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Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.
Mitchell  May 2011
Truthful Lie
Mitchell May 2011
Tripping through the page
Leaves any kind of mad man
To do his or her "thing"
Tis' a funny feat when one meets
Their madness
Their mayhems
Their happiness
Their lies
All on a page
That is not quite anything
But something that wills
Another spring
That speaks jealously of
Foreign sand picture frames
Cat nip party grass naps
And memories of images
Torn
Burn
Scattered
Covered
In the insane rain
As if one were looking in the mirror
And reflecting
A face which they had never met
Yet had seen
Perhaps passing
On a near by L train
Or a buss filled with heads
Like a hole of mice
Instead
These things to believe manuever through minds
Much like these rats
In those darkened crippled peeling rooms
Burrowing deeper deeper deeper
Until the thoughts are not thought
And wait to die
As another
Truth filled
Lie
Mary Gay Kearns Jul 2019
They give you this
To hide
The pain
That hacks the brain.

And all the blame
Of man disdained,
Dismounted.

The blight on the rose
Hesitated, grey dust
Mildewed, mated.

The cabinet makers’
Opened the latch
Threw the petals in.

Love Mary **
Galbraith Frase Nov 2017
You're the code that I'm trying to figure out
You're the Pantone shades I'm trying to understand
You're the positivity and the doubt,
You're the missing element I want to cage a grand

I think I have mastered your patterns in crazy alternatives
That right now, I'm still arranging your unorganized buttons
I attempted to love you your likings, just to say that I am widely creative,
Though there are devilish and majestic counts for your respective reasons

Many mouths have delivered and said the same guilt of languages
Chaotic pasts and mayhems are hidden to remember
These wounds and emotions are no longer to be covered with classic bandages,
You're the holographic dream and the impossible to reach in all chambers

I have encountered broken  promises and I have trusted ranks of themes,
I guess we enjoyed the pride to where the roads will lead us to
Roses aren't that romantic as beautiful as they seem,
Orbs cannot unsee your inadequate schemes because boy, you're see through

My mind is floating twenty-four-seven like a gushing river,
Cues subsided in between unidentified hallucinations
Honestly, there are things that I insist to sugarcoat,
Scooping the factors that you have a bucket of reservations

Oftentimes, these glitches could appear in authentic waves
Feet are out of the box, searching for the valid sequence
My crumpled heart is the cursor and you're the file I still need to save,
This is the chronicle of how you became my iridescence
Which clasp am I going to choose and push then?
-- yours truly.
Seazy Inkwell Mar 2018
Isn’t it strange
That the ones who inspire me
Love not poetry.

So shrug when I weave my rhymes,
So nod to sleep as my words chimes,
To them, words are soundless mayhems.

Why not think in sensible terms,
The bridges, the trains, and the spaceship to the moon,
It wasn’t art in the living things,
It’s the mechanism of human beings.

Heed this then.

Metal gears shall fray,
Numbers may betray
Theories rust away before eyes,
The Circle turns to its tail and dies.

Then tangent to my heart,
Where statistics cannot lie,
There once was a me
And once was a you.
I used to destroy my arts/poems, thinking since I made them I can do anything to them as I please. But the art of mine took a life of their own, destroying them is like throttle the life out of some fragile creatures. The guilt hunts me.
I shouldn't buy into the idea that art is useless. This is to eulogize my lost art pieces and lost times.
The natural habits say I love you
But here I am that  can’t afford the word
It’s high like the chief priests in the days of the synagogue
What can I have than less of tantrums of thy forbidden nature

Can a man not love no more - the preconditions let I never settle, thy heart roams

I have groomed my heart for the worst to be on the left when things are right
To laugh when I have to cry
So see me run for I am the beast love made

I like mayhems and taste of roaming in the gazette of me striding through what failed me
The once beaten twice shy worked not on me
the buster in me fled the castle of thinkers and soon reunited my ambitions to tip dance over what I hold as dreams
I am not a fighter but I scavenge anything in line of my progress worse than a Vulture on a hyena. Breathe in, you can’t take me on - loose the grip the world wickedness roams
#herdsmanofprogress

— The End —