Poetry competition CLOSED 10th September 2018 5:41pm
WINNER
wallyroo92
wallyroo92
RUNNER-UP:
ReggiePoet
ATTENTION to all writers or something like that
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Before I Leave This World
Before I leave this world, I want to experience life’s pleasures
To feel the warm sand under my naked feet and smell the fresh ocean air
I see double, both the light and the dark, and the beings they consume
Some individuals rush towards the water; others run indoors
Their behavior confuses me, though it can’t be held against them
Warm seems the candle to one who has never felt the sun.
Before I leave this world, I want to see every color of nature
To smell the sweet scent of wild flowers and to drink the cool mountain water
I see the leaves change colors dramatically, from vibrant green to shimmering gold
Some leaves fall to the ground; others manage to hang on for longer
Their destiny is at the mercy of the wind; whether it be a gentle breeze or a ferocious storm
I pity those without the gift of seeing in color.
Before I leave this world, I want to worship God’s temple to me
To take in the feeling of being one as I make sweet love
I see past the physical flaws and marvel at the beauty and purity of the soul
Some individuals view the act as sacred; others take it for granted
My integrity is a blooming flower and will never be corrupted
Others are merely left with an empty stem.
The time has come, I’m ready to leave this world
I’ve lived my life to the fullest and I have no regrets
I say farewell to my loved ones on Earth, and soon will reunite with the ones I’ve lost
I don’t know what lies on the other side, yet I’ve found my peace
A light surrounds me as I walk forward
Whatever lies on the other side, a new journey will begin.
To feel the warm sand under my naked feet and smell the fresh ocean air
I see double, both the light and the dark, and the beings they consume
Some individuals rush towards the water; others run indoors
Their behavior confuses me, though it can’t be held against them
Warm seems the candle to one who has never felt the sun.
Before I leave this world, I want to see every color of nature
To smell the sweet scent of wild flowers and to drink the cool mountain water
I see the leaves change colors dramatically, from vibrant green to shimmering gold
Some leaves fall to the ground; others manage to hang on for longer
Their destiny is at the mercy of the wind; whether it be a gentle breeze or a ferocious storm
I pity those without the gift of seeing in color.
Before I leave this world, I want to worship God’s temple to me
To take in the feeling of being one as I make sweet love
I see past the physical flaws and marvel at the beauty and purity of the soul
Some individuals view the act as sacred; others take it for granted
My integrity is a blooming flower and will never be corrupted
Others are merely left with an empty stem.
The time has come, I’m ready to leave this world
I’ve lived my life to the fullest and I have no regrets
I say farewell to my loved ones on Earth, and soon will reunite with the ones I’ve lost
I don’t know what lies on the other side, yet I’ve found my peace
A light surrounds me as I walk forward
Whatever lies on the other side, a new journey will begin.
Written by LunasChild8
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Spit or Swallow
The song I sung
Was the song of hate
The lyrics of pain,
Gratuitous violence,
Torture and slow death
I gloried in evil acts
As my basement can attest to
I lost count of the sinners
Round about sixty three
There was beauty and the exquisite
Is the slash of the knife
The flow of the blood and
Oh! The screaming
Amputated limbs spit roasted
Force fed to the amputee
Imagine eating your own leg
These type of events tickled me
You didn't have to be the Christ
For me to crucify you to the floor
Then one day a passing holy man
Passed by on the other side
But then he stopped and turned
He beckoned me sit a while
I sat and listened
He beamed about them beauty of nature
And the wonder of the cosmos
He debunked the theory of evolution
He spoke of forgiveness and love
He spoke of self denial and modesty
He spoke of good works and chastity
He spoke of confession and temperance
He spoke about sin and salvation
He whispered about how much it cost
I looked him in the eye, I was moved
Or at least my bowels were
I told him "You're full of shit!"
As I buried my machete in his fuckin head
The beauty of nature can kiss my ass
The wonder of the cosmos is fuckin boring
From apes we came to apes we return daily
forgiveness is for frightened cowards
Love is a crock of shite; I spit on it
I will deny myself nothing of the fruits of evil
Why be modest when I am fucking awesome
Good works are the pitiful acts of an idiots
Fuck chastity literally right in the ass
I have nothing to confess
Not even being the consummate alcoholic
Sin just a term for a fuckin good time
I find salvation in noisy torture: I get wood
I smelled bull shit the minute he asked for cash
I was in two minds so I split his head open
Now he's got two minds: Ha! that tickled me
Don't swallow what the holy man wants to give you
You will be choked by it
You will be a lost sheep never to be found
and I will fuck you up
Written by David_Macleod
(14397816)
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
GROOMED הֵילֵל
I think I’ve just awakened from night’s sleep, so why
can’t I remember lying down? I don’t feel rested at all.
From what ordeal hath this wrought of me?
The old church, with peeling, loosened clapboards,
cracked stained glass, leaning spire with winged figure
bowed atop as if in mourning, was a sorrowing place
with pall of tears, warped in the constant screech & clicks
of cicada, surrounded by swamp and marshland hidden
in willow and twisted gnarled oak overgrown.
