This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him
We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging
Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season
Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive

when words are few,
or stuck in dictionaries
unused or unknown
like
compassion,

tyrants and wife-beaters
scream
with iron fists,
silencing fluent lips
in clotting streams of  blood

...and machetes,
severing lucid limbs
from able bodies
in active states of articulation

...and guns,
the kryptonite of cowards
and buffoons,
the callow voice of philistines
and goons,
blasting cogent words
and vocal women
into oblivion

....and laboratories
where forensics of
fingerprint and dna
scream loudest,

sending tyrants and wife-beaters away
to sleep with the devil
in a shallow cell
on earth
or
hell below...

~ P (#Pablo#OTAWB)

(8/11/2013)

The smell lingered long after she had called the ambulance, after she had scrubbed the bathroom tiles back to a pristine white, after she had thrown out the ******* mangoes he had hid in the closet. For days afterward, she avoided the bathroom, showering the best she could in the old porcelain sink they had installed in the spring when he was able to keep fresh flowers in the kitchen vase. Those days, she would come home to jasmine and broken plates, marigolds and burnt biryani, pigeon wings and torn paper. Some days he was snake-quiet. Other days, his skin was fever hot, his limbs flailing to an alien language, his head tilting back, ululating.
Every day she would carry his soiled clothes into the laundry room, ignoring the thousands of whispered comments that trailed behind her. “Look how outgrown her eyebrows have become” as she strangled the hardened blood out of his blue longyi. “Look how her fingernails are yellow with grease,” as she beat the sweat out of his white wife beaters. “Look how curved her back is” as she hung his tattered briefs to dry in the small courtyard. The sultry wind picked up the comments as it breezed by her, carrying them down the road to the chai stand where they conversed until the wee hours.
Today, there is no wind. The coarse sun has left the mango tree in the back corner of the courtyard too dry, the leaves coiling inward. She picks up the green watering can filled with gasoline. The rusted mouth leaves spots on the worn parchment ground as she shuffles over. Her chapped sandals leave no impression. The trunk still has their initials, his loping R and V balancing her mechanical S and T. They had done it with a sharp Swiss Army knife, its blade sinking into the soft wooded flesh. “Let’s do it together,” he urged, his large hand dwarfing hers. A cheap glass bangle, pressed too hard against her bony wrist, shattered.  
Now, her arthritic finger traces the letters slowly, falling into grooves and furrows as predictable as they were not. When had they bought it? Was it when he had received the big promotion, the big firing or the big diagnosis? Or was it farther back, when he had received the little diploma, the little child or the little death? There was no in-between for him, everything was either big or little. Was it an apology tree or an appeasement tree? Did it matter? The tree was dying.
Her ring gets stuck in the top part of the T. He had been so careful when he proposed. Timing was sunset. Dinner was hot rice, cold milk and smashed mangos, her favorite. Setting was a lakeside gazebo surrounded by fragrant papaya trees. She had said yes because the blue on her sari matched the blue of the lake. She had said yes because his hands trembled just right. She had said yes because she had always indulged in his self-indulgences. She slips her finger out, leaving the gold as an offering to the small tree that never grew.    
She pours gasoline over the tree, rechristening it. Light the math, throw the match, step back, mechanical steps. She shuffles back through the courtyard as the heat from the tree greets the heat from the sun. She doesn’t look back. Instead, she is going up one step at a time on the red staircase, through the blue hallway, to the daal-yellow door. These were the colors he said would be on the cover of his bestseller as he hunched over the typewriter for days on end. Those were the days he had subsisted only on chai and biscuits, reducing his frame to an emaciated exclamation mark. His words were sharp pieces of broken glass leaving white scars all over her body.  
She remembers his voice, the deep boom narrating fairytales. Once upon a time, she had taken a rickshaw for four hours to a bakery to get a special cake for his birthday. Once upon a time, she had skipped sitting in on her final exams for him. Once upon a time, she had danced in the middle of an empty road at three in the morning for him. Once upon a time, she had been a character in a madman’s tale.
Inside, she takes off the sandals, leaving them in the dark corner under the jackets they had brought for a trip to Europe, never taken. Across the red tiled floor, she tiptoes silently, out of habit. From the empty pantry, she scrounges up the last tea leaf. Put water in the black kettle, put the kettle on the stove, put tea leaf in water, wait. On the opposite wall, her Indian Institute of Technology degree hangs under years of dust and misuse.
Cup of bitter tea in hand, she sits on the woven chair, elbows hanging off the sides, back straight. Moments she had shot now hang around her as trophy heads on cheap plastic frames. A picture of them on their wedding day, her eyes kohl-lined and his arm wrapped around her. A picture of them in Kashmir, her eyes full of bags and his arm limp. A picture of them last year, her eyes bespectacled and his arm wrapped around an IV pole. The last picture at her feet, her eyes closed and his arm is burning in the funeral pyre. No one had wanted to take that picture.      
A half hour later, a phone call from her daughter abroad. Another hour, a shower in the porcelain sink. Another hour, dinner, rice and beans over the stove. Another hour and the sun creeps away for good. It leaves her momentarily off guard, like when she had walked home to find him head cracked on the bathroom tub. The medics had assured her it was just a fall. Finding her bearings, she walks down the dark corridor to their, no, her bedroom.
She sits down now on the hard mattress, low to the ground, as he wanted it to be. She takes off her sari, a yellow pattern he liked. She takes off her necklace, a series of jade stones he thought was sophisticated. She takes off the earrings he had gotten her for her fortieth, still too heavy for her ears. She places her hands over eyes, closing them like she had closed his when she had found him sleeping in the tub, before she had smashed his head against the bathtub.  
In her dreams, she walks in a mango orchard. She picks one, only to find its skin is puckered and bruised. She bites it only to taste bitterness. She pours the gallon of gasoline on the ground. She sets the orchard on fire and smiles.

