I watched him die, this γόης, this thorn-crowned nail impaled ψευδοπροφήτης, this broken "Jewish king" who’d be the ruining of Israel if we, his covenanted people, took seriously his claim that Yahweh’s mandate makes it clear we should display a piety that centers in a loving non-resistance to our enemy, the Kittim, Romans, hated conquerors, who revel in idolatry.
He cried aloud with his last breath, bereft of joy ...
How sad it is to know that I will never have your mouth, your blazing lips, pressed close and avidly on mine, or never hear within a sheltered night you whisper low and soft against my ear, within desire inflamed, as if in ardent prayer my name.
As I grow old and now approach my Moiraid end the writing skills that I was taught, that I acquired and used with some elan, throughout my life for working up good poetry have all become like renegades to me.
Fair metaphors and similes that once dripped from my pen without a moment’s thought, have in these dimming days become things lost in fogs.
And oh! no matter how much effort I expend in search of them, an easy apprehension of the kinds of fine, enchanting words that was much mine...
A predatory weasel saw a farmer with a gun sitting by what then was left of all his weasel pilfered hens so ready to unload a bullet now and then to foul the weasel's head and limbs and make the little carnivore undone.
"I'll scram from here and 'flee the coop'", the weasel said. "Yes, given that my hunger for a Coronel Sanders breast and leg might bring my death to me, my acts of poaching chickens from this man no longer's any fun".
And up she brings her mouth to mine, and then she sets her shining eyes to dazzle me, to set my blood on fire. And when intoxicated by her tongue and towering kiss, I know the wild expanse of hard desire and how I die within her body's press. Possess me then, and harrow all my flesh. And give to me this death again, again, again.
She turns and bares her neck to me. She wants, she says, my tapered tongue to glide, my mouth to kiss, a pulsing warmth along the length of it, to shiver her and make her breasts come hard alive and ready for my touch. She shall not be deprived of this, her aching wish. She shall be shivered well, and shivered much.
Let us taste as quickly as we can the night's cool flesh and press it wildly up against our skin. A twilight such as this, with all the earth now swaddled in a star sung lullaby, and evening's black pulse rushing through the sky, may never come again.
Let’s note: There’s not, as there should be, if this supposedly God centered piece of yours can claim the name of poetry, a hint of music sounding out in what you wrote.
There’s nothing here except the incoherency and pious, preachy platitudes you’re noted for;
no, nothing that would leave a reader much enchanted, filled with awe at your capacity for artistry, at your command of lyrical phraseology, or struck and magicked by just how you captured an experience so well that he or she was...
One of these days you might admit the way you write just isn’t fit for bringing wonder to the world;
admit that in your strange insistence that a writing must be jacketed within a line trussed up (not always well) in stilted measurements, but need not be concerned with lyrical felicity with metaphor and simile, or any of the elements that are the bare necessities if one is ever to produce some tantalizing verse is wrong
How tiring for J-Z to be (as he presents himself with constancy) one of the few, if not the only man, within the fallen world who’s pure, and who alone has eyes to see how always selfishly, in sin, and moved by seething greed, his fellow humans act. And there’s his claim (implicit as it is) that he is gifted, so unlike his kith and kin or any other member of mankind, to ken, to know, what’s truly on God’s mind. Poor you, you over-burdened, much beleaguered Syrian!