled for the dream of the sea said it all because how the **** could you explain one group participating in the the bitter riverly as confusion and chaos to get over there because have would eat and half would not because they knew they all knew yes they were in for a time of thinking and who was going to take the first shift they were pros they have done it before the ifrst time they did it thhey all aggreed we will figure it out its alright and at the point they would of starved they didnt hell ya they just knew and everry thing was alright the second time ezijkal came to prophet they split it into a group of 9 for 9 lives and one group stayed and the 8 others left by all mmean we are going to rain on your parade befor they left whoever figured yep went and exsiled them selves and when they got back yep by then they all thoug ht it was an exctatic idea so heavenly rightious till they started discussing it and Victorious said wait hold up you all meant when it rains you will remeber us and come out of hiding and not care if we had died or not die? becazuse I swear I and the rest of these ***** sensed you saing we will ****** you gifted ***** if you dont get up and plow and we all laughed cause it was so funny that you would even say som and on the thing one guy said by all means and was eziakela again he got but ****** excited after he just hookked up that dream of the sea thing again and when he quited down **** no he couldnt it woulnt of mattered if he was at teen challenge at church when one of those mother ******* got down on the floor and prayed to god for and instanence eziakel ya he left outside and laughred so loud for so long the whole hour went by and he just calmed down about 3 minutes probley two before they all came aout and said nothing to him ya bit  in my fable that was the point of ezical to follow in the foot steps of the other prphets even when he ****** everythong up cause he was the only only one left by the time he was done telling them about he sea creature as yep he was not contagiously laughing his *** off but with viwers after an hour ya i can picture everyone fucly in the air with there heads listening and when he stated to talk about the sea thing he looked out in the distance and he swore it was behind him though becuse he had never spoken to an audence before and and ya when you speak to an audence and there terrified and keep wanting to look back at what you fist peered over there heads to see but you did not quite ever peer the same again for yep about an hour yep ezikial kept looking behind him to the point where he made that mother sea thang remebered and said o ya it was when I was standing sidways I always looked to my left but one person in the group yep only the the I d the baby zelda alwasy when standing sidways looked to the right and yep large yep overlooked why did she look to the right because yep the mirrors were to the left and the door that she was smokeing crack behind was to the right the window was always behind her and the pictures were alwasys in front of her before she she went to leave to her MARKIES house she would picture herself there and then pick up the mess of clean clothes yep over and over again and throw them not in but behind the hamper so she could hang them when she got home so she could hit her crack pipe on the florr befor she took off down the stairs to the front door and saw the wood yep I was hitting the crack pipe and not positive so i will dismiss which way my head was swaying when I thought back to just poping anut with my ***** as i turned from the hamper towads **** I finished that hit and would take anothe an 1 more for the mere  realitty that i could not figure for positive sure why i would alwasy come to i had it boxed up back then like you guys and i do now.
why di i notice good ****. twice rolling he the mc forgot to checkon me so yep trippen a little. cause **** all this **** that yep  mc either jank or on my **** list whats jank its learner so uh whats learner i am alearner i have beeen in the process 4 yep i am 35 and i was 22 at mc and my meeting
Prophet  Ezekiel I finally brought about his company he was the prophet who want to see a sea creature for a long time had been walking back int osee looking sideways at a ******* like me and knowing I noticed that he was not looking back at me because my *** is all eyes on the ocean I just came out of saw it shot down and saw it die in vein I was drownding and had not one person to tell by all mean I was on land as eziakal was in his dream to God Ahh Ezikal was prizedforward what every prophet is a bag of seed an instance when the drop there dream of there furry cat and and have to organize the people to get up off there ***** and plow the land so excited all the people they even invited the people who got exciled for the dream of the sea said it all because how the **** could you explain one group participating in the the bitter riverly as confusion and chaos to get over there because have would eat and half would not because they knew they all knew yes they were in for a time of thinking and who was going to take the first shift they were pros they have done it before the ifrst time they did it thhey all aggreed we will figure it out its alright and at the point they would of starved they didnt hell ya they just knew and everry thing was alright the second time ezijkal came to prophet they split it into a group of 9 for 9 lives and one group stayed and the 8 others left by all mmean we are going to rain on your parade befor they left whoever figured yep went and exsiled them selves and when they got back yep by then they all thoug ht it was an exctatic idea so heavenly rightious till they started discussing it and Victorious said wait hold up you all meant when it rains you will remeber us and come out of hiding and not care if we had died or not die? becazuse I swear I and the rest of these ***** sensed you saing we will ****** you gifted ***** if you dont get up and plow and we all laughed cause it was so funny that you would even say som and on the thing one guy said by all means and was eziakela again he got but ****** excited after he just hookked up that dream of the sea thing again and when he quited down **** no he couldnt it woulnt of mattered if he was at teen challenge at church when one of those mother ******* got down on the floor and prayed to god for and instanence eziakel ya he left outside and laughred so loud for so long the whole hour went by and he just calmed down about 3 minutes probley two before they all came aout and said nothing to him ya bit  in my fable that was the point of ezical to follow in the foot steps of the other prphets even when he ****** everythong up cause he was the only only one left by the time he was done telling them about he sea creature as yep he was not contagiously laughing his *** off but with viwers after an hour ya i can picture everyone fucly in the air with there heads listening and when he stated to talk about the sea thing he looked out in the distance and he swore it was behind him though becuse he had never spoken to an audence before and and ya when you speak to an audence and there terrified and keep wanting to look back at what you fist peered over there heads to see but you did not quite ever peer the same again for yep about an hour yep ezikial kept looking behind him to the point where he made that mother sea thang remebered and said o ya it was when I was standing sidways I always looked to my left but one person in the group yep only the the I d the baby zelda alwasy when standing sidways looked to the right and yep large yep overlooked why did she look to the right because yep the mirrors were to the left and the door that she was smokeing crack behind was to the right the window was always behind her and the pictures were alwasys in front of her before she she went to leave to her MARKIES house she would picture herself there and then pick up the mess of clean clothes yep over and over again and throw them not in but behind the hamper so she could hang them when she got home so she could hit her crack pipe on the florr befor she took off down the stairs to the front door and saw the wood yep I was hitting the crack pipe and not positive so i will dismiss which way my head was swaying when I thought back to just poping anut with my ***** as i turned from the hamper towads **** I finished that hit and would take anothe an 1 more for the mere  realitty that i could not figure for positive sure why i would alwasy come to i had it boxed up back then like you guys and i do now.
Prophet  Ezekiel I finally brought about his company he was the prophet who want to see a sea creature for a long time had been walking back int osee looking sideways at a ******* like me and knowing I noticed that he was not looking back at me because my *** is all eyes on the ocean I just came out of saw it shot down and saw it die in vein I was drownding and had not one person to tell by all mean I was on land as eziakal was in his dream to God Ahh Ezikal was prizedforward what every prophet is a bag of seed an instance when the drop there dream of there furry cat and and have to organize the people to get up off there ***** and plow the land so excited all the people they even invited the people who got exciled for the dream of the sea said it all because how the **** could you explain one group participating in the the bitter riverly as confusion and chaos to get over there because have would eat and half would not because they knew they all knew yes they were in for a time of thinking and who was going to take the first shift they were pros they have done it before the ifrst time they did it thhey all aggreed we will figure it out its alright and at the point they would of starved they didnt hell ya they just knew and everry thing was alright the second time ezijkal came to prophet they split it into a group of 9 for 9 lives and one group stayed and the 8 others left by all mmean we are going to rain on your parade befor they left whoever figured yep went and exsiled them selves and when they got back yep by then they all thoug ht it was an exctatic idea so heavenly rightious till they started discussing it and Victorious said wait hold up you all meant when it rains you will remeber us and come out of hiding and not care if we had died or not die? becazuse I swear I and the rest of these ***** sensed you saing we will ****** you gifted ***** if you dont get up and plow and we all laughed cause it was so funny that you would even say som and on the thing one guy said by all means and was eziakela again he got but ****** excited after he just hookked up that dream of the sea thing again and when he quited down **** no he couldnt it woulnt of mattered if he was at teen challenge at church when one of those mother ******* got down on the floor and prayed to god for and instanence eziakel ya he left outside and laughred so loud for so long the whole hour went by and he just calmed down about 3 minutes probley two before they all came aout and said nothing to him ya bit  in my fable that was the point of ezical to follow in the foot steps of the other prphets even when he ****** everythong up cause he was the only only one left by the time he was done telling them about he sea creature as yep he was not contagiously laughing his *** off but with viwers after an hour ya i can picture everyone fucly in the air with there heads listening and when he stated to talk about the sea thing he looked out in the distance and he swore it was behind him though becuse he had never spoken to an audence before and and ya when you speak to an audence and there terrified and keep wanting to look back at what you fist peered over there heads to see but you did not quite ever peer the same again for yep about an hour yep ezikial kept looking behind him to the point where he made that mother sea thang remebered and said o ya it was when I was standing sidways I always looked to my left but one person in the group yep only the the I d the baby zelda alwasy when standing sidways looked to the right and yep large yep overlooked why did she look to the right because yep the mirrors were to the left and the door that she was smokeing crack behind was to the right the window was always behind her and the pictures were alwasys in front of her before she she went to leave to her MARKIES house she would picture herself there and then pick up the mess of clean clothes yep over and over again and throw them not in but behind the hamper so she could hang them when she got home so she could hit her crack pipe on the florr befor she took off down the stairs to the front door and saw the wood yep I was hitting the crack pipe and not positive so i will dismiss which way my head was swaying when I thought back to just poping anut with my ***** as i turned from the hamper towads **** I finished that hit and would take anothe an 1 more for the mere  realitty that i could not figure for positive sure why i would alwasy come to i had it boxed up back then like you guys and i do now.
why di i notice good ****. twice rolling he the mc forgot to checkon me so yep trippen a little. cause **** all this **** that yep  mc either jank or on my **** list whats jank its learner so uh whats learner i am alearner i have beeen in the process 4 yep i am 35 and i was 22 at mc and my meeting
Benji James May 2017
Hey somebody
pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes  on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Always underachieve
Failing everything I do
Failing them, keep failing you
Can't seem to do
Anything I set my mind too
I'm looking around
For something worth living for
Every time I find something
It escapes my grasp
Always end up back on my ***
Can't seem to get it right
No matter how hard I try
Can't appear to get it right
No matter how hard I fight

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Why does life smack you in the face
When you're circling the drain
The skies have turned to grey
You're miserable every day
Can't seem to catch a break
No matter how many Kit Kats you ate
Is this it, is this my fate
Staying up until late
Just so that I can contemplate
Every **** mistake
I've ever made

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Do you know
What it feels like
To stare at your phone
No messages coming through
Feel like nobody
even cares about you
Yep you wonder what you can do
Is there something wrong with me
Is there are reason people hate me
What is it they need to see
To see I'm worth some time
Every once in a while
Trying to hide this emotion
Behind a smile
All these sarcastic remarks
Covering scars

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Can't seem to make it pay to pay
All this debt is crushing me
And I'm losing my mind every night
To that devil inside
The one that won't let you sleep
He even haunts you in your dreams
There no escaping this reality
And all I can do
Is keep on strolling through
The best that I can
Hope that someone understands
Maybe one day
I'll find happiness again

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

I want to get dramatic
Don't tell me not to get dramatic
Don't say I'm complicated
No, I'm not complicated
I'm talking straight
Hey wait, wait
Sister pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
You know I want to get Emo

©2017 Written By Benji James
Paul M Chafer Jul 2014
Yep
Yep, that’s me,
Totally and absolutely ******!
(Are totally and absolutely the same?)
Sure they are, proves my point!
Victim of my own frustration,
I put down the bottle,
******, but not entirely stupid.
Well, ‘not entirely’ says a lot.
Am I alone in this?
Nah, many often realise,
They are utterly *******,
But they keep on,
Bending over in life,
Taking it up the ****,
Screaming in pain,
Wailing at the world.
Untill they see, notice,
Begin to understand,
They may be crushed,
Battered down, diminished,
Embattled by little things,
But it could be worse.
Much, much worse, indeed,
They shed the depression,
Wipe away the tears,
Nurture their damaged soul,
Learn, progress, live,
Yep, that’s me.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Not feeling so good, comes with the territory of being a stupid ****!
Mitchell Duran Dec 2013
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back
Mitchell Duran Nov 2013
It was 98'.
No, it was 99'.
That was the year.
Yeah, that was the year.

