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78 · Mar 24
The Royal Rhythm
Does she not dance?
Does he not skip?
Do we not each,
run, laugh, and sip,

Of the deepest drum,
of the foreign choir,
of the winter breeze,
of the Chinese lyre?

We lords of dance,
we merry gods,
we royal queens,
kings and odds.

To us I raise,
to thee I sing.
For thus I praise,
for this I bring,

Facts of life:
unchartered course;
this music many,
this music Norse.

Replete, yet not.
Unbound and sought.
A reason known.
A rhythm hot.
76 · Feb 21
Reader,
I could rhyme each word, every one absurd,
Licking and kicking and assiduously drinking myself down
nonsensically.

But that is not I, who loves the dis-
-jointed feeling of reading people;
those broken souls,
poetic blows,
heralds of laughter and pain.
75 · Mar 2
Father, I Love You
Feel despite oppression;
Aim high, and hold God's gaze.
Treat kindness as your course,
Home like warmest maize.
Endure the call of justice,
Run far for such a sake.

I do swear this vow:

Loath all that loathes love's sake:
Odes bitter and false,
Valiance burnt, a lie like hate.
Earned comfort is your joy,

Yarn sewn from woolen craze.
Our hearts are twice apart,
Umbral moons a sunlit blaze.

Thus:
74 · Mar 13
Dearest Friend,
You are not deserving of the hatred you hold;
this self-inflicted thing of barbarous intent.

Not because of some inherent goodness,
and never for what you were.
Such notions are silly. Instead,
you are, each day-
-and every hour hence,
stochastic potential:
whatever that may be.
73 · Jun 9
O Friends of Mine
I do not make it easy,
I do not make it kind.
I do not travel breezy,
nor sing of earth and rhyme.

My words are thunderborn,
hatred, war, and pain;
politics for one and all,
social grief and game.

Entertainment's worth,
the value I extract;
a tale for twenty thus,
a tale for us and that:

Memories yet traveled,
roads not trod by us;
the voice of yet born trillions,
the journey that is love.
You'll never be white enough.
You'll never be right enough.

You'll never know the route they're taking.

Because your mother was Irish.
Because your father was mixed.

Because your grandma was Polish, to them so much ****.

This world is too kind.
This world is too cold.

This world is tinder, burnt before old.

We'll breathe poison together.
We'll breathe lies till we're cured.

We'll breathe drink like oxygen, dumber for sure.

The flowers are dead, cursed rotten in bed.
The flowers are plastic, and taste of ill lead.

The flowers are children, petals wrought poor.

This flower is tired, far from du jour.
This timeline is tiring.
72 · Apr 14
The Paragon Problem
Ability becomes superb, becomes aplomb,
becomes metaphysical bombs dropped,
public consciousness shot;
the crowd shakes and writhes,
the crowd beats ten thousand drums,
echoing, echoing,
"The Greatest of All Time!"

Their god is flesh, is bone,
is stone becoming a wheel,
becoming a tower: a royal-
-tied, educating the masses on excellence;
lacks references,
tiger dropped in the Arctic,
king of the jungle.
66 · Mar 31
Your Heart
wants what it feels,
needs what it thinks,
bleeds what it will,
and you are left to live,
thumping ignorantly.
62 · Jul 17
Royal
Destiny a winding road,
fate the culmination;
to exist beyond such conceptions,
a truer freedom none have touched.
56 · Jul 6
For the Fascist Folk
I hope your God exists.
Yes, that heavenly bliss
and his choir full of angels.

He'll see you all,
and he'll grieve your fall:
the justice you've avoided.

Because your Eden is dying,
and your neighbors are sick.
Yet, you have chosen hatred.

Hoarding wealth and warmth,
saying naught of the poor,
and waving off enslavement.
One,
Become Many,
Involving Our History:
The Truly Unexplainable Mystery:
Loose Lips Whispering Forever Tales:
Mirthful Intimacy Between Two Unmet Strangers:
Singing, Dancing, Laughing, Echoing Softly:
The Honestly Hearty Rhythm:
Our Pittering Love,
For All,
One:
56 · Jun 30
America the Beautiful
America the Brave.
"One-way ticket to DC."
"Cigarettes. Coffee. Tylenol."
I do not intend to ruin my life doing something astronomically dumb. The thought occurs, though. Like when society is faced with cruel upheavals. Or when genocide is given a veneer of worthiness. Or when the most oppressed peoples - all of them too vulnerable by half - are fashioned into scapegoats.
54 · Jul 29
Famine
Children and mothers, fathers soon dead.
Irreparable damage, DNA spread.
Palestinian fate, dripped down the line.
Hunger now haunts stomachs too fine.

Consumed from within, by self and by fury.
Organs like snow, made into slurry.
The heart will go first, though great and defiant.
For apathy scathes - apathy likens.
The Palestinian people have been denied the most basic human rights and needs for decades. We are, all of us, bearing witness to the culmination of their suffering: the ****** of Israel's genocidal goals, both condoned and supported by Western powers.