She was a girl of no distinction, given the lexicon of her
short life up until then that droned on in a maze of black
arts that consumed the sanctity & sanctuary of what
once was the pierced heart of Christ; cohabitants meant
to exist in the atmosphere of Venus, the body and light
of Lucifer before the casting out.
Inside the groaning structure, a time long ago, hallowed
by sharecropper families from the county, for celebrations
of their faith. Of weddings, baptisms, and their farewells
to both beloved & scoundrels, a slight & singular girl
was a ward of the exalted archangel, once second only
to God's own son. The chosen had chosen.
Within a narrow cupboard beneath a stairway was her
only place, a haven. While each night, when the dead
would make their way up toward a distant light, she
couldn't see, and no one let her - & heard the saddest
mournful moans sustained as if in wordless prayer.
The outcast host of heaven's angels, relegated to grovel
under the feet of Vulgate, were pathetic & envious, and
mocked the girl clad in ritual garb that never covered
her modesty. They'd make her pack their bags, & wash
their feet before the dead could ascend, wrapped in
torn strips of white raiment.
But where would they go? They never returned. So what
good was it to cling to Hope? As helpless as she felt
of her chances to be free. The plight she thought
had befallen the sallow, sunken & bowed walking dead,
and more passing through, had no Hope left for them.
She'd tuck her slight body in her slight room in despair
and try to dream. Out of the mists, Hope would always
appear, to take her hand and ease her heart and soul.
Hope came to her as a gentle-faced man as Lucifer
once was. He was erect and imposing, with beautiful
wings that unfurled & reflected when he’d approach.
The Shadows of her prison would taunt whenever
Hope came. Pulling her long sable hair, to drag her
out the cupboard. Howling their foul breath, filling
the room. Telling her she would meet her doom.
‘Doom’ was what she knew she’d been sentenced to.
On this night as the girl was cleansing the dead and
wrapping their bodies for the journey she yearned
to know, it came to her to disguise as one of them;
to blend in and join the many going up the staircase.
She feared the ritual the guardians pressed her into
when the satanic mood set in like a fog of faint blood
glowing, seeping from rafters, the doors & floors.
Making every timber and plank creak & shiver, with
a deep moan of death's angelic choir to accompany
the orgy of her grooming for Lucifer's sadistic pleasure.
Anything the Shadows did was a picnic compared
to what laid in wait once she would be given over to
Queen Lilith, who would present the girl to her Lord.
She saw the chance to set her plan in action while
there was a moment's break, and quickly pulled off
her ritual garb, stood shivering in a shallow pan and
poured a pitcher of cold water on her nakedness,
then sat in the pan with a rag and washed her feet.
Once she finished the ablutions, she stood to step
out and rubbed herself dry; her heart pounding in
her throat, her rasping breath from her open mouth.
Her time was short. The dead she had prepared now
in a listless line about to leave. She quaked while
wrapping wads of torn strips of white cloth around
herself, making certain her face was covered, with
slits left open to see out from.
The line of dead had begun to make their way up the
stairs that sagged & groaned, as the girl held onto
the railing to steady herself, so anxious was she.
She kept between two of the walking dead, so pitiful
and wan, to keep the Shadows from spying her.
She saw the darkness starting to grow less so, and
peered through the bandages up the stairs between
the shuffling bodies. It was eventide, with half a
waxing moon at its apex in the night cycle. The air's
subtle chill was bracing & crisp & smelled fresh,
reminding her how putrid & close it was down below.
It was all she could do not to suddenly bolt with only
a few more steps to go. The ones ahead were out on
the roof, and each began to rise up until they were all
spread out in lines of pale moonlight ascending slowly
into the starry night, high and low in all directions.
The girl was mesmerized while standing at the base
of the old bent spire, watching the rest emerge from
the top of the staircase, out onto the roof, to float
silently away. It was beautiful, they were now all free.
The girl quickly put her hands to her bandaged face.
She couldn't follow she wasn't dead she'd be found out!
What to do, where to go?, her thoughts leaped out
of her ears as she spun round and round in place.
She looked at the ground below - it was too far to
jump. She turned & looked up above at the mournful
bowing angel with wings outspread. She kept her
eyes wide on the angel and tried to climb the spire.
"There's my Hope!" she cried out, "My only Hope!",
digging her fingers in, her bare feet scrambling.
She was at the spire's bend & could go no further!
All she could do was look up at the statue's placid
face and pray:
"Dear Lord, I am your unworthy lamb gone astray!
Please, save me and I will serve you all of my life..."
But before she could finish & say "Amen", the angel's
eyes lit up bright red, tilted its head in a sickening
crunch, bared its shark-toothed maw at her & jeered,
"Oh I'll save you, all right, the best for last! You'll
serve me well till I say DIE!!"
And the choir could be heard in eerie devotations:
the orchids of her sallow flesh
so soft and pliable,
from fallow rot of bitch's crčche,
death is a harlot's friend...
death is a harlot's friend...