I had just landed abroad and knew no one.
Well, I was there with my girlfriend, Page.

I knew her.

We had to get out of the states.
There was nothing for us there.
We were drowning in that nothingness - that lacking future.

Cookie cutters everywhere.

Everything I saw was like an outline of something that had already happened.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't ****.
I could barely call my parents to let them know what I was doing.

Nothing really.

Floating downward like a leaf broken from its stem.
I was scared.
I'll admit it.
I was terrified of the next four years.
Twenty-five seemed so far away and so close, all at the same time.

We had a found an apartment to live in while in the U.S.
We were lucky because people we met later on said it was hell trying to find a place after arriving.
I was never too good at that stuff anyway.
I always felt like people were trying to cheat me or something.

It was small.
You would have said you loved it, but secretly hated it.
One could barely stand in the shower.
Want to spread your arms wide?

Forget about it.

There was a balcony though and you could watch the street traffic from above.
People look so small when your high up.
Down the street, there was a large theatre where they filmed movies.
I rarely saw them shooting, but I could tell it was a good place to.
It was beautiful at night when the lampposts would flicker on, orange spilling on the street.
Everything was damp in the Fall when we first arrived.

"What do you want to do today?" I asked her. She was laying face down on the bed.
Whenever she was hungover, she would do that.
All the covers and pillows over her face, blocking out the world and its light.
I did the same thing, so I couldn't really say much.
We were hungover a lot those first couple months.
Then came the jobs and everything changed...mostly.

She moaned something that I couldn't understand.
I was standing by the window, staring at the pigeons and crows perched on the roof across from us.
They had made a little nest under one of the shingles.
Clever little ******'s.

"Look at those things," I said.
The coffee I was drinking was bitter and made from crystals.
It gave me a headache, but it was cheap and we were broke.
I stepped back to get a better look at their nest and knocked an empty beer bottle around.

She moaned again and rose up from bed, kind of like a stretching kitten or a cat.
Her back was arched like a crescent moon and she stunk of ***** and Sprite.
The blankets were twisted and crumpled and she was tangled in them like a fly in a spiders web.
I went into the kitchen and poured out my coffee, thinking of what to do with the day.

"Breakfast?" she asked me from bed.
My back was to her, but I knew she wanted me to make it.
I put the electric stove on and opened the refrigerator.

"No eggs," I said back to her, "I'll be right back."

She moaned and slithered back into bed.
I threw my jacket and slippers on and made my way downstairs.

"Dobry den," I said to the cashier.
He was a tiny vietnamese man with a extremely high pitched voice.
I struggled to stifle a laugh every time I came in.

"Dobry den," he said back, sounding like air escaping from a balloon.

"Dear God," I thought, "How does his voice box do it?"

I went straight to the eggs, pretending to cough.
All around me were packaged sweets and rotten vegetables and fruit.
There were half loaves of brown, stale bread wrapped lazily in thin plastic.
Canned beans, noodle packets, and cardboard infused orange juice lined the shelves.
Where were the ******* eggs?
We needed milk too.
Trying to drink that crystalized coffee without it was torture.
I don't even know how I did it earlier.
"I must be getting used to the taste..." I thought.

I opened the single refrigerator they had in the place.
It was stocked with loosely packaged cheese, milk, beer, and soda.
There they were, those ******* eggs, right next to the yogurt.
I looked at the expiration date of a small carton of chocolate milk and winced.
"Someone could die here if they weren't careful," I whispered to myself.

"Everyding O.K.?" I heard the cashier squeak behind me.
I turned and nodded and showed him the eggs.
He was suspicious I was stealing something.
It was ironic.
I put the eggs on the counter and handed over what the cash register told me.

"There you go," I said and handed him the 58 crown in exact change.

"Děkuji," he peeped.

His voice sounded like a stuffed animal.
I nodded, smiled, and quickly got the hell out of there.

"You know the guy that works at the shop across the street?" I asked the body still in bed.
Well, she was up now, back up against the wall with her laptop on her lap.
"You mean the guy that has the voice of a little girl?"
"Exactly. I was just in there - getting these eggs - and I nearly laughed in his face."
"That's mean," she frowned, staring at her laptop.
Many of our conversations were with some kind of electronic device in between us.
We needed to work on that.
"I didn't laugh at him directly."
She smiled and nodded and moved down the bed a little more.
Only her head was resting on the pillow.
I cracked two eggs and let them sizzle there in the butter and the salt.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked Page, "It's not too cold out. We could go on a walk."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Over the bridge and maybe down by the water."
"It's going to be so cold," she shivered.
"I was just out there in slippers and a t-shirt and I was fine."
"That's because you're so big. I'm tiny. I don't get as much blood flow."

I flipped the two eggs and looked down at them.
Golden and burnt slightly around the edges.
******* perfect.
Now, just gotta wait a little on the other side and make sure to not let the yolk harden.
I hated that more than anything in the world.
Well, that and hearing **** poor excuses like it being too cold.
It was nice out.
She'd be fine.

"Come on," I sighed. I did that a lot. "It'll be fun."
She looked up at me from her computer with a dead look in her eye.
"What?" I asked her.
"You're such a...nerd," she said.
"No I'm not."
"You're so weird. Some of the things you say sometimes..."
"Like what?"
"Let's go on a walk."
She exaggerated the word walk.
I laughed and knew I was being a little too excited about a walk.
"Yeah. So? What are you doing? You're just laying there doing nothing."
"It's my day off," she scoffed, jokingly.

We were unemployed.
Everyday was a day off.
This was not something to bring up.
It was touchy subject.
One had to go about it...delicately.

"We need to find jobs," I stated, "And we can probably ask around or look for signs in windows."

"Oh JESUS," she gagged, coughing and diving back under the covers.

"I'm just thinking ahead so we can stay here. There's got to be something out there we can do."

"Like what?" she asked, her voice muffled by blankets.

"I don't know...something," I mumbled, trailing off as I flipped one of the eggs, "Perfect."

After breakfast, Page finally got out of bed and took a shower.
I tried to sneak in there with her, but, like I said before, one could barely fit themselves in there.
We compromised to have *** on the bed, though I did miss doing it in the shower.
As Page got dressed, I watched her slip those thin black stockings on, half reading a magazine.
I had gotten a subscription to The Review because I was trying to become a writer.
I thought, maybe if I read the stuff getting published - even the bad **** - it'll help.
Later, I realized, this was a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the magazine all the same.
Page finished getting dressed.
I jumped into whatever clothes were on the floor and didn't stink.
Then, we were out the door on Anna Letenske street, looking at the tram, downhill.


"I can see my breath," Page said, "It's cold..."

"Alright," I said as both of us ran across the street, "It's a little cold."

"But it's ok because I'm glad were out of the house."

"If we would have festered there any longer, we would have stayed in there all day."

"And missed this beautiful day," she said mocking me, putting both of her arms in the air.

The sky was gray and overcast and a single black crow flew over us, roof to roof.
No one was out, really.
It was Sunday and no one ever really came out on Sundays.
From the few czech friends I had, they explained to me this was the day to get drunk and cook.

"Far different then what people think in the States to do," I remember telling him.
"What do you do, my friend?" he had asked. He always called me my friend.
It was a nice thing to do since we had only known each other a couple weeks.
"Well," I explained to him, "Some people go to church to pray to God."
He laughed when I said this and said, "HA! God? How many people believe in God there?"
I had heard through the news and some Wikipedia research Prague was mostly atheist.
"A good amount, I'm pretty sure."
"That's silly," he scoffed, "Silly is word, right?"
"Yep. A word as any other."
"I like that word. What else do they do on Sunday?"
"A lot of people watch football. Not like soccer but with..."
"I know what you talk about," he said, cutting me off, "With the ball shaped like egg?"
I nodded, "Yes, the one with the egg shaped ball. It's popular in the Fall on Sundays."
"And what is Fall?" he asked.
You can see our relationship was really based on questions and answers.
He was a good guy, though I could never pronounce his name right.
There was a specific z in there somewhere where one had to dig their tongue under their teeth.
Lots of breath and vibration that Americans were never asked or trained to do.
Every czech I met said our language was a high contradiction.
Extremely complex in grammar and spelling, but spoken with such sloth.
I don't know if they used the word sloth.
I just like the word.

As we waited for the tram, I noticed the burnt orange and red blood leaves on the ground.
"Where had they come from?" I wondered. There were no trees on the street.
Must be from the park down the block, the one with the big church and the square.
There were lines of trees there used as leaning posts for the bums and junkies as they waited.
What they were waiting for, I never knew.
They just looked to be waiting for something.
I kicked a leaf into the street from the small island platform for the tram.
It swept up into the air a couple inches, and then instantly, was swept away by a passing car.
I watched as it wavered in the air, settling down the block in the middle of the road.

"Where's this trammm," Page complained.
Whenever it was cold out, her complaining level multiplied by a million.
"Should be coming soon. Check the schedule."
"Too cold," she said, "Need to keep my hands in my pockets."
I shook my head and looked at the schedule. It said it would be there at 11:35.
"11:35," I told her, still looking at the schedule. There was a strange cross over the day of Sunday.
"You mad?"
"No," I said turning to her, "I just want to have a nice day and its hard when you're upset."
"I'm not upset," she said, her teeth chattering behind her lips.
"Complaining I mean. We can go back home if it's really too cold. It's right there."
"No," she looked down, "Let's go out for a bit. I just don't know how long I'll last."
"Ok," I shrugged.
I looked up the street and saw our tram coming; number 11.
"There it is," I said.
"Thank God," Page exhaled, "I feel like I'm about to die."