The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored  in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.

We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.

One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.

Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

We used to play cards on Tuesday nights
in the small office of a used car lot.
I would look at the old beaters as they came in.
Wonder what their stories were.
Who drove them.
Where they had travelled and what they had seen.
“All rust and dust” my friend used to say.
As they age their value goes down.
Which is what some folks think about people.
But really, the opposite is true.
My friend would ask
why I played cards
with those old geezers.
He didn’t get it.
Many people don’t.
I just told him I always win.
It was true.
Not in terms of money.
But in everything else I got from those guys.
Stories
Wisdom
Laughs.
One old guy used to cheat like a *******.
I let him get away with it.
I hope when I get old
somebody cuts me some slack.

‘Twas but a rare, snowy day in Paris,
a January day, as all the lights of the city
rested, as dancers of the Moulin Rouge
fixed their make up during the intermission

And in the graveyard of Père Lachaise
there stood a solitary figure of an old man,
his hands gathered together politely,
in front, clenching on to a tattered flat cap

The man stood in front of a grey wall,
“a tomb without a cross or chapel,
or golden lilies, or sky-blue church windows,”
but with an equally lonesome little plaque
that read, ‘Aux mort de la commune,
21 28 Mai 1871’

He lit a cigarette, from which he took just one puff,
stuck it upside-down on a patch of dirt,
then notwithstanding the thunderstorm
of camera flashes from Japanese tourists,
he started to sing, with a hoarse yet firm voice,
“Debout, les damnés de la terre,
Debout, les forçats de la faim…”

As the wrinkle on his forehead began to stretch,
the dusty particles of ice piled higher and higher
on neighboring graves commemorating
French members of the International Brigades
and Spanish maquis of the French Resistance
-apparently the 3,400 meters height of Pyrenees
was merely a backyard *****
for ideas and fates to tread over barefooted-

His song was a ballad of unrequited passion;
when he got to the chorus about some final struggle
and the unity of human race in a silly hymn,
a song that was never played on a radio,
for which no cool kid would ever
spend $0.99 on iTunes store,
his voice started cracking in amorous choke

The old man was a lifetime lover
in the truest spirit of a Frenchman,
spent all his life trying to charm a girl named Emma Ries,
and whenever he dreamed of holding
the eloquently bruised hands of that sixteen years old seamstress,
his eyes swelled of nostalgic heart,

And he used to cry joyfully,
dropping tears of bullets back in the days,
whether by the guillotine in Place de la Concorde,
behind the barricades of Belleville amidst the cannonballs,
******* in front of the Gestapo firing squads,
or under the truncheons of gendarme in Quartier Latin

As the expired old ******* moaned wet dreams,
hallucinogic delusions of his bygone youth, however,
the chilly, soggy winter of 20th arrodissement piled on,
the ashen slums of Ménilmontant depressingly ugly as always
with brownish-grey molten snow spattered all over
the streets trotted by drug dealers and wife beaters,
and neither the fiery oratory of Maurice Thorez
nor the sanguine grenade of Colonel Fabien
was around to arson the frost into the proletarian spring

In the same winter that the old man sang
the first, only, and last lovesong of his life,
it had been more than two decades already
since the Berlin Wall had tumbled down
and the ruling parties in Greece and Spain,
both socialists,
had just driven 500,000 workers out of their jobs