Could it be the life I thought I knew
Was only but the dream,
With this conclusion that I drew
That this is now... the end of me?
( prose poetry - word count: 1,157 )
can’t I remember lying down? I don’t feel rested at all.
From what ordeal hath this wrought of me?
The old church, with peeling, loosened clapboards,
cracked stained glass, leaning spire with winged figure
bowed atop as if in mourning, was a sorrowing place
with pall of tears, warped in the constant screech & clicks
of cicada, surrounded by swamp and marshland hidden
in willow and twisted gnarled oak overgrown.
She was a girl of no distinction, given the lexicon of her
short life up until then that droned on in a maze of black
arts that consumed the sanctity & sanctuary of what
once was the pierced heart of Christ; cohabitants meant
to exist in the atmosphere of Venus, the body and light
of Lucifer before the casting out.
Inside the groaning structure, a time long ago, hallowed
by sharecropper families from the county, for celebrations
of their faith. Of weddings, baptisms, and their farewells
to both beloved & scoundrels, a slight & singular girl
was a ward of the exalted archangel, once second only
to God's own son. The chosen had chosen.
Within a narrow cupboard beneath a stairway was her
only place, a haven. While each night, when the dead
would make their way up toward a distant light, she
couldn't see, and no one let her - & heard the saddest
mournful moans sustained as if in wordless prayer.
The outcast host of heaven's angels, relegated to grovel
under the feet of Vulgate, were pathetic & envious, and
mocked the girl clad in ritual garb that never covered
her modesty. They'd make her pack their bags, & wash
their feet before the dead could ascend, wrapped in
torn strips of white raiment.
But where would they go? They never returned. So what
good was it to cling to Hope? As helpless as she felt
of her chances to be free. The plight she thought
had befallen the sallow, sunken & bowed walking dead,
and more passing through, had no Hope left for them.
She'd tuck her slight body in her slight room in despair
and try to dream. Out of the mists, Hope would always
appear, to take her hand and ease her heart and soul.
Hope came to her as a gentle-faced man as Lucifer
once was. He was erect and imposing, with beautiful
wings that unfurled & reflected when he’d approach.
The Shadows of her prison would taunt whenever
Hope came. Pulling her long sable hair, to drag her
out the cupboard. Howling their foul breath, filling
the room. Telling her she would meet her doom.
‘Doom’ was what she knew she’d been sentenced to.
On this night as the girl was cleansing the dead and
wrapping their bodies for the journey she yearned
to know, it came to her to disguise as one of them;
to blend in and join the many going up the staircase.
She feared the ritual the guardians pressed her into
when the satanic mood set in like a fog of faint blood
glowing, seeping from rafters, the doors & floors.
Making every timber and plank creak & shiver, with
a deep moan of death's angelic choir to accompany
the orgy of her grooming for Lucifer's sadistic pleasure.
Anything the Shadows did was a picnic compared
to what laid in wait once she would be given over to
Queen Lilith, who would present the girl to her Lord.
She saw the chance to set her plan in action while
there was a moment's break, and quickly pulled off
her ritual garb, stood shivering in a shallow pan and
poured a pitcher of cold water on her nakedness,
then sat in the pan with a rag and washed her feet.
Once she finished the ablutions, she stood to step
out and rubbed herself dry; her heart pounding in
her throat, her rasping breath from her open mouth.
Her time was short. The dead she had prepared now
in a listless line about to leave. She quaked while
wrapping wads of torn strips of white cloth around
herself, making certain her face was covered, with
slits left open to see out from.
The line of dead had begun to make their way up the
stairs that sagged & groaned, as the girl held onto
the railing to steady herself, so anxious was she.
She kept between two of the walking dead, so pitiful
and wan, to keep the Shadows from spying her.
She saw the darkness starting to grow less so, and
peered through the bandages up the stairs between
the shuffling bodies. It was eventide, with half a
waxing moon at its apex in the night cycle. The air's
subtle chill was bracing & crisp & smelled fresh,
reminding her how putrid & close it was down below.
It was all she could do not to suddenly bolt with only
a few more steps to go. The ones ahead were out on
the roof, and each began to rise up until they were all
spread out in lines of pale moonlight ascending slowly
into the starry night, high and low in all directions.
The girl was mesmerized while standing at the base
of the old bent spire, watching the rest emerge from
the top of the staircase, out onto the roof, to float
silently away. It was beautiful, they were now all free.
The girl quickly put her hands to her bandaged face.
She couldn't follow she wasn't dead she'd be found out!
What to do, where to go?, her thoughts leaped out
of her ears as she spun round and round in place.
She looked at the ground below - it was too far to
jump. She turned & looked up above at the mournful
bowing angel with wings outspread. She kept her
eyes wide on the angel and tried to climb the spire.
"There's my Hope!" she cried out, "My only Hope!",
digging her fingers in, her bare feet scrambling.
She was at the spire's bend & could go no further!