Even the tram was sparse with people.
An empty handle of cheap liquor rattled in the back somewhere.
I heard it rock back and forth against the legs of a metal seat.
"Someone had a night last night," I thought, "Hope that's not mine."
We had gone to some dark bar with a lot of stairs going down - all I really recall.
Beer was so **** cheap there and there was always so much of it, one got very drunk easily.
I couldn't even really remember who we met or why we went there.
When everything's a blur in the morning you have two choices:
Feel guilty about how much you drank, lie around, and do nothing or,
Leave it be, try not to think about it, and try and find your passport and cell phone.

We made our transfer at the 22 and rode downhill.
Page looked like she was going to be sick.
Her sunglasses were solid black and I couldn't see her eyes, but her face was flushed and green.
"You alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, "Just need to get off of this tram. Feel like I'm going to be sick."
"You look it."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Let's get off at the park with the fountain. I don't want to puke here."
"Ok," I said, smiling, "We'll get off after this stop."

We sat down on one of the benches that circled around the fountain.
It was empty and Page was confused why.
"Maybe to save money?" I suggested.
"What? It's just water."
"Well, you gotta' pump the water up there and then filter it back out. Costs money."
"Costs crown," she corrected me.
"Same thing," I said, putting my arm around her, "There's no one here today."
"I know why," she stated, flatly.
"Why?"
"Because it's collllllllld and it's Sunday and only foreigner's would go out on a day like this."
I scanned the park and noticed that most of the faces there were probably not Czech.
"****," I muttered, "You may be right."
"I know I am," she said, wiggling her chin down into her jacket, "We're...crzzzy."
"We're what?" I asked. I couldn't hear her through her jacket.
She just shook her head back and forth and looked forward, not wanting to move from the warmth.
Dogs were scattered around the brown green grass with their owners.
Some were playing catch with sticks or *****, but others were just following behind their owner's.
I watched as one took a crap in the center of the walkway near the street.
Its owner was typing something on their phone, ignoring what was happening in front of him.
After the dog finished, the owner looked down at the crap, looked around, then slunk off.

"Did you see that?" I asked Page, pointing to where the owner had left the mess.
"Yeah," she nodded, "So gross. That would never fly in the states."
"You'd get shoulder tackled by some park security guard and thrown in jail."
"And be given a fat ticket," she said, coughing a little, "Let's get out of here."
"Yeah," I agreed, "And watch for any **** on the way out of here."

We made our way out of the park and down the street where the 22 continues on to the center.
"Let's not go into the center. Let's walk along the water's edge and maybe up to the bridge."
"Ok," I said, "That's a good idea." I didn't want to get stuck in that mass of tourists.
I could tell Page didn't either. I think she was afraid she might puke on a huddle of them.
We turned down a side street before the large grocery store and avoided a herd of people.
The cobble stones were wet and slick, glistening from a small sliver of sunlight through the clouds.
Page walked ahead.
Sometimes, when we walked downtown in the older parts of Prague, we would walk alone.
Not because we were fighting or anything like that; it was all very natural.
I would walk ahead because I saw something and she would either come with or not.
She would do the same and we both knew that we wouldn't go too far without the other.
I think we both knew that we would be back after seeing what we had wanted to see.
One could call it trust - one could call it a lot of things - but this was not really spoken about.
We knew we would be back after some time and had seen what we had wanted to.
Thinking about this, I watched her look up at the peeling paint of the old buildings.
Her thick black hair waved back and forth behind her plum colored pea coat.
Page would usually bring a camera and take pictures of these things, but she had forgotten it.
I wished she hadn't.
It was turning out to be such a beautiful day.

We made it to the Vlatva river and leaned over the railing, looking down at the water.
Floating there were empty beer bottles and plastic soda jugs.
The water was brown, murky, and looked like someone had dumped a large bag of dirt in there.
There was nothing very romantic about it, which one would think if you saw it in a picture.
"The water looks disgusting," Page said.
"That it does, but look at the bridge. It looks pretty good right
When a white woman is victimized they'll scour the streets, fan out, stop,
harass, detain, arrest any black man. Any one they can finger for the crime.

They say things such as they all look alike or something to that effect.

A black woman is abused they'll look around, see white males everywhere but they cannot find any suspects? None of them fit the description.

Why is that?

Yeah, that's right, it is because they all look alike! Too many of 'em. Can't arrest everyone now can we? People have rights!

Yep,
          I suppose they do...



As long as you consider them,
                                                        "­people,"  
                                                    ­                           -they have rights.
For those who bother to check..my father told me about the original T.V. media on this and I deduced the rest by a sheer enjoyment of the man. Love you AL.
Dorothy A Oct 2013
Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming
Kyle Dal Santo May 2017
Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Left. Whoa.
****. No. No. No. ****. ****. No. ****. No. Hell no. Maybe.
Yep. Nope. Yep. Nope. Nope. Nope. Yep. Nope. Yep. Yep. DAYUM. Yep. Nope.
Hey. Hey. Hey what's up. Hey how you doin. Hey. Hey. Hi there. You up. Let's hang. Let's chill. Let's hook up. Let's... you know.
Kyle D.
Brook Lynne May 2014
Time is short but oh so sweet
With you and me together
it is perfect as can be
I love the way you look at me
the smile on you face
a look I rather not replace
I love the way you wink
the skip in your step
yes time is short
but man is it oh so sweet
the last few months
have been precious
and I never want them to end
but you said that you may have to go away
and leave me far behind
So I think I will live in this moment
and not think of the time as short
but remember it as sweet
and smile right along
I know that I will cry
and put up a huge fight
but as for now I know its fine
SO yep, I know time is short, but we will make it sweet
This poem is about my friend who had the perfect relationship, it was all she ever wanted but her boyfriend is moving with his parents and this is how she decided to look at it... :)
Bob B Jul 2019
They say in Washington, D.C.
That few are hated as much as he.
Of course, that all depends on whom you ask.
If you ask him, he contends
He's not there to make more friends.
Pushing his agenda is his task.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

His biggest friend in D.C. now
Is Donald Trump. Notice how
The two men are connected at the hip.
They will sacrifice--insane!--
Democracy for political gain
With their vile, disgusting partnership.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

He truly doesn't dignify
The Senate, where bills go to die.
He prefers to make up his own rules.
Obviously, Mitch's goal
Is only to maintain control
And stack the federal courts with far-right fools.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

We know that Russians interfered
In our elections, but what's weird
Is Mitch McConnell doesn't seem to care.
Since Russians helped Trump win before,
He could use their help once more.
Without their help he wouldn't have a prayer.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

Just look at his expressionless mug.
(People say he resembles a slug--
A slug with an empty, vapid frown.)
If people really knew what's good,
And if they cared at all they would
Find a candidate to bring him down.

Yep, the man who found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

-by Bob B (7-27-19)
Time enough for y'all
to say goodbye
to the me
of yesterday!
This is who I am
and what I love!
I'm nothing,
but a Country Girl
and loving it!
Yep... that's me!
I spend most of my time
listening to my favorite station-
Yep... Its The B!
People say I'm a loner,
but how can that be?
I'm listening to my friends
all the time, my dj's-
Who cares, if its
through my speakers!
Take it or leave it-
Like it or not!
I'm nothing,
but a Country Girl
and loving it!
Yep... that's me!

2007

COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
Cunning Linguist Nov 2013
[Verse 1]
Monster sized swag; not modest bout my splendor
Marvel at the flag and I'm the ultimate avenger
Buck Rodgers, D-Bird yep I'm the number one contender,
So I gotta uphold this rep of bein uncontrollable
so I'll take the lead, I hold the world beneath my feet
I'm a fiend, elite
Haze so cloudy cause I be blowin Swisher Sweets
Drug addiction is my disease
It's my expertise
See here's the masterpiece:
Raps lobotomize
I'm traumatized since 1993

[Verse 2]
Victimized by the lies
of this trifilin enterprise
You can front but you can't hide
There's no fault behind your eyes
So I hope this insult will suffice
It should come as no surprise
A grin will spread across my face
From side to side
My ***** mouth will mesmerize
hypnotized, memorize
the words that escape my lips
I'm a degenerate unabridged uncut
You're a ******* ****
Go hang yourself from a bridge
Here's a rope, I hope you choke

******* ******* smoochie smoochie
Only chains you got is Gucci
Y’all basic brothers rep that set
But fake like that 2chi

[Verse 3]
man I get so high,
Now watch me get higher
Watch me take flight
As my wings soar skyward
You know I'ma fighter
So watch me take my place
As I eat this rap game up
and then spit it in your face
Now pass me a lighter
see me rollin while I bake
I mean I'm not a pastry maker,
but I still bake for the sake
My rhymes are so ill
They're gonna make you sick
I be tweetin on my twitter
While Betty Crocker ***** my ****, uh

[Verse 4]
Reid between the lines son and please proceed with caution
Alien splittin kilos, I be one tweaked ****** martian
I'm five steps ahead and these haters ****** forfeit
You four feet tall and I'm so high I'm in ****** orbit
Make these snitches sleep with fishes
How ****** vicious spittin mischief
****** trippin out these hypocrites
Dishin out these disses which
Bein inconsiderate
in this fast paced game of chase
But if I wanted to catch your drama
I'd just go check my facebook page *****
"Reid between the lines son.." Is a double entendre, my name is Reid so it's saying I'm between lines of snorting *insert illicit substance* and read between the lines. Buck Rodgers and D-Bird are a couple rap aliases from in the day.
Styles May 2014
Love Making;***.
Text me;  
****!
You are;
next!
Bend backwards;
cheque!
Lips, tongue:
peck!
Take your;
breath!
It's no;  
sweat!
******* your;  
breast!
Touching your;
pet!
Like Imma;
vet.
Kissing your;
neck!
**** Toes?
yep!
Want Sum?
yes!
Mind blown;
trek!
We just;
met!
Can't ***;
bet!
Toes Curled;
check!
One big;
speck!
Bed Sheets;
wet!
Lost your;
bet!
Love Making;***.
Jason Leimer Sep 2010
Hearing the birds chirp, kids playing in their yards
This is my neighborhood.
School kids going to school, bells ringing
This is my neighborhood.
Parents picking their children up, dogs barking
This is my neighborhood.
People mowing their lawns, kids on their drums
This is my neighborhood.
Yep this is diversity in my neighborhood.
What's yours?
Jason Leimer Sep 2010
Get up, get coffee, go online
yep another morning in a American household.
Get the kids up, get in the shower, get breakfast
yep another morning in a American household.
Say goodbye to your significant other
yep another morning in a American household.
Go to work. Yep its the Daily Grind.
Bob B Feb 2019
He rode into town like a wannabe--
The town we'll simply call D.C.--
And sat back with his feet upon the desk.
He brought his team--a ruthless bunch,
Most of whom are out to lunch
And operate in a manner quite grotesque.