'Never again,' has become a heinous mockery of past victims.
48 · Jul 31
Ghost Beside the Hill
Betrayal came easily to her.
She bed three men in the time it took-

"You betray yourself."

-her husband to come home.

"The war was long, and you were dead."
"She grieved your breath, comfort led."
"Space was given, tears too hidden."

She approached them first!

"And still you fib."
"You unconscionable squid."
"Four were the years spent cold."

"Her time was spent with more lament than you or I could hold."
"This I know, this I'll swear."
"Now cease your lies, or hate you'll bear."

"Dead you are, far from warmth."
"Let her rest, loved once more."
"Let her breathe in peace."

I'll not, I can't. Not without chance:
I must hear these words from her.
...I must know her heart for sure.

"And so you tarry more."
"You fool! You sap, impossible ****!"
"Haunt her not, this love begot."

"Let us grieve her peace."
One ghost of two minds, arguing with himself. I like to think this idea is communicated.
Yes, the tower

c
r
u
s
h
i
n
g

even as it uplifts;
a prison of Miss-

"You can't do that!"

-takes absent bliss.

That I am this 'thing' of wrought soul, ferrous whole,
rendered thus by others?

It burns my blood,
that sinful dove
all dressed up in proverbs.

I want freedom's kiss,
and Mankind's bliss,
and love rendered language.

More than modes of oppression loathed,
I am human:
rancid.
Thereupon a bed of grass, 'neath boughs most great and grand,
Fia of the Garish Blade made her final stand.

A pox upon the world was she, a pox upon our souls!
A river of young blood she drank, a river gold she stole.

And wonder did the merry kings, to whom she made her threats;
a birthless month did she gift, a mother's babe she rent!

"I am Lord of Violence, Queen of Sin and Sand!
From the Desert did I come, from there will I stand!"

~ X ~

Such were her lies, such were her thoughts!
Such were the ways of a woman unwrought!

Unwrought by what, a man might well ask?
Unwrought by death, and the killing of her task:

For friends did she have; four friends was their number.
Younglings were they, quite fond of their slumber;

green of skin, of fang and claw;
goblins who danced, unbound by law.

"My friends are these most uncommon folk;
touch not their hides, lest I bring fire and rope!"

Thus the Desert did howl, the Desert did thunder!
In the quiet of night, green tides made first lumber;

and more indeed: like cloth and jewel,
textiles and burns, and languages too.
39 · Sep 23
God Must Be Weak
Just, not like you and I.
The He/She/They/It
divine do or die/has to know of lack:
ignorance:
rest:
wondering if heartbreak waits around the corner,
tongue sat heavy, stomach void.

Otherwise, what is the suffering of spiders and Man?
I will **** in the mouth of every god and goddess to have ever graced the lips of Man before I submit to the divinely derived 'authority' of another person.

But only ever after eating Taco Bell.

Let this be a testament. Let this be an oath:

**** all thrones.
35 · 6d
Violence
One choice:
Two words, "Stupid *****."
Three steps taken in anger;
a four count-

              Crimson

-five seconds lost to mania.
Six months in court,
Seven bruised.
Eight days mourning a missed funeral.
Nine children sacrificed on the altar of regret.
Ten breaths: a lifetime,
repeated:
31 · 16h
Slut
Like it matters:
a verb for those who matter.

Eat. Breathe. ****. Die.
****.
I have a visceral hatred for the '****-shaming' perpetuated by so many. That a person chooses to enjoy their sensuality is the furthest thing from horrendous, so long as all parties can/do consent.
Annie's new house had a basement.

It was dark and small, and smelled just like Fall.

Like oak trees and orange juice, and the warmth of her Ma.

The stairs were wood, old and unsteady.

The walls were stone, and hard like school testing.

Empty and quiet, there was no dust.

No whales, or rabbits, not even a skunk.

Still, Annie liked the basement, so it liked her back.

Though it was dark, and felt a great lack.

'How to have fun,' the basement did wonder.

Annie then laughed, sounding lots like big thunder.

"We just have to try," and so they both did.

Down in the dark, in their space small but big.

They imagined a kingdom, and robots from Mars.

They flew through the sky, and drove massive cars.

They wrote several books, and learned how to cook…

They talked with Ma, and gave her a look.

There was laughter and smiles, and just a few tears.

They said goodbye, and let go of their fears.
This is a children's story I wrote some time ago. There are no illustrations, but I like to think each line is easily imagined.
19 · 2d
East and West
The sun rhymes with fun, a star in the sky, showering houses and cities, and not quite green limes.

"I follow the moon, and dance rather fine."

"From east to west, for hours at a time."

"Click clack goes the clock, and along go my feet."

"Booted with clouds, I skip towards dark sleep."

"But first come the colours," blue, red, and gold.

"Orange and yellow, and purple most bold."

"I invite you to follow, from beginning to end."

"You with your smile, me as your friend."
Another children's story.

— The End —