-J.P. Proudhon, Marx and Engels, Jean Jaures, V.I. Lenin,
Leon Trotsky, Antonio Gramsci, Leon Blum, Abbie Hoffman-
by the time the old man muttered an old pop-song nobody cared for,
all of those names were as relevant as some Medieval knights,
characters from an obscure chronicle centuries ago,
who died by charging horseback into windmills,
mistaking them for giants that held whom they thought as
a princess of an ugly peasant woman,

Eventually, right before his voice cracked
into an embarrassing fuddle of choked-up tears,
impressive for a seventy something years old,
the man finished the song from his memory,
all the way up to the sixth stanza;
yet the curvaceously splintered palm of a seamstress,
it was still so far away from his hands that’s been pleading
since 1871 for that glorious *******
which once stood so proudly in the face of a Czernowitz magistrate

When the cigarette he stuck upside down on the dirt
burned all the way down, he reached into his coat,
took out a rose, laid it softly, like his own infant child,
in front of the plaque which golden inscriptions
turned grey from unwashed grimes of ages
and as the old fool walked away,
his back turned away from the solemn wall,
there was but one little patch of dirt in the whole of Paris
uncovered by snow, still hoping for the spring to come.

I have come to succumb to a certain cliché, a cache of questions that so often seem to scuff the dance floor of adultolescents. “Who am I?” of course, a major inquiry but more importantly, “Who do I want to be?” and what am I becoming and when I become it, will it become me or will I not even want it…like a portrait of my mother…tattooed to my ***, her dear old face like some wretched rash (truly I’m not that crass). So I am scared of tomorrow and uncertain of now but everything used to be fine, so allow me to go back just a bit, to when I was, say about… FIVE.

I remember reclining on my grandmother’s couch in Hoboken, New Jersey watching star wars, I believe it was episode FIVE. Her apartment smelt of ***** and rice and beans and that reek of regret that rises from the corpses of broken dreams, and I can still see the light from the T.V. screen illuminating every corner of her living room, from the bookshelf, to the door with the welcome mat--an ironic greeter--to the picture of Jesus perched over the heater smiling down on and blessing the liars and cheaters who so often filled that room with soiled consciences and beaters. So there I was, I was FIVE, and I can clearly recall what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be in that moment: A Jedi! Oh it was a long time ago and it was far, far away, but I can still see the look on my grandmother’s face as I raced through space with my light saber broom beating Sith with a stick, protecting the room from Vader’s invaders making storm trooper stew, my weapon—my whisk; my rivals—my roux; the force—the flames, to boil the brew and the voice of my father at forty FIVE years of age telling me to quit messing around. And I said with a wave of my hand, “No, you quit messing around.” He said, “Why don’t you be a Firefighter?” I said, “no!”  “Why not a football player?” I said, “no!” “Jedi’s can’t marry. Jedi’s get lonely.” I said, “I want to be a Jedi and a Jedi only!” But like fire and fog and old Ben Kenobi, ideas like this must eventually fade.

So I grew to, I’d say about ten years old, that’s FIVE plus FIVE moving on to grade FIVE. Picture, if you will, me—the shortest kid on the little league baseball team, with grand aspirations; huge heaps of vivacity, and a strike zone too small for those poor umpires to see and I knew—I KNEW who I wanted to be: A baseball player! And an actor. A writer, crime fighter—the Jack Bower type who’s always in danger—a **** Tracy with *****; a heterosexual power ranger. Oh and an astronaut chef with a part time job as a rapper who talks about ******* and death and riches and **** holding the mic in my right and my junk in my left a protection of the kids in the crowd who might see my ******* brought about due to... back up dancers. Oh, and the president of the United States as well.

Now let’s jump to fifteen, that’s FIVE plus FIVE plus FIVE, I was a freshman in high school and still a freshman in life. But neither of these were important you see, and I rather gave up on the prospect of “me.” I traded my goals for an xbox which came with a discounted dose of apathy. ‘Cause high school is brimming with a bizarre batch of habits. When forced to attend one must endure or adapt it’s those tactless tactics those impractical practices; each pupil’s polluted with perturbing antics. So for much of that year I stayed home ignoring the mornings who tried to tell me I was alive and forgetting the spinning of the earth in its lonely slow dance to the daily tune of nine to FIVE.

I did outgrow that depressing stage. And now, here I am pushing twenty. That’s FIVE plus FIVE plus FIVE plus…it’s hard to believe but believe it I must. But these fingers that wipe away tears when I cry and fight, call for peace, encourage, deride, make decisions, rock hard, and swat away flies, shake hands, ask questions, and give high FIVES are so ******* familiar. So you see, I have put a great deal of thought into this and I think what I want to be is… FIVE.