Yep, a real phenomenon--
This man known as Teflon Don…

It didn't take long for him
To know he had to sink or swim
And this guy was determined not to sink.
Confuse and befuddle, he said,
And that's how he would get ahead:
By practicing the art of doublethink.

Yep, a real phenomenon--
This man known as Teflon Don…

Undo progress done before,
Defy the critics keeping score,
And do not worry if you sound uncouth.
Such was the man's M.O.
To win he knew he must let go
Of any close connection with the truth.

Yep, a real phenomenon--
This man known as Teflon Don…

Trusting not his experts here,
He let Putin have his ear,
And yet his fans never seemed to mind.
He could do no wrong, they felt.
Such is how the cards were dealt.
And how they hate it when their man's maligned!

Yep, a real phenomenon--
This man known as Teflon Don…

He can lie, cheat, and steal,
Come on strong and cop a feel,
And some say even get away with killing.
And yet his fans will all bow down
And do obeisance to their clown,
Which others find incredibly blood chilling.

Yep, a real phenomenon--
This man known as Teflon Don…

-by Bob B (2-26-19)
SøułSurvivør Sep 2018
SLAP POETRY

In heaven Satan was the best,
The worship-leader, very blessed
Magnificent, all would attest
Thought he'd be above the rest

He thought he should be in God's place
That he'd slap Jesus in the face
He fell from honor... fell from grace
In the end he lost the race

God is TOUGH.
They'll scream & shout!
All Satan's angels in a rout
In the end they got kicked out!
Satan thought he had a plan
Yep. He thought HE was the MAN
Finished before the Book began
He was like lightning as he fell
And in the end he'll go to hell.

YEAH. God don't play.
Don't take no guff.
There's a point
He had enough!
Had His fill of
Stupid stuff...
Let me tell you,

GOD IS TOUGH!!


Pharaoh thought HE was all that.
On a golden throne he sat
Yeah, he WAS a mean ol' cat
Hebrew sweat made his land fat

Put the Hebrews through a LOT
But MOSES had another thought
Pharaoh's heart was
Hardened... caught
Through Moses God
Caused Egypt's rot...

Because of Moses' bravery
Pharaoh ended the slavery.

God is TOUGH!
They had no hope
God gave Pharaoh
Lot's of rope
Through Moses
God brought on a curse
Plagues of sorts which
Were the worst!
Pharaoh thought
He would be first
But it played out
As though rehearsed.

End of scene. Act. Then show!
Moses cried, "LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

Pharaoh did as it appears
THE HEBREWS WANDERED
40 YEARS!!

CHORUS

On the mountain God he wrote
The Ten Commandments
That he spoke.
They were written for the Folk
His very finger carved them out
As Moses stood up on the mount.
Moses came back for to find
His people had just lost their minds!
A golden calf is what they'd wrought
With the gold that they had brought
Moses made a golden draught
And made them drink it as they ought.

He begged with God
Not to destroy them!
Other tablets to deploy them.
To God's ways. There were Ten Commandments
So the people's have a moral fence.
God brought order. The Law was sent.
So the people would repent.

God is TOUGH! So don't be fooled!
He will judge... And by His rules!
Those who follow are as jewels
Those who don't are Devil's tools.

CHORUS

Now God has a dispensation
To save the people! Save the Nations!
God left heaven as a babe
So the people could be saved!
So His people could be well
From spirit's sickness - Satan's spell.
They called His name Emanuel.

From God's seed and divine birth
Jesus came and walked the Earth
His little flock he taught & gathered
He was teaching of the Father.
He taught goodness & great wisdom
He taught us how to
Find the Kingdom.

The Pharisees in anger brought
His death upon Him, for he taught!
He cast out demons. Healed many!
Gave the people food aplenty!
So the givers of the Law
Hated him for what they saw
Accused him of sin and vice
So they crucified the Christ.

God is TOUGH!
Jesus was cast down
With bitter gall and thorny crown
He put him in a criminal's grave
So that many could be saved!
Stripped of clothing and of pride
The wrath of God was satisfied
He put him in a criminal grave
So that many could be saved!

By his blood and by his death
He brought out the Lost, bereft.
For three days he was Underground
The women came and then they found
He had come forth! He had the keys!
From the devil took with ease
Hell, death, and the grave
He took all these!

CHORUS

Now, Christ in Resurrection stands
He's the greatest of the grand!
He gathers people from all lands
To bring them out
With a mighty hand!

But you'd better take advice...

Accept MERCY....
FEAR THE CHRIST!!

CHORUS


Cathy Jarvis
9/24/2018
Slam poetry + Rap = SLAP!

Thanks for reading! I know it was long, but I hope it was worth the effort... I really put a lot of effort into it myself! God bless you!
Trefild Sep 2019
some words go US Eng, some go UK Eng
so inside the word-dividing "[ ]" is the chosen sound
speaking of which, to hell with the "æ" sound
also, mind the stress marks