All she could do was look up at the statue's placid
face and pray:
"Dear Lord, I am your unworthy lamb gone astray!
Please, save me and I will serve you all of my life..."
But before she could finish & say "Amen", the angel's
eyes lit up bright red, tilted its head in a sickening
crunch, bared its shark-toothed maw at her & jeered,
"Oh I'll save you, all right, the best for last! You'll
serve me well till I say DIE!!"
And the choir could be heard in eerie devotations:
the orchids of her sallow flesh
so soft and pliable,
from fallow rot of bitch's crčche,
death is a harlot's friend...
death is a harlot's friend...
Could it be the life I thought I knew
Was only but the dream,
With this conclusion that I drew
That this is now... the end of me?
( prose poetry - word count: 1,157 )
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
Anonymous
The Check Is In The Male
Since I've Been Sayin' I Was Born In The Wrong Body
I Should Have Been A Woman Long Before It Was A Meme
Then A Movement Then A Gender Bender , I'm Going To Tell
You Bitches To Move Out Of My Way As The Queen Has Arrived
And when her mask dropped , as her veil of existence ,
she was her sphinx and her Salome , seducing her inner
male in an incestuous riddle , a kundalini feedback loop
I Don't Just Walk I Strut And I Don't Make Love I Rut
She spun in place , a waveform rhythmic of phase
shifted light , a portal shakti , in human shell
She seemed normal to most
yet she was much more than that
She was an equation unto herself , unsolved until
she turned her key
Who was she , self claimed , and saying no , not to other's perception ,
yet her own multiple choice creation , and dice rolled , angular momentum
creating her potential
snake eyes
She Was So Hot The Ground Hissed Under Her Feet Like A Serpent
And Every Word She Spoke Was In The Tongue Of A Cunning Linguist
She was who she was , and all she was , was the present mistress
of yesterday's ghost , the future dominatrix of her today's dream ,
none other , for who could dream herself better than she ?
She Burned Through Her Bullshit And Had A Shotgun For Others'
She was a creature of her desires , her needs , her sustaining
matrices , seeking without seeking that which would set her free
Opposites attract , herself to herself , like some holy guardian angel
to the body and blood , sword to grail , water trough to some special
intelligence , drink me , eat me , I am divine
Spirituality made her horny
It is incestuous , when I get embed with myself , she thought
When I penetrate my subconscious , I get wet
Sex and death , are tied in the self referred möbius strip of my subconscious
I Am A Lissome Legend Of Lustful Proportions In Lace And Leather
She was perfect , as physical the beauty
It was in her mind's chaos , nymphs and neural sprites
stirred the depths of her subconscious desires and
fears , evoking and invoking body judgements , ego
appraisals , and am I good enough iterative mantras
Her inquiring mind was on a need to know basis , and
her introspection was an amateur detective inspecting
files long buried
She Loved It Up Down Right Left Back And Forth
Spinning Her Web In Every Direction
She Still Felt Like A Woman On The Edge Again Of Her Own Puberty
Crouched On Her Pedestal Of Potential
Half in half out , like some cat goddess , and worshiping
at her own altar , like any teenager , and girl in heat
Only here while it suited her , an outfit of personality ,
and nubile persnicketiness , or submissive seductiveness
whatever she chose , as any teenage girl's unwritten rite
And she danced her primal rhythm
She was the goddess of her temple
She Was Her Mother Of Stars And The Nacht Mahr
She Was Her Sea Horse Riding Her Waves
She looked into her waveform , her song and her dance ,
Her movement and her sonic , her calm and her storm ,
her planned event , yet circumstance , her control , yet
her respect , and ever is that which some call wrong ,
and many others call correct
She Did Not Give A Flying Fuck What Others Submitted To
She Was Her Own Juxtaposition And Geometry When She Moved
Yet I Know
Only love , ultimately , can set me free
Yet what now is love , other than a cost far too great ?
Shall I give up myself , again , for you ?
Shall I become as you are , or want me to be ?
Shall I break the bonds of togetherness , to find myself
at the brink of the lonely ?
Just for what , is this thing , called love ?
Halfway through the experience , I pause ,
if only to catch my breath...
I tackle it like a dilemma , and hold it , until
it yields
And then in the release , the ecstacy
In olofactory feedback loops , I smell teen spirit ,
if only in retrograde memory
I'm A Bitch With An Itch For Hoodoo Voodoo
Sexuality It Can Rebirth Or Be Your Fatality
I am the avatar of one thousand footsteps into life ,
and the dance of oblivion , simultaneously
This Is My Merry Go Round Bitches
You Are Just Along For The Ride
Yes , I am cyclical...and you are the constant
Sometimes you are a constant pain in the ass
And not due to anal sex
Why I endure , I do not know...some say love
holds the answers , yet why does love hold them ,
rather than reveal ?
What is this magnetism , and why this charge ?
Some say it is nature , I say nature is a beast
One that watches you , then devours you
Just because it can...and thus , is love
I Feast Like Kali On The Flesh And Blood Of Innocents
And Wear Their Skulls As A Belt Around My Waist
Rage , Rage , do not give up the fight !