‣ whether [weather] you read this one or no[ɑ]t
‣ I don't give a... fo[ɑ]g or sleet, but
[or "**** to breed"; get it?]
‣ if you're finna make a run at tha[ɑ]t
‣ be ready for a wee bit of a text flood
‣ not to boast, but, compared to some daily social nE̲twork posts
‣ that are short li̲ke some 10-inch skirt
‣ this writin' of a self-expressin' sort
‣ is kind of an extension cord; hence if your
‣ ceilin' is readin' them posts
‣ or if you're simply a kiddie, ra[ɑ]ther get lo[ɒ]st
‣ a little under 1800, which is the number of the next words
‣ oh yeah, I ha[e]ve some to mention
[yet it's somewhat of a freestyle]
‣ so if you're still in & finna stay till the la[ɑ]st sentence
‣ ra[ɑ]ther get some patience
‣ no "hi" or any other salutations
‣ don't feel like bein' nice or polite, LA[ɑ]CK good intentions
[US Eng "lock"]
‣ like CROOKS IN DETENTION CENTERS
‣ besides, this is nei[aɪ]ther some friendly conversation
‣ nor peace negotiations; oh, &, takin' this occasion
‣ would like to tha[e]nk Em & Kelly for ignitin' me with inspiration
[hopefully, one day they'll get along or at least stop being hostiles to each other]
‣ and to those who're here after ha[e]vin'
‣ checked out my prior rhymin' attE̲mpts which
‣ are *******, pathetic: compared to those of misca[e]rriage
‣ this time, I'ma rhyme with a vengeance
‣ enough with the preparation, it's about time to jump to the narration(s)
[still here? ****, you don't value your time as hell; well, enjoy the ride, then]
————————————————————————————————
‣ once upon a time, went through hell & nearly died
‣ (an accident, not an attempt to suicide)
‣ maybe on my way from bein' alive
‣ took place somethin' like "access denied"
‣ or maybe Grim Reaper
‣ havin' met me, was like:
‣ "it's too early for you, nipper
‣ and you've done nothin' to deserve it, so you're finna survive"
‣ joke-cra[ɑ]ckin' about that he'd once nearly go[ɑ]tten
‣ to the point of kickin' the bucket like it's somethin'
‣ to lA̲U̲[ɑ]gh at, like some ni̲twit that's fi̲ne with
‣ wi[ɪ]ndin' up in a ca[ɑ]sket, like li̲fe is
‣ somethin' people've go[ɑ]t in a po[ɑ]cket
‣ (how nutty!)
‣ I ain't the only one of such kind, am I❓
‣ should be grateful that was rescued
‣ should¦appreciate¦& enjoy life
‣ but it seems that such a thing I wE̲nt through
‣ ain't enough for me to¦bE̲ this way¦, don't know why
‣ maybe there's somethin' wrong with my—
‣ when it comes to the hair, wouldn't mind
‣ black is one of those which I like
‣ otherwise, totally no[ɑ]t ready to die (no way)
[dye]
‣ hopefully, the la[ɑ]st days of mine
‣ are mind-blowingly far away from nigh
‣ but what a one of iro[ɑ]nic is¦abO̲U̲t ta be¦created
‣ time, the thought that I'm runnin'¦O̲U̲t of this¦carefree
‣ life's companion, which is¦mind-fvckingly¦amazin'
[the thought]
‣ that ***** had been¦drO̲[ɑ]ppin' in¦lately
‣ hunted me down like a hound!
————————————————————————————————
‣ in fa[ɑ]ct, had more of glum stuff, but then cut it out
‣ like no[ɑ]t a bold enough cha[ɑ]p when he's checkin' out
‣ a **[ɑ]t girl in a nightclU̲b when his bae is around
[funny fact: throw away "cut it out" and there go the following 2 lines]
‣ have these da[e]mn bars
‣ and don't see a better o[ɑ]pt. of what to do with 'em thA̲[e]n ta dro[ɑ]p
‣ even though they ain't bo[ɑ]mbs [bums]
‣ and would never gE̲t ta [Guetta] any to[ɑ]p
‣ since it's apparent [a parent], like John McClane
‣ that as long as material which is lyrical
‣ isn't on a track, it,¦similarly¦to a train
‣ bein' in the same condition, i̲sn't much
‣ different from¦bein' of ze-¦-ro use or vain
‣ a track, why don't I make O̲ne?
‣ oh, you know, I'm like a groupie/rookie whO̲ has
[couldn't decide which one to choose, so it's up to you]
‣ a whole state to run
‣ but in terms of cookin' music
‣ yet not finna lie, I haven't even given it a try
‣ the type who's used to takin' an easier side instead of tryin' to fight
‣ additionally, due to my Eng. la[ɑ]ng.
‣ proficiency which I def. la[ɑ]ck
‣ ca[e]nnO̲[ɑ]t speak well enough, let alone ra[ɑ]p
‣ while lyrically, I've pro[ɑ]bably go[ɑ]t
‣ for the most part cra[ɑ]p
‣ like some political high muckety-muck
‣ when they unload a dose of cla[ɑ]ptra[ɑ]p
‣ yet politics is a bo[ɑ]g
‣ and not my thi̲ng ta get i̲nto, so I ain't finna any deeper
‣ a wa[ɔ]lkin' flo[ɑ]p, a hell of a *****-up, hopeless, wa[ɑ]ck
‣ as... the "T&DVE" "DMITTE" squad's bad luck  
["Tucker & Dale vs. Evil"; "didn't make it to the end"]
‣ go[ɑ]t sla[ɑ]pped by a mental self-atta[ɑ]ck
‣ then wO̲ke up, but
‣ no[ɑ]t even the slightest shred of bein' perplexed or sho[ɑ]cked
‣ cool, like a person who pa[ɑ]ssed
‣ yet tha[ɑ]t doesn't change one pro[ɑ]blem: I might sna[ɑ]p
‣ like a champagne bo[ɑ]ttle tha[ɑ]t might po[ɑ]p
‣ outcomes?
‣ oh, not worldwide unforgettable
‣ like the "after Thanos" ones
‣ though mi̲ght be regrettable
————————————————————————————————
‣ no[ɑ]t 𝓁ℴ𝒸ℴ, except tha[ɑ]t a bit of a sleepwa[ɔ]lker
‣ as much of a ta[ɔ]lker as this wO̲rk or
‣ Jared Leto's version of Joker is hella worthy or no[ɑ]t mediocre
‣ comparin' the fi̲rst one to Em's "CampA̲I̲gn Speech" vE̲rse &
‣ the second one to Heath Ledger's version
‣ do you know what that is? it's a foursome
["that was fvcking stupid..."]
‣ compared to Marshall, I'm a cakewa[ɔ]lker
‣ which is fine, knowin' that there are vau[ɔ]ltfuls
‣ a whole wide ocean of mumble rap & pop au[ɔ]thors
‣ quite a borin' person
‣ which might get annoyin' & can make you crO̲[ɔ]ss &
‣ which you pro[ɑ]b'ly would never get to meet in person
‣ THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, SIMPLY AWE[ɔ]SOME
‣ wha[ɒ]t a DOPE self-review!
‣ though there are some worthier attributes of mine too
‣ bein' not far over 18, I'm sober & clean (have always been)
‣ don't give a **** what you think
‣ about it & what you're about to think
‣ but to me, sobriety is quite a thing to be proud of in
‣ 2019; in reality, my go[ɑ]ddamn ears
‣ ha[e]ven't even heard how gla[ɑ]sses clink
‣ when it comes to "cheers"
‣ only when that stuff has been up on screen
‣ yep, I rebuke takin' smokin' ****, drugs & *****
‣ 'cause it contributes nothin' good
‣ if you have somethin' against my attitude, views or opinion
‣ keep in mind a raised third finger
‣ and place O̲ne thing inside your rE̲A̲r end
‣ to be more precise, the homophone for "winner"
‣ but don't think that I am hosti̲le
‣ even if you're findin' them words vile
‣ though not that there was some sort of smile
‣ when I was writin' them few lines
‣ just've been listenin', as I previously let you know
‣ to some of Em's rhymes ("A55hO̲le")
‣ recently & years ago
————————————————————————————————
‣ come to think of it, this world is fvckin' lovely
‣ once you sink i̲nto it, feelin' bored is somethin' unlikely
‣ just imagine some of its fillings
‣ woman-beatin', rapists, dope-producin' & -dealin'
‣ human-eatin', racists, last years' US mass shootings, other indispensable killings
‣ American PEACE [****] OFFicers
‣ them gU̲Y̲s can give¦gU̲I̲dance in¦terms of **̲w ta treat
‣ non-threatenin' ones pro[ɑ]perly, harmlessly, non-violently
‣ which is¦stU̲ff in which¦they're the a[ɑ]pogee
‣ especially when they feel like ejE̲ctin' lead
‣ or practicin' some "breathtA̲king" ****
[get it?]
‣ (not that vi̲ral thing brought by K.C. Reeves)
‣ what remarkably frI̲E̲ndly peeps! attacops! [attack ops]
‣ on tO̲[ɑ]p of it, there are terrorists
‣ unsto[ɑ]ppingly presentin' benefits
‣ bY̲ the means of their bA̲[e]ngin' gifts
[they actually do yield benefits, just for themselves; after all, it's about point of view]
‣ imagine both of the peacemA̲kers in
‣ a JOINT partnership
‣ it would be DOPE, like cannabis; all this is incredibly
‣ splendid, hE̲lla LIT, ain't it?
‣ what a host of mind-bo[ɑ]gglingly plE̲A̲sant things!
‣ pro[ɑ]bably one of the wE̲ttest dreams...
‣ of patientless psychiatrists & psychotherapists
‣ sO̲mebody wines to the beats or quietly plays chess
‣ sO̲mebody is like obsessed
‣ with crossin' the lines & leads to some of tha[ɑ]t mess
‣ in terms of havin' ******, this planet is just bless(e)d
‣ some of which can bring such a pain in the "s"
‣ some mi̲ght think, why am I such negative? appa[e]rently
‣ this is a blood tY̲pe thing; born a pessimist, go[ɑ]d dA̲[e]mn the genes!
‣ but speakin' no[ɑ]t jestingly
‣ I guess this is a way somebO̲[ɑ]dy just hA̲[e]s ta be
‣ and in this writin', I ain't nigh to the E̲nd of it
[yeah, exploiting the rhyme pattern, so what?]
————————————————————————————————
‣ referrin' to things distortin' normality
‣ here's one occurrence from this *******-up reality
‣ turnin' into that kind also partially
‣ due to **** sti̲rrin' up in virtuality
‣ a 23-year-old smokin' **[ɑ]t babe
‣ that gained some wealth & fame
‣ (albeit by gettin' laid while bein' in the camera frame)
‣ did away with herself, tha[e]nks to a bunch of lame no-names
‣ that online wE̲nt off the chain
‣ gave her a hard time, havin'¦fE̲d her with¦an array
‣ of¦offE̲nsive things¦said, which go[ɑ]t her mentally caned
‣ another suicide, another one DRIVEN TO THE GRAVE  
‣ effin' insane...
[some people remain the same, some things take place over and over again; getting the connection?]
‣ I'ma propose guidance
‣ on **̲w ta dispose of them unki̲nd ones
‣ first, pla[ɑ]ster the pieholes to make 'em quiet
‣ becau[ɔ]se their rea[ɑ]ction to wha[ɒ]t's forthcomin'
‣ would be exa[ɑ]ctly inverse of silence
["do you like VIOLENCE❓"]
‣ begin the show of old-school violence
‣ from the finger bones, familiari̲ze 'em with a pi̲pe wrench
‣ then 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝒾́𝓃ℊ𝓊𝒶𝓈 meet a pair of pliers
‣ the fingers meet a sharpened runner of an i̲ce skate
‣ each member of both parties get coerced
‣ into one-time, yet never-to-be-forgo[ɑ]tten *******
‣ in the course of which they get ****** divorced
‣ from the bo[ɑ]dies, like a wife from a husband
[a wicked end of the relationships, on a rewardingly & wicked low note; slang ↑s used]
‣ tie them a[e]55holes up with barbed wire
‣ ride 'em to a railroad & wait for a train's arrival
‣ when one is comin', lay 'em on the rails in the stY̲le of
‣ Leoni[aɪ]das from "300", wherea[ɑ]after
‣ there go their operation cycles; it's a wrap, like a bin liner
‣ in which might be pA̲[ɑ]cked up
‣ what's left of them ba[ɑ]stards
‣ if such o[ɑ]ption, of course, were rightful
‣ R.I.P., August Ames
‣ I mi̲ght be in decline, but at least not out of my mind
‣ except I mi̲ght be nO̲[ɑ]t of this world
‣ don't even have a ****** smartphO̲ne
‣ that some [pick some offensive adjective] girl
‣ pro[ɑ]b'ly wA̲[ɑ]nts to the bone
‣ (except the one that ain't workin')
‣ if your first thO̲U̲ght is that's 'cau[ɔ]se I can't afford it
‣ you're wrong, you're deluded, if not even stupid
‣ I'm just no[ɑ]t like: "I really need it, really wa[ɒ]nt it"
‣ guess there's simply nO̲ need for mE̲ to use it
[some would probably think: "unbelievable"]
‣ while these ga[ɑ]dgets are nearly bein' worshipped
‣ like some star by some silly groupie
‣ somebO̲[ɑ]dy, help them a[ɑ]ddicts
‣ whose dog & bones are like extensions of their bo[ɑ]dies
‣ whose eyebA̲lls are on the displays like st[ɑ]atic
‣ still [steel] like they go[ɑ]t attra[ɑ]acted
‣ by a go[ɑ]ddamn ma[ɑ]gnet
‣ nailed like an arrow into an archer's target
‣ also, needless to say, how today's people a[ɑ]ct
‣ when somethin' thrillin' is ha[ɑ]ppenin'
‣ I'm merely statin' the fa[ɑ]ct
‣ that while¦seein' it, mU̲ch of 'em¦are filmin' & snA̲[ɑ]ppin' it
‣ when some geek is gettin' his ****
‣ kicked by some ***** he's unwillingly scrA̲[ɑ]ppin' with
————————————————————————————————
‣ hA̲[e]ve been listenin' to some rhyme-spittin'
‣ ha[e]vin' little to put my time i̲nto
‣ hE̲nce this *******-up ℯ𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶 (yet it's still not a [w]rap)
[not until it's on a **** track]
‣ speakin' of which, maybe I'm de-emphasi̲zin' it
‣ and this is a reach, yet I̲ think
‣ it turned out somewhat unexcitin' (yep, self-criticizin')
‣ what's the pro[ɑ]blem?
‣ what I̲ can say for sure is that I̲ went pri̲marily for rhymin'
[hence the title "some guy decided to rhyme"]
‣ in part becau[ɔ]se
‣ I, of course, lack in terms of plays on words & metaphors
‣ but I guess it could be worse
‣ and it seems that I̲ have kind of a thing for "iing" [eyeing]
‣ but it has nothin' to do with wa[ɑ]tchin'
‣ in fa[ɑ]ct, there's somethin'
‣ else I shoulda already started, which is gettin' money
‣ yep, no[ɑ]t a minor, Y̲E̲t still sla[ɑ]ckin'; an idler-rhymer
‣ me, bein' an actual songwriter? highly unlikely
‣ tha[ɑ]t's how much I'm funny & stunnin'
‣ but to hell with tha[ɑ]t ****** whinin'
‣ now, before you're nearly through, a little out of the blue too
‣ a few lines about O̲ne thing many people like to do
[who knows, maybe this is regarding even you]
‣ when you have somethin' reasonable to let out
‣ of your mind or mouth, it's fine to even stand your ground
‣ otherwise, don't even bo[ɑ]ther to come out
‣ ra[ɑ]ther stay in the background (take it into account)
‣ and if you're sick of receivin' my **** or even just seein' it
‣ go fly a kite, Peppa Pig
————————————————————————————————
‣ if you made it to these words, give a round of applau[ɔ]se
‣ not for me, for yourself, of course
‣ I'm done, 𝒶𝒹𝒾ℴ́𝓈
Goosebumps.

Panting.

F  u  m       bl    i   ng     .

                                                  Giggling.

       Tingling.




Lips merging.

                      Pulses racing.

                                           Impulse winning.

                                                               ­        Car rocking.



Morals are gone.

Hormones are on.

Clothes--yep, they're on.

                                         Good.


Come on, boy, don't disappoint.















Mmh.
Mimi Lynn Kelly Sep 2015
The earthquake in a dream is coming,
It's coming,
It's coming.
It clashes with real life,
It clashes,
It clashes.
It wakes me up,
It wakes me,
It wakes me.
The door is open,
It's open,
It's open.
Someone is there.
It's only Brook.
It's time to wake up,
It's time to get ready.
Soon I'll go to school.
"Did you notice that earthquake?"
Asked Brook.
"Yep."
It was October 2, 2012 and there was an earthquake. I apparently dreamt of one and it seemed to go longer than my dream was and so I predicted and earthquake at the young age of 11 in the young grade of 7th.
JJ Hutton Sep 2013
I'm running 7:25 splits. Eight miles in. I haven't got stuck at an intersection. Not that I ever do. Runners got the right-of-way. And like my buddy Randy Run 'N Gun would say, I'm zen. Very ******* zen. Used to be a walker. Not no more. Not after the heart attack. No, siree, I'm a runner. A good runner. Lost 45 pounds. I did. I did. I stick to the left side of the road. So I can see the guilt in the drivers' eyes as they pass by. They're thinking, there's an old man out there taking care of hisself. I should be taking care of myself.

And they should. They really should.

But what's exercise to the people in this town? A walk down the block to Loaf 'N Jug for a Snickers, that's what. Or if you're a rich *****, it's twenty minutes on a Stairmaster three times a week. And I have to wonder if they're really doing it for them, you know?

I'm on the way back to the house. I peel off 30th, cutting across four lanes of traffic. Head into Garden of the Gods park. I do this so people get the right idea of the city. When I was a tourist here, I thought to myself, why's everybody all lumpy-assed and tied to children. Made a promise to myself. Told myself, when you move out there, you're going to be the trophy. So, I run through the red rocks and insert myself, mid-stride, into all those family photos. That way, when they get home, they'll point at their pictures and say, everyone in Colorado is so fit.

Now I'm getting close to the spot. It happened about a mile--mile and a half into the Snake Trail over by that 30-foot tall rock that looks a bit like Lyndon Johnson. I was a tourist and a walker then. Not no more. Not ever again.

There's a stretch of blacktop that cuts Snake Trail in two. I can't remember the name of the road. I think it's named after some preacher who got cholera, lost his faith, regained his faith in the end. One of those touching trajectories. Those stories always sound like a lot of fluffy *******, if you ask me.

Cars are backed up on Wishy-Washy Preacher Road. There's a crowd of people gathered in the middle. I look at my running watch. I don't like this. This is the kind of unplanned circumstance that skews your splits. Then your run time makes you feel like a lumpy-***, and that ain't me. Not no more.

I start pushing through the crowd. There's a lot of whispering and a lot of little kids all snotty and teary-eyed. And it's all just frustrating, because I feel like I'm cutting through molasses. I look at my running watch. I reach the center of the crowd.

A mule deer had been runover--well, halfway. The stupid beast still uses his front legs, dragging his crumpled and ****** backside along in a mad circle. A screechy whimper comes out in intervals like beeping hospital machinery. He's so scared, some middle-aged woman with a kid to each hip, says. A longbeard, beergut hippie starts into a prayer,

Gods of the natural world, gods of the sweet animal kingdom,
we ask that you wrap this wounded beacon of your light
into your warm embrace. May you replace his great pain
with the great comfort of your cool breezes, with the great
comfort of your warm sun, with the great comfort of fresh water.

I unzip my running belt. It's not a ***** pack. I pull out my NAA Guardian .32 automatic. It's not a woman's weapon. See, Randy Run 'N Gun, got his name because he invented this kind of running. I respect him for it. Got nothing but respect for that man. See, a fella has to be prepared at all times. There are mountain lions. There are bears. And perhaps worst of all are all these ******* mule deers. They ain't even scared of people. They stop and wait for you to feed them, blocking the sidewalk when I run, skewing my splits.

These hippies ain't going to do ****. They're taking photos with their cellulars and saying theologically vague prayers. And all these tourists are watching. So I walk right up to the mule deer. Someone behind me breathes in so hard, it's like she vacuumed all the sound. Pop. Pop. The beast stops its beeping. Legs twitch. Legs stop twitching. I'm the only one with courage enough to grant a mercy ****.

It's all about doing. Right? That's what the heart attack taught me. Before the heart attack, I thought about being a runner. The rhythm of it, the mechanical discipline appealed to me. Liked the idea of doing a marathon or the sound of it.  I was walking in Garden of the Gods. Noticed the LBJ rock, said to myself, Holy hell that looks like Lyndon Johnson. I heard these quick steps coming from behind me. I thought some potstentch, beergut hippie was going stab me. Felt like the gears at the center of me came off their handle. The right side of me just wasn't there anymore. As I fell I saw it was only a runner.

I reach the Lyndon Johnson rock. I'm eleven miles in. My splits have averaged to 7:43. ******* deer. The ground is lower at the spot where I had the heart attack. Why? Because I dug a hole there, that's why. The old me, the walking me, the tourist me lies dead in that hole. As I pass by, I spit it the ditch as I always do. Good riddance. Yep. Yep.

The trail finally turns downward. A little more oxygen in Ute Valley. Randy Run 'N Gun he calls moments like this, Runner's Reward. And I like that. Nature's okay. The cedars, the meadows, rivers -- all that **** -- is just fine. But what I like about running is the metaphor. See all the hippies, all the tourists they live their lives in a constant state of reward. They think, I'm alive, so I'll smoke this ***. They think, I'm alive, so I'll take ******* pictures of everything. But runners, runners know that you don't deserve life. It's a gift to be earned. So you work your *** off. Mile after mile. A reward for me is a valley. The reward doesn't last long, just long enough for me to catch my breath, you know?

I exit the valley. I pick up the pace. Try to make up for earlier delay. I cross Flying W Ranch Road. I hear metal-scraping-metal. And I'm hit.

I'm in the air. I'm sliding. I'm bouncing. My knees and elbows are hot. I blink.

A woman in a bright pink tank top and yoga pants stands over me. Stay in the car, Jacob, she shouts. Oh my god, oh my god.

I tell her runners have the right-of-way. But she doesn't respond. I say, Lady help me up, you're ******* up my splits. But she doesn't respond to that. She repeats over and over, You're going to be okay. Your'e going to be okay. Just keep looking at me.

I turn my head. The display on my watch is cracked. I can't read my splits average. My head is a ton of bricks. My elbows and knees are hot.

Jacob, stop, the woman says.

Her boy stands over me, taking pictures with his cellular.
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Intro: Big Sean]
I look up
Yeah and I take my time, *****
I'mma take my time, whoa
Power moves only, *****

[Verse 1: Big Sean]
Boy I'm 'bout my business on business, I drink liquor on liquor
I had women on women, yeah that's bunk bed *******
I've done lived more than an eighty year old man still kickin'
Cause they live for some moments, and I live for a livin'
But this for the girls who barely let me get to first base
On some ground ball ****
Cause now I run my city on some town hall ****
They prayin' on my *******' downfall *****, like a drought, but
You gon' get this rain like it's May weather
G.O.O.D. Music, Ye weather
Champagne just tastes better
They told me I never boy, never say never
Swear flow special like an infant's first steps
I got paid then reversed debts
Then I finally found a girl that reverse stress
So now I'm talkin' to the reaper to reverse death
Yep, so I can kick it with my granddad, take him for a ride
Show him I made somethin' out myself and not just tried
Show him the house I bought the fam, let him tour inside
No matter how far ahead I get, I always feel behind
In my mind, but **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I said **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I grew up to Em, B.I.G. and Pac *****, and got ruined
So until I got the same crib B.I.G. had in that Juicy vid
*****, I can't *******' stop movin'
Go against me, you won't stop losin'
From the city where every month is May-Day at home, spray your dome
****** get sprayed up like AK was cologne for a paycheck or loan
Yeah I know that **** ain't fair
They say Detroit ain't got a chance, we ain't even got a mayor
You write your name with a Sharpie, I write mine in stone
I knew the world was for the taking and wouldn't take long
We on, tryna be better than everybody that's better than everybody
Rep Detroit, everybody, Detroit versus everybody
I'm so ******' first class, I could spit up on every pilot
The city's my Metropolis, feel it, it's metabolic
And I'm over ****** sayin' they're the hottest ******
Then run to the hottest ****** just to stay hot
I'm one of the hottest because I flame drop
Drop fire, and not because I'm name dropping, Hall of Fame droppin'
And I ain't takin' **** from nobody unless they're OG's
Cause that ain't the way of a OG
So I G-O collect more G's, every dollar
Never changed though, I'm just the new version of old me
Forever hot headed but never got cold feet
Got up in the game won't look back at my old seats
Clique so deep we take up the whole street
I need a ***** so bad that she take up my whole week, Sean Don

[Bridge: Kendrick Lamar]
Miscellaneous minds are never explainin' their minds
Devilish grin for my alias aliens to respond
Peddlin' sin, thinkin' maybe when you get old you realize
I'm not gonna fold or demise
(I don't smoke crack, ******* I sell it!)
*****, everything I rap is a quarter piece to your melon
So if you have a relapse, just relax and pop in my disc
Don't you pop me no ******* pill, I'mma a pop you and give you this

[Verse 2: Kendrick Lamar]
Tell Flex to drop a bomb on this ****
So many bombs, ring the alarm like Vietnam on this ****
So many bombs, make Farrakhan think that Saddam in this *****
One at a time, I line them up
And bomb on they mom while she watching the kids
I'm in a destruction mode if the gold exists
I'm important like the Pope, I'm a Muslim on pork
I'm Makaveli's offspring, I'm the king of New York
King of the Coast, one hand, I juggle them both
The juggernaut's all in your jugular, you take me for jokes
Live in the basement, church pews and funeral faces
Cartier bracelets for my women friends, I'm in Vegas
Who the **** y'all thought it's supposed to be?
If Phil Jackson came back, still no coachin' me
I'm uncoachable, I'm unsociable, **** y'all clubs
**** y'all pictures, your Instagram can gobble these nuts
Gobble **** up til you hiccup, my big homie Kurupt
This the same flow that put the rap game on a crutch (West x6)
I've seen ****** transform like villain Decepticons
Mollies'll prolly turn these ****** to ******* Lindsay Lohan
A bunch of rich *** white girls looking for parties
Playing with Barbies, wreck the Porsche before you give them the car key
Judgment to the monarchy, blessings to Paul McCartney
You called me a black Beatle, I'm either that or a Marley
(I don't smoke crack, *******, I sell it)
I'm dressed in all black, this is not for the fan of Elvis
I'm aiming straight for your pelvis, you can't stomach me
You plan on stumpin' me? ***** I’ve been jumped before you put a gun on me
***** I put one on yours, I'm Sean Connery
James Bonding with none of you ******, climbing 100 mil in front of me
And I'm gonna get it even if you're in the way
And if you're in it, better run for Pete's sake
I heard the barbershops be in great debates all the time
Bout who's the best MC? Kendrick, Jigga and Nas
Eminem, Andre 3000, the rest of y'all
New ****** just new ******, don't get involved
And I ain't rocking no more designer ****
White T’s and Nike Cortez, this red Corvettes anonymous
I'm usually homeboys with the same ****** I'm rhymin' with
But this is hip-hop and them ****** should know what time it is
And that goes for Jermaine Cole, Big KRIT, Wale
Pusha T, Meek Millz, A$AP Rocky, Drake
Big Sean, Jay Electron', Tyler, Mac Miller
I got love for you all but I'm tryna ****** you ******
Trying to make sure your core fans never heard of you ******
They don't wanna hear not one more noun or verb from you ******
What is competition? I'm trying to raise the bar high
Who tryna jump and get it? You're better off trying to skydive
Out the exit window of 5 G5’s with 5 grand
With your granddad as the pilot he drunk as **** trying land
With the hand full of arthritis and popping prosthetic leg
Bumpin Pac in the cockpit so the **** that pops in his head
Is an option of violence, someone heard the stewardess said
That your parachute is a latex ****** hooked to a dread
West Coast