Quiet rage is deadlier than blatant might
Though in any battle to save my shadow and light ,
I shall use the all , then what is left , beyond all wrong or right
You seek to defeat me , twist my truth , entreat me to your way ?
Beware your words , beware your lies , in your power play
Look At Me What Do You See Now Look Deeper
Every time she thought of tit for tat , she thought
of her tattooist's chair
And though some saw it as interspatial fair trade ,
she thought of it as political blackmail , and sexual
force , pricked by a needle
Games Were Her Specialty Board Of Relationships
She was just so perfect unto herself , she orgasmed with the
thought of her immanence and imagination
Queendom Cumming
Manifestation rules
Yet am I physical enough to recieve it ?
As I have said...just a yinniny , yanging around
And just because I said that , am I obligated to think it ?
Who invented that , who made that rule ?
And just because the moment , is it my fixed position ?
I am my realization , as I am my fool
I saw a child on a beach , and a grandmother in her bed
Both raw , and naked , in their embrace of life and death
One , the same as the other , just an issue of time
And space is relative , as far as geomantic placement
If I think , therefore I am , by reflection , and introspection ,
becomes if I think not , therefore I am not
Then who feeds the cat ?
She needs her cream , just because she wants it
Just feline programming , or human cattiness , asserting
it's way , by fang and claw , word , and verbal blade
She is / was / will be a girl , born anew each day
And This Is Why The Boys Love Me None Above Me
My Anima Loves My Animus , My Animus Loves My Anima
Better Than A Sharp Stick Or An Enema Such A Dilemma
And Though I Can Have A Red Light On To Tell You To Stop
Or Does It Mean In The End Go , Don't You Dare Try To Pay Me
With Anything But Love
Or You Shall Find You Are Being Blind And You Shall Eat Money Honey
And The Check Shall Be In The Male !
I Should Have Been A Woman Long Before It Was A Meme
Then A Movement Then A Gender Bender , I'm Going To Tell
You Bitches To Move Out Of My Way As The Queen Has Arrived
And when her mask dropped , as her veil of existence ,
she was her sphinx and her Salome , seducing her inner
male in an incestuous riddle , a kundalini feedback loop
I Don't Just Walk I Strut And I Don't Make Love I Rut
She spun in place , a waveform rhythmic of phase
shifted light , a portal shakti , in human shell
She seemed normal to most
yet she was much more than that
She was an equation unto herself , unsolved until
she turned her key
Who was she , self claimed , and saying no , not to other's perception ,
yet her own multiple choice creation , and dice rolled , angular momentum
creating her potential
snake eyes
She Was So Hot The Ground Hissed Under Her Feet Like A Serpent
And Every Word She Spoke Was In The Tongue Of A Cunning Linguist
She was who she was , and all she was , was the present mistress
of yesterday's ghost , the future dominatrix of her today's dream ,
none other , for who could dream herself better than she ?
She Burned Through Her Bullshit And Had A Shotgun For Others'
She was a creature of her desires , her needs , her sustaining
matrices , seeking without seeking that which would set her free
Opposites attract , herself to herself , like some holy guardian angel
to the body and blood , sword to grail , water trough to some special
intelligence , drink me , eat me , I am divine
Spirituality made her horny
It is incestuous , when I get embed with myself , she thought
When I penetrate my subconscious , I get wet
Sex and death , are tied in the self referred möbius strip of my subconscious
I Am A Lissome Legend Of Lustful Proportions In Lace And Leather
She was perfect , as physical the beauty
It was in her mind's chaos , nymphs and neural sprites
stirred the depths of her subconscious desires and
fears , evoking and invoking body judgements , ego
appraisals , and am I good enough iterative mantras
Her inquiring mind was on a need to know basis , and
her introspection was an amateur detective inspecting
files long buried
She Loved It Up Down Right Left Back And Forth
Spinning Her Web In Every Direction
She Still Felt Like A Woman On The Edge Again Of Her Own Puberty
Crouched On Her Pedestal Of Potential
Half in half out , like some cat goddess , and worshiping
at her own altar , like any teenager , and girl in heat
Only here while it suited her , an outfit of personality ,
and nubile persnicketiness , or submissive seductiveness
whatever she chose , as any teenage girl's unwritten rite
And she danced her primal rhythm
She was the goddess of her temple
She Was Her Mother Of Stars And The Nacht Mahr
She Was Her Sea Horse Riding Her Waves
She looked into her waveform , her song and her dance ,
Her movement and her sonic , her calm and her storm ,
her planned event , yet circumstance , her control , yet
her respect , and ever is that which some call wrong ,
and many others call correct
She Did Not Give A Flying Fuck What Others Submitted To
She Was Her Own Juxtaposition And Geometry When She Moved
Yet I Know
Only love , ultimately , can set me free
Yet what now is love , other than a cost far too great ?
Shall I give up myself , again , for you ?
Shall I become as you are , or want me to be ?