[Verse 3: Jay Electronica]
You could check my name on the books
I Earth, Wind, and Fire’d the verse, then rained on the hook
The legend of Dorothy Flowers proclaimed from the roof
The tale of a magnificent king who came from the nooks
Of the wild magnolia, mother of many soldiers
We live by every single word she ever told us
Watch over your shoulders
And keep a tin of beans for when the weather turns the coldest
The Lord is our shepherd, so our cup runneth over
Put your trust in the Lord but tether your Chevy Nova
I’m spittin' this **** for closure
And God is my witness, so you could get it from Hova
To all you magicians that’s fidgeting with the cobra
I’m silent as a rock, ‘cause I came from a rock
That’s why I came with the rock, then signed my name on the Roc
Draw a line around some Earth, then put my name on the plot
Cause I endured a lot of pain for everything that I got
The eyelashes like umbrellas when it rains from the heart
And the tissue is like an angel kissin you in the dark
You go from blind sight to hindsight, passion of the Christ
Right, to baskin' in the limelight, it take time to get your mind right
Jay Electricity, PBS mysteries
In a lofty place, tangling with Satan over history
You can’t say **** to me - Alhamdulillah
It’s strictly by faith that we made it this far
This is the lyrics to "Control" by Kendrick Lamar ft. Big Sean ft. Jay Electronica, ****. No I.D ...
I so mad that he dissed half of my favorite rappers and how is it that he dissed Big Sean and Jay Electronica and they're rapping in this song....I don't understand. But i kinda like this song.
HotSauceMcPoetry Sep 2015
Stunt ****

He can be your lover lady,  ima be your stunt ****. He can be your boyfriend mommy, ima be your stunt ****. He can be your husband ****, ima be your stunt ****, stunt **** fluid swap, yep when them ******* drop. Lights, camera, action ,I’m your stunt ****, stunt ****. Lights camera, action, I’m your stunt ****, stunt ****. Ima be your stunt **** girl and beat it up, yep ima beat it up, that man there can eat it up. We don’t need no scrip for this act or no monolog, you can adlib, improvise on my microphone. We can do the box spring boogie all night long, we can get *****, coz play like its Comic Con. Tag your girlfriend in, we can do a menajahtwa , pile drive that nannie, Macho Man Wrestle Mania. Petting that *****, Doctor Claw, go go gadget pennies, working your equation ,*** notation like a mad genius. If I nut prematurely , don’t you worry I got ******, it’s not superman, but stuntman with all the stamina, Ima beat it up like Van Dam   at the Comitia ,finger, lick and kiss each other while I *******. It’s ocean spray ,whale watching like in Monterrey.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?


ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...


p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.


well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic


              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

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

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.
krystle wilson Jul 2014
As I walked through the apartment door,

I did not expect anything more but comic books and video games

Scattered on the floor.

I felt like I was at a comic book store back down south.

Batman, Superman and the green guy too.

Posted on the walls for all who entered to view.

But I had no idea who the hell they were.

All I knew was that they had powers,

Till Brett gave me the rundown for about an hour.

Batman is a super-rich guy, with a fly ride.

His parents were murdered by an evil guy.

So Batman goes around knocking bad guys out.

For he won’t **** you because of how his parents went out.

Then we have Superman over to my left,

A very fast man, with an “S” on his chest.

He gets dressed in phone booths, then fly’s to save the day.

He’s got x-ray vision, yep right through your shirt.

If you turn around then it’s your skirt.

Then we have my favorite one of them all,

Green lantern with his ring of power.

Making fists and gripping things.

Anything is possible when he’s wearing that ring.

So this is all I got out of my superhero lesson,

They are all really good guys with their own little blessing.
Larry B Dec 2010
I bet you didn't know that the 7 dwarfs
Used to work for Santa Claus
Yep, they all got fired from the north pole
Cause they kept breaking too many laws

See, Doc was the north pole physician
He tended to those who were afflicted
But he was writing too many prescriptions
And three hundred elves got addicted

Then we have the dwarf called Sneezy
Sneezy became a problem too
Everywhere he goes he's blowing his nose
And they all came down with the flu

Next we have the dwarf named Sleepy
Now this one should speak for itself
He was always found somewhere laying down
Curled up in a corner on a shelf

Then there's the dwarf called Bashful
This one was just way too shy
And when they finally gave him his pink slip
He was too embarrassed to say goodbye

That brings us to the dwarf named Happy
Now he was just a bundle of joy
But they just couldn't get him to do any work
Cause he was always playing with a toy

And of course we can't forget about *****
This one always did what they said
But he was a little slow, if you know what I mean
And they think he was dropped on his head

And last but not least we have Grumpy
He would stay out drinking all night
Now he was the the north pole's problem child
Cause he was always starting a fight

Well that's the end of my story
And I really hope you're not annoyed
Did I tell you Snow White fired them too?
Yep, all seven dwarfs are unemployed



© All Rights Reserved
Did you just call me ugly?
How blind could you be?
Don't you know that I got God inside of me?
Tell me dear....
So, full of pride and so focused on your youthful looks.
How much makeup?
How much pride?
How many people?
Will be at your side,
When you close your eyes for the last time.
Tried to be **** at times myself.
Those ideas blew up in my face.
Got a lot of regret debts
anchored down in the valleys of the wrinkles on my face.
Did you know I used to have abs?
Not anymore.
One day I heard my stomach having a private conversation,
with gravity.
Gravity said, 'Winning!'
Took my abs away.
Gave me arthritis and a fever in its place.
I **** so much.
I swear someone has a gun to my ***.
It is so ****** up,
when the pistol starts to cry and laugh.
I need a walker most of the time.
I guess the only crime I committed was staying alive.
Yeah, I am old.
So, what! I made it this far.
Take your *** on and be thankful for who you are.
You don't know how good you got it.
You can still get around,
Without leaving fun size Hersey bars behind on the ground.
'Hey, old dude, what Hersey bars are you referring to you?  The thing I see behind you are chocolate bars,
With corn toppings.
The old man starts to laugh.
The young lady says, 'Do you mean to tell me that you *******, while you were talking to me this whole time?
The young lady began to puke.
'Baby, I didn't **** on myself. My *** did all the work. I haven't been able to control my bladder for a few months now. Here is a tissue for your mouth though?'
'Did you just hand me your depends?' The young lady said.
'Yep! These Depends never judge me and makes me feel very special.'
The young lady walks away, as she continues to puke.
The old guy says, 'She is so slow. I thought that she would have given me my Depends diaper back.
'Uh oh! What am I going to doo-do in now? That girl stole my Depends!

(C) Copyrighted
A poem on aging.
While watching people I realized
That folks are a lot like squirrels
They don't pay much attention at all
To what's going on in their world

They scurry about to and fro
Doing what it is they do
Digging holes and burying nuts
A lot like me and you

They run aimlessly upon their way
Never looking both ways to cross the street
I guess that's why we see so many
Dead squirrels at our feet

Run to here and scurry to there
He lives within his own little world
Yep, watching people I realize
Folks are a lot like squirrels
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
I found that I was talking to myself tonight
No one in the room just me and the light

I think I've done lost it, that one final piece
There is now nothing in my head to decrease

Out of my cranium it must have crept
I bet you it did it last night while I slept

Now I'm talking right out loud
As if in my room there was a big crowd

Yep, it's official.......it is all gone
Yep, I think it left right around dawn

Wait for it.....wait....there it is, I just answered myself
Maybe I should go with the other crazies upon the shelf

Altho as I listen, I think I'm quite right
It's the most intelligent things I've heard in many a night

Yep, that proves, it I'm totally insane
It's done been let off of it's chain

Oh well what use is there to having one
It was never in use when I was having fun!!!!
Larry B Apr 2010
I bet you didn't know that the 7 dwarfs
Used to work for Santa Claus
Yep, they all got fired from the north pole
Cause they kept breaking too many laws

See, Doc was the north pole physician
He tended to those who were afflicted
But he was writing too many prescriptions
And three hundred elves got addicted

Then we have the dwarf called Sneezy
Sneezy became a problem too
Everywhere he goes he's blowing his nose
And they all came down with the flu

Next we have the dwarf named Sleepy
Now this one should speak for itself
He was always found somewhere laying down
Curled up in a corner on a shelf

Then there's the dwarf called Bashful
This one was just way too shy
And when they finally gave him his pink slip
He was too embarressed to say goodbye

That brings us to the dwarf named Happy
Now he was just a bundle of joy
But they just couldn't get him to do any work
Cause he was always playing with the toys

And of course we can't forget about *****
This one always did what they said
But he was a little slow, if you know what I mean
And they think he was dropped on his head

And last but not least we have Grumpy
He would stay out drinking all night
Now he was the the north pole's problem child
Cause he was always starting all the fights

Well that's the end of my story
And I really hope you're not annoyed
Did I tell you Snow White fired them too?
Yep, all seven dwarfs are unemployed
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
A TRIBUTE TO HELLO POETRY

This will be a long write.
There are so many I wish
to honor and thank.

Please, if you can, pull up
Bruce Cockburn's song
Maybe the Poet on YouTube.
Listen to the words as you read this.
It will greatly add to your enjoyment.

I play no favorites...
you ALL are class acts!

Here's a tribute. Yep. It's long!
But listen to Bruce Cockburn's song.
I want to emulate what's sung
Yes, not miss a poet, one!

ryn has got a range of art
Ded Poet's got a poet's heart
elsa angelica's soul resounds
Bhumika's a dove
with a golden crown!

Wolfspirit's pen can spill his love
Wonderman's ink from up above
sjr...1000 words so wise
Scarlet Pimpernel's talent's
not disguised!

Joe Malgeri's a spiritual gent
Paige Pots' work is heaven sent
Tivonna has love for natural things
Helena's work has roots and wings!

Pradip, in my eyes number one
as is Thomas A Robinson
jeffrey robin's style is loose and bold
Rupal has a heart of gold!

John Stevens has an earthy wit
Pax means peace, his candle's lit
Tryst's ballads are a perfect fit
and I love Lidi Minuet!

donna's sweet as honeydew
Jason Cole fits like a shoe
Prttybrd sings songs with style
Day Wing flies! He has a smile!