Shall I break the bonds of togetherness , to find myself
at the brink of the lonely ?
Just for what , is this thing , called love ?
Halfway through the experience , I pause ,
if only to catch my breath...
I tackle it like a dilemma , and hold it , until
it yields
And then in the release , the ecstacy
In olofactory feedback loops , I smell teen spirit ,
if only in retrograde memory
I'm A Bitch With An Itch For Hoodoo Voodoo
Sexuality It Can Rebirth Or Be Your Fatality
I am the avatar of one thousand footsteps into life ,
and the dance of oblivion , simultaneously
This Is My Merry Go Round Bitches
You Are Just Along For The Ride
Yes , I am cyclical...and you are the constant
Sometimes you are a constant pain in the ass
And not due to anal sex
Why I endure , I do not know...some say love
holds the answers , yet why does love hold them ,
rather than reveal ?
What is this magnetism , and why this charge ?
Some say it is nature , I say nature is a beast
One that watches you , then devours you
Just because it can...and thus , is love
I Feast Like Kali On The Flesh And Blood Of Innocents
And Wear Their Skulls As A Belt Around My Waist
Rage , Rage , do not give up the fight !
Quiet rage is deadlier than blatant might
Though in any battle to save my shadow and light ,
I shall use the all , then what is left , beyond all wrong or right
You seek to defeat me , twist my truth , entreat me to your way ?
Beware your words , beware your lies , in your power play
Look At Me What Do You See Now Look Deeper
Every time she thought of tit for tat , she thought
of her tattooist's chair
And though some saw it as interspatial fair trade ,
she thought of it as political blackmail , and sexual
force , pricked by a needle
Games Were Her Specialty Board Of Relationships
She was just so perfect unto herself , she orgasmed with the
thought of her immanence and imagination
Queendom Cumming
Manifestation rules
Yet am I physical enough to recieve it ?
As I have said...just a yinniny , yanging around
And just because I said that , am I obligated to think it ?
Who invented that , who made that rule ?
And just because the moment , is it my fixed position ?
I am my realization , as I am my fool
I saw a child on a beach , and a grandmother in her bed
Both raw , and naked , in their embrace of life and death
One , the same as the other , just an issue of time
And space is relative , as far as geomantic placement
If I think , therefore I am , by reflection , and introspection ,
becomes if I think not , therefore I am not
Then who feeds the cat ?
She needs her cream , just because she wants it
Just feline programming , or human cattiness , asserting
it's way , by fang and claw , word , and verbal blade
She is / was / will be a girl , born anew each day
And This Is Why The Boys Love Me None Above Me
My Anima Loves My Animus , My Animus Loves My Anima
Better Than A Sharp Stick Or An Enema Such A Dilemma
And Though I Can Have A Red Light On To Tell You To Stop
Or Does It Mean In The End Go , Don't You Dare Try To Pay Me
With Anything But Love
Or You Shall Find You Are Being Blind And You Shall Eat Money Honey
And The Check Shall Be In The Male !
Written by Blackwolf
(I.M.Blackwolf)
Go To Page
NOVEMBER 17, 1999
I wondered aloud
about...
about
your facial features
prefacing with positive remarks
my aesthetic opposition
to rosy and puffy cheeks;
yours
I said
are not that bad,
but pale is the color of the skin
I prefer
And even though I had just begun
already I had gone too far
History repeats itself
when you least suspect it
or so it would have you think
-three of four academics will concur-
For my part I remain suspicious
of anything that’s manifested in triplicities:
History - recorded
History - remembered
History - that what has happened
(records are eclectic selections of appearance
memories are endlessly modified to exorcise the present
-don’t get me started on that subject-
and what has happened is always the unknown in the puzzle)
So I pause
no my love
I stop
abruptly and completely
I stop
intentioning no other word
but apologetic silence
granting the authority to all
and to you in particular
to decide
to affirm
to impose and apply
the severe punishment
the cumulative effect of scientific inquiry
or inquisition
and acquisition of totally all
religious forms methods prayers and practices
(a deal made during my sophomore year in exile
which I never officially recognized
but de facto dealt with it since
pro and con for and against
for myself and you
against myself and against you especially you)
And your head
(is this my voice I hear)
is big
somewhat bigger than...