Deborah's walking on her beach
her talent has a range and reach
Rapunzel let's her hair way down
Weeping Willow
has a pleasant sound!

Joe Cole loves all fantasy
SSilkenTounge has a mind that's free
Solaces is a very old friend
I hope to see Botan again!

Urmilla writes beyond her years
Chalsey Wilder writes bring tears
Tonya Maria and I share pain
Wise is K Balachandran!

CA Guifoyle lives in my town
Adam Childs' the best around
SE Reimer can put us in the mood
Musfiq us Shaleheen
Is so VERY good!

Richard Riddle honors with poetry
Love my collab, Arcassin B!
Sally A Bayan's good and kind
Hayden Swan's a real find!

Love comments from Joe Adomavicia
zik, I'm always glad to see ya!
TGWLY has a heart that hurts
Erenn Y does heartfelt works...

Elizabeth Squires has classic writes
Frank Ruland's fights
for what is right
And if a scare you want to see
just look up POETIC T!

Oh! There are SO many more!
There are poets by the score!
I don't want to be a bore
But read them ALL! You will be
FLOORED !!!

MORE POETS!!!

Lori Jones McCaffery
Kalypso
Niamh Price
Mya Angel
Mike Hauser
Vicki
Ignatius Hosiana
Frankie J
Chris Green
mark cleavenger
brandon nagley
Winn
Puds (Pete)
Deborah Brooks Langford
Timothy
Marian
Hilda
Harriet Tecumsah Watt
it's gonna make sense
mybarefootdrive
Dark n Beautiful
WL Winter
Margaux
Pamela Rae
Venusoul7
Eddie Starr
Olivia Kent
Brenden Thomas
Zoe
Raj Arumugam
Elijah
Sukeerti
Manny
M.A.N
Jonny Angel
Dylan Mitchell
James M Vines
bulletcookie
i am miss brightside
Chris Fracc
Cat
Ocean Blue
Phil Lindsay
Mike Hauser
PearlSy
Christi Michaels Moon Flower
Raj Nandy
SPT
PoETEPETE Now RePETE After PETE
Makayla Kelly
Paul Gafney
Nan Trapp Messer
Chloe
Steven Langhorst
Daniel Palmer
Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
C A Guilfoyle
TRAVELLER
Soul
GitacharYa VedaLa
Rosalind heather Alexander
S R Matts
Paul Gattney
Danny Mak
patty m
liv frances
Gary L
Ngamau Boniface
IOWA
Earl Jane
ber
Justin G
James
ste'phanie noir
born
Aztec Warrior


Last but not least... olestoryteller
and Francie Lynch! Ketoma Rose!
If there's someone I've forgotten
PLEASE TELL ME!

Also please read Hello again, Poets!
I wrote more! Also please read the poem 'diamonds'. There are many tributes to people who i missed in this write.

I'LL WRITE A SPECIAL POEM
JUST FOR YOU!

---
Jim McDonnagh pulled his 2011 Ford Escape into his driveway, glancing over at his six year old son, who was sitting at the end of the drive. Angus McDonnagh, all of six years old, and ginger haired was waving at his dad, from a kitchen chair, set behind a card table. On the table was a sign and a box. Of course, from the angle Jim was at in the car, he couldn't see what was on the white board hanging in front of the table. Angus waved again, and turned back to the road.

Jim, entered the large four bedroom bungalow from the side door, looking back at Angus one more time. Angus, was sitting, watching the cars drift by on the road in front. Carol McDonnagh, Jim's wife of nine years was at the front window watching out over Angus and his table. Jim came up behind her, and asked "What's himself doing out there at the table then?"

"I think you'd best go ask him yourself" said Carol. She had a slight smile on her face.
"No, what's up with him then....why the lemonade stand at the end of the driveway?".
"It's not a lemonade stand...did you see any lemonade out there?"
"Come to think of it, no I didn't...just wee Angus, and a box"..."What's in the box?"
"Go and talk to your son"..."He'll let you know...and oh, we've a long distance call to Belgium going to be on the next bill".
"OK....I'll....who do we know in Belgium?"
"Questions, questions...go and talk to your son"

Jim, went out the front door of the house, past Angus's bike in the walkway, where he always left it, and where Jim always told him not to leave it. Angus turned to see who was coming and then turned back to the road.

"Hey son, what's up?" said Jim. "Your mum said I should ask you what you're doing out here".
"Nothing Dad, just practicing...that's all", and he turned back to the road.
"Just practicing..cool, ok I asked"....and Jim started away, turned on his heel and asked "Do you mind if I ask ...for what are ye practicing my lad?.
"To be famous Dad, to be famous" said the ginger headed mite.
"Oh, ok then....hold it....To be famous?"..."By sitting at the end of our driveway in the middle of Glasgow, you're going to be famous?".
"Not now Dad, I'm practicing....but one day".
"Oh alright, dinner's in half hour, see you then"...."Hold it....how is sitting at the end of our driveway, at a card table with a box....practicing to be famous?".
"Easy Da...I'm selling autographs".
"Autographs?" asked Jim.
"Yep" said Angus.
"And whose fine autographs are you selling my son, my son....you can't write your name yet....you can barely scrape by on the printing side of things too".
"Their mine Da...mum did them on some kitchen cards for me. Their only one pound each. All famous people have autographs". Jim walked around to the front of the table, and looked at the box and the sign. Sure enough, one box full of about twenty white three by five recipe cards with **** McDonnagh written on them, nice and sweet as could be. On the sign, "OTTO GRAFS" ONE QUID EECH!!!!

Jim pondered his son's new and sudden career choice and asked "Angus...why do ye want to be famous?".
"Because it's cool Dad. Everyone likes famous people". "I see..." said Jim. "Just a thought though son, don't you have to do something to become famous, to have people like you?".
"That's why this is just practice" said Angus.
Now, how do you argue with that logic?

Up at the house Carol was looking out at her two men, one ready to be famous and the other confused as to why.

"Dad, you like them footballers on telly, right?". "Yes son, I do....they're good at what they do".
"And when you see them girls in the paper, without their shirts.....Cor' I'll have a bit of that...isn't that good. That means you like them too, right?".
"Yes son, but...that's a different sort of thing".
"How?...they're famous and people know them...are they good at what they do?" asked Angus.

Flustered, Jim answered "yes they are son, yes they are". "What exactly do they do Dad?".
"I'll tell you when you're ten son...wait until you're ten".
"I'm gonna be famous like that footballer who's always in the news dad"....
Jim thought about it...not sure who his wee boy was talking about.....and then it hit him.
"You know dad, the one they always show on the news and the sports with that lady".
"Son, that's John Terry, Englands Captain", said Jim.
"He's the one, played for Chelsea too".
"That's not what he's on telly for lately son, that's not the type of famous you want". "Why not?"
"He's famous for doing something bad, that's not what you want...is it?".
"So, I don't want to be like him, and I'm not ready to know about taking my shirt off...what can I be famous for Dad....I'm ready..I've got autographs done in the box".
"I know son, you'll find out"....and hopefully soon thought Jim.
"You can be like that Justin Barber lad from Canada....go on the internet and do stuff there, you can get famous from that son".
"It's Bieber and nope, nope and nope" said Angus.
"He has tattoos, likes girls and worst of all...he looks geeky".
Jim laughed at the last bit. "But, he's famous...isn't that what you want?"

"Supper!!!" Yelled Carol from the window.

"It is, but not if I have to do that...I never thought being famous would be so tough".
Jim thought, exactly why I avoided it son. He grabbed the box, and folded up the table, Angus was dragging the chair behind him...he dropped it by the bike and went in.
Jim looked at it, dropped the table...took out a pound coin, dropped it in the box and went in for dinner.

"Maybe I'll be a fireman instead " said Angus as they went inside. "People like them too...and it doesn't seem as hard as being famous"...."Yep, a fireman".

Jim smiled, tousled his son's raggedy head and went to the table.

"Now would someone tell me about this phone call to Belgium?....
we earned our stripes
playing out on the road
in towns you won't find on the map
we play whatever
the crowd wants to hear
and one time we even played taps

yeah taps...that's right
one time we even played taps

played a bar last night
real funky place
the backroom was also the jail
you got drunk on one side
then they'd lock you up
and you could pay the bartender your bail

yep...you could pay the bartender your bail

The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig

we've got two pickups
an suv too
and a minivan rusted to bits
we play rock paper scissors
to see who drives where
then we pack up and hope it all fits

yep...most nights we hope it all fits

we play behind wire
in some places we go
it stops the bottle from hitting the drums
we asked the bartender
if he thought we should leave
he said you do....next they'll all pull out their guns

yep...everyone there all had guns

The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig
Ria Aug 2014
words are so complicated when trying to describe someone who you really adore and admire
there are 26 letters in the English alphabet but why does it feel like there should be more?
so here are several reasons why i cherish bianca

number one: she is so understanding and easy to talk to, like at first i thought she was an untouchable force; some sort of female celestial being you know
i was shocked she followed me via twitter and that's how we met
we both were sad
yep, sad that's the word to describe it
a gloomy looming figure standing on top of your heart

number two: she told me who she wrote about, (i don't know if you remember lil' sunflower) but i asked her once
-and mind you, i was terrified of how she'd react because i was so interested and i usually ask other writers, poets, artists who they wrote about.
however, bianca answered truthfully and calmly
in fact she sad nobody asked her this before and i was perplexed why people didn't ask her before in the past

number three: she's like a sunflower,
why? she is such a darling, she's so sweet and she brightens the day by smiling right back at the sun. she needs to rest at night though, so she reads and listens to music and rests just like a sunflower
she also has a knack of cheering me up just like a sunflower

number four: this reason may be stupid but i actually remember her name, so many people i meet i forget their name quickly but hers sticked
i remember her, this is important: i feel like this is my subconscious trying to tell me something. it may seem farfetched but i believe she's special somehow, i may be crazy for saying this....but yeah lol

number five: she has goals in life
this darling has real aspirations in her time here, which i admire about her

number six: her fashion/makeup factor is so on point
we have similar tastes in fashion and makeup hence we watch the same youtubers and such, i really like this about her
it shows more of her quirky and interesting personality

number seven: lucky seven, she loves tea
i don't mean she just drinks it, she breathes tea,
we like the same types as well: none of that nasty berry tea (sorry)

number eight: she can understand me, she listens
bianca listens to my ridiculous little rants all the time even if they're stupid and tedious and i really thank her for this, i go to her when i feel like the four walls are closing in on me and she really does listen to what i have to say

number nine: we plan on meeting someday...
when we both gain some self-confidence and when a jolt of adrenaline kicks in, i'm super excited

number ten: i know there are more reasons but this is where this letter shall end today
she puts up with my stupid imessage not working and the dms on twitter suffice for our friendship, sigh it's annoying but true

i love you darling dear, i hope you have a wonderful night!!

sincerely,
Ria **
this is a letter to one of the sweetest people i know on this odd lil planet

— The End —