not enormous or huge or anything
like that
just big
disproportionately big
to the rest of you
which is also big
the rest of you
I mean
is big as well
but
in proportion to itself
or its parts to each other
Send me back to where I came from
I definitely deserve no less and a lot more
I have managed to cover my eyes all this time
put your palm over my lips
and send me back to Athens Greece
not to confuse it with Athens Georgia
or for that matter all the other Athenses
scattered throughout the States
(no wonder our young are failing world geography
with any city worth mentioning mapped out under fingertips
- Athens and Ithaca Berlin and Alexandria -
highway points connecting forgetfulness to oblivion
- Peru Illinois to Paris Texas -
within walking distance or a stone’s throw
or any other appropriate simile that comes to mind
pertaining to geographical situations or state disputes)
Enough on geography though my love
it’s history I’m interested in
that you and I are concerned with
that we look for we search and we research
that we write papers theses and diatribes
that we attend lectures seminars and conferences
your history our history the history of you and I
from time immemorial to time immemorial
- till death do us part -
our birth our golden era
the decline and the revolution of the margins
the transition period when the mainstream becomes obsolete
and the margins are the mainstream
and through all this our letters our love our togetherness
our end
our becoming
and
the lone possibility of our future
Your palm drips wetness off my kiss
at last we roam the streets of Athens Greece
Twenty-six years ago today
these same streets
these same window fronts
these same buses and bus drivers
these same faces
for one whole day or just an hour or only a single moment
were there
were really there
they were Being There
Das Sein Martin would say
and did say it the other night when you granted my request
or you forced ordered demanded extorted blackmailed
my presence in your bed
fulfilling my deepest and most secret desire
and perhaps yours - most certainly yours - as well
Covered by sheets of cotton
in the midst of nowhere and everywhere
- early Spring pastels rocking our cradle -
uncovering with all our multiplied senses
every inch of our being
gathering our being inside each other
enclosing the surrounding light
within soft and violent seizures
as the totality of Being discloses itself
to us and in us
Oh
if I could only be Martin like
and keep those other thoughts to myself
eternity would never cease
For
philosophers
even when their royal aspirations fail
and their schemes are publicly revealed
they get to keep their solitary voice
the privilege
to broker deals and compromises
to prophecise historical events
in future in present and in past
to appear synonymous with history
as history itself indeed
themselves unknown distant and adored
misunderstood admired and lonely
(History - so many ruses in your sleeves)
But when a poet inarticulate lays
(and all the poets do)
even solitude loses all meaning
and withdraws retires in backstage forever
or leaves the premises altogether
it’s then
as you can attest
that I need you most
that I beg you to return
that I swear never a word again
about that day
twenty six years ago today
it’s now my love
that I deploy all my troops
science metaphysics and religions too
black magic superstition and fate
that fate
our fate
our historical necessity and unstoppable force.
Sensing that’s not half good enough
I promise aesthetics never to discuss
to leave it for history to judge
- what is the perfect shade of pale
- what is the perfect size of head
- what constitutes the perfect object of desire
- what is the perfect cry for love
I stop
what else
I have no more
I give you all
and more
much more than I have
With lips restrained
and eyes closed
I stare at you and you read my thoughts
but you remain serious and businesslike
with lawyers at every side
reciting your terms and conditions
before you allow me to see
your white blouse on the carpet
before you let me taste you again
- The wedding shall take place in the church
- The wedding rings shall diamonds be
- At least two children I will give thee...
Enough enough
I don’t care I don’t mind
give me a pen and I shall sign
Closure at last and finality my love
the process never mattered but the end
for the last time I push my glasses back
you see me and your ear lobe you touch
I am calm content collected and serene
and all is natural and true
as a simple black pen passes from hand to hand
and ends up in my fingers
its fine point next to the X at the bottom of the last page
of our pre-nuptial agreement
I take a moment to breathe
that wonderful silence of the room
- I the dyslexic now lexiless too -
but the silence is broken by words that have their own agenda
as they quietly escape through my moving lips:
I have a condition of mine
that you shall never be your mother like
Closure and finality my love indeed
history repeats endlessly repeats itself
teaches the same lesson over and over again
but a bad teacher it must be
because we never learn
Twenty six years ago today
I wasn’t there
but when I heard the news I raised my fist
and with my other hand I waved a sign
in that cold November air
and every year since then the same day I cry
but you have never shed a tear on the subject
- you the ever practical one
with your priorities always straight -
and your words are cold indifferent objective
almost journalistic-like
you go on as if nothing ever happened
- and most probably nothing ever did -
I remain stranded dwelling on aesthetics
I wondered aloud
about...
about
your mother’s weight
emphatically underlining my respect and admiration
for her person
before mumbling my aesthetic opposition
to the possibility of you
expanding - in the future - in similar to her
ways...
about...
about
your facial features
prefacing with positive remarks
my aesthetic opposition
to rosy and puffy cheeks;
yours
I said
are not that bad,
but pale is the color of the skin
I prefer
And even though I had just begun
already I had gone too far
History repeats itself
when you least suspect it
or so it would have you think
-three of four academics will concur-
For my part I remain suspicious
of anything that’s manifested in triplicities:
History - recorded
History - remembered
History - that what has happened
(records are eclectic selections of appearance
memories are endlessly modified to exorcise the present
-don’t get me started on that subject-
and what has happened is always the unknown in the puzzle)
So I pause
no my love
I stop
abruptly and completely
I stop
intentioning no other word
but apologetic silence
granting the authority to all
and to you in particular
to decide
to affirm
to impose and apply
the severe punishment
the cumulative effect of scientific inquiry
or inquisition
and acquisition of totally all
religious forms methods prayers and practices
(a deal made during my sophomore year in exile
which I never officially recognized
but de facto dealt with it since
pro and con for and against
for myself and you
against myself and against you especially you)
And your head
(is this my voice I hear)
is big
somewhat bigger than...
not enormous or huge or anything
like that
just big
disproportionately big
to the rest of you
which is also big
the rest of you
I mean
is big as well
but
in proportion to itself
or its parts to each other
Send me back to where I came from
I definitely deserve no less and a lot more
I have managed to cover my eyes all this time
put your palm over my lips
and send me back to Athens Greece
not to confuse it with Athens Georgia
or for that matter all the other Athenses
scattered throughout the States
(no wonder our young are failing world geography
with any city worth mentioning mapped out under fingertips
- Athens and Ithaca Berlin and Alexandria -
highway points connecting forgetfulness to oblivion
- Peru Illinois to Paris Texas -
within walking distance or a stone’s throw
or any other appropriate simile that comes to mind
pertaining to geographical situations or state disputes)
Enough on geography though my love
it’s history I’m interested in
that you and I are concerned with
that we look for we search and we research
that we write papers theses and diatribes
that we attend lectures seminars and conferences
your history our history the history of you and I
from time immemorial to time immemorial
- till death do us part -
our birth our golden era
the decline and the revolution of the margins
the transition period when the mainstream becomes obsolete
and the margins are the mainstream
and through all this our letters our love our togetherness
our end
our becoming
and
the lone possibility of our future
Your palm drips wetness off my kiss
at last we roam the streets of Athens Greece
Twenty-six years ago today
these same streets
these same window fronts
these same buses and bus drivers
these same faces
for one whole day or just an hour or only a single moment
were there
were really there
they were Being There
Das Sein Martin would say
and did say it the other night when you granted my request
or you forced ordered demanded extorted blackmailed
my presence in your bed
fulfilling my deepest and most secret desire
and perhaps yours - most certainly yours - as well
Covered by sheets of cotton
in the midst of nowhere and everywhere
- early Spring pastels rocking our cradle -
uncovering with all our multiplied senses
every inch of our being
gathering our being inside each other
enclosing the surrounding light
within soft and violent seizures
as the totality of Being discloses itself
to us and in us
Oh
if I could only be Martin like
and keep those other thoughts to myself
eternity would never cease
For
philosophers
even when their royal aspirations fail
and their schemes are publicly revealed
they get to keep their solitary voice
the privilege
to broker deals and compromises
to prophecise historical events
in future in present and in past
to appear synonymous with history
as history itself indeed
themselves unknown distant and adored
misunderstood admired and lonely
(History - so many ruses in your sleeves)
But when a poet inarticulate lays
(and all the poets do)
even solitude loses all meaning
and withdraws retires in backstage forever
or leaves the premises altogether
it’s then
as you can attest
that I need you most
that I beg you to return
that I swear never a word again
about that day
twenty six years ago today
it’s now my love
that I deploy all my troops
science metaphysics and religions too
black magic superstition and fate
that fate
our fate
our historical necessity and unstoppable force.
Sensing that’s not half good enough
I promise aesthetics never to discuss
to leave it for history to judge
- what is the perfect shade of pale
- what is the perfect size of head
- what constitutes the perfect object of desire
- what is the perfect cry for love
I stop
what else
I have no more
I give you all
and more
much more than I have
With lips restrained
and eyes closed
I stare at you and you read my thoughts
but you remain serious and businesslike
with lawyers at every side
reciting your terms and conditions
before you allow me to see
your white blouse on the carpet
before you let me taste you again
- The wedding shall take place in the church
- The wedding rings shall diamonds be
- At least two children I will give thee...
Enough enough
I don’t care I don’t mind
give me a pen and I shall sign
Closure at last and finality my love
the process never mattered but the end
for the last time I push my glasses back
you see me and your ear lobe you touch
I am calm content collected and serene
and all is natural and true
as a simple black pen passes from hand to hand
and ends up in my fingers
its fine point next to the X at the bottom of the last page
of our pre-nuptial agreement
I take a moment to breathe
that wonderful silence of the room
- I the dyslexic now lexiless too -
but the silence is broken by words that have their own agenda
as they quietly escape through my moving lips:
I have a condition of mine
that you shall never be your mother like
Closure and finality my love indeed
history repeats endlessly repeats itself
teaches the same lesson over and over again
but a bad teacher it must be
because we never learn
Twenty six years ago today
I wasn’t there
but when I heard the news I raised my fist
and with my other hand I waved a sign
in that cold November air
and every year since then the same day I cry
but you have never shed a tear on the subject
- you the ever practical one
with your priorities always straight -
and your words are cold indifferent objective
almost journalistic-like
you go on as if nothing ever happened
- and most probably nothing ever did -
I remain stranded dwelling on aesthetics
I wondered aloud
about...
about
your mother’s weight
emphatically underlining my respect and admiration
for her person
before mumbling my aesthetic opposition
to the possibility of you
expanding - in the future - in similar to her
ways...
Written by takis1917
Go To Page