Don’t you remember? When wherever you lived was the tip of the world, every rock you found was a glimmering pearl, and every face pointed at you grinned with jealous geniality. When Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, and easy money all had proper places in reality. When bunk beds were marvels standing miles from the floor and the little things were the greatest things on earth, and “stupid” was a swear word, each trip was an adventure, and every pocket was a candy cluttered purse. Grass was green not “getting too long to maintain” and skies were blue not “looking like they might bring rain” There was no need to feign a demeanor, there were no chains. You were unbound. And pain was a temporary hiatus from satisfaction…not the other way around. Everyone loved you, whether they loved you or not. No one judged you for your blindingly ignorant smile. You were pancakes and balloons and Saturday morning cartoons and guilt-free, care-free love—you were a child.

I don’t want to go back to that time in my life. I have no desire to swap my mind for comfortable bliss. What I want is to close my eyes for just FIVE seconds and when I open them again, the world will be new.

This trail leads to the animal crossing
It fails to accommodate intrepid adventurers,
Bushy tailed explorers, mountain climbers,
Talkers to squirrels and chewers of pine pitch.
The divine medicine denies us the headspace to believe we're really dead,
The reclined estrogen felt good against twenty million years of insecurity
Golden-layered, factually flawed
It lay exposed for decades
Rusting innards and misfiring sparks
None of the heavy equipment does what it says
Robot arms move with intensity
No programmer yet programs tenderness
The limiting factor has always attracted the acting crowd
Always desperate for theatrical work they magically appear
When it's clear that they're needed
But heed the warnings, they're known to be cheaters; the people who say so could also be wife-beaters
No need to wait for a stereotype
Follow the one you haven't lost touch with

Dobby's ideas,

Are more of a glitch.

Flesh memories,

Buried in a snitch.

Life is tough,

And such a heavy fight.

When dark times encircle you,

Remember to Turn on the light.

Weasley twins are strong,

More like human beaters

The world is not divided

Into good people and death eaters.

For in dreams,

We enter a world entirely our own.

Turn to page number

Three hundred and ninety four.

Dumbledore smiled,

Everyone has bad days.

Snape replied,

Always.

The people we love,

Leave us never.

The stories we love best,

Do live in us forever.

Cause the books we truly love,

Right back, they love us.

Draco, Dormiens,

Nunquam, Tittilandus.

im with *****
Making millys
acting silly
im playing... our pockets empty and we smoking bleezy
selling acid
minds are gold never plastic
yeah we trappin never nappin
summer 13 *******, thats old news, no clue
nbs and fitted i dont need to boost
plain white t's, no j crew
this me, i never knew, killer kush, ***** im never blue
checkin ******* out, i always disaprove
ridin ***** with our one seaters
pop a heater if ****** being nosy call em peter
5'6 ***** eater wearing beaters never beat her but i beat it, so much head i need a breather
****** is talking puppets watching budget always cautious ***** ****** and they mullets looking stupid
floosy girls loose since theyre dad left theyre missing screws

State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?

The men shout at me as they drive by
“******, walk like a man!”
They hoot, shout, and laugh
As sunlight blinds their white-trash getaway.

I look around and think
How ridiculous to be unable to walk
How insane for me to think that these legs
Move on their own.
How silly for me, the queen that I am,
To think that my kingdom was
Any place I was welcome.

To be queer and visible
Is to challenge
The stained muscle shirts
“wife beaters,” strung across
Tattooed skin and handlebar
Mustaches of the “real men”
Whose siren calls
Police my step.

Most men hate us
The Children of Naomi Campbell
Men, YES MEN, too unafraid
To straighten our walk
Loosen our pant legs
And be invisible.

To be properly gay
Acceptably gay, to be
Tolerable is to be invisible
To hide, to be “real man”

My manhood is ghostly
Terrifying even
My walk so dangerous that
It is unsafe to even drive by

My community is still
Dangerous, unreal
Waiting for the next truck to drive by
To beat me, tie me to a fence and leave me
Like Matthew Shepard
A ghost on a fencepole

Unwanted, dangerous,
My people are a threat
Legs too long threatening the ability of
“real men” to have simple desires
They will do whatever it takes
To keep it easy.

Walk like a man, they yelled.
I yell back the names of my family:
Tiffany Edwards,
Zoraida Reyes, Kandy Hall
Yaz’min Shancez

Bodies that didn’t walk the right way
These ghosts were once threatening too.
Simply existing means threatening
"real men" and their women

Swinging my hips is literally deadly
To be flirtatious is to be threatening
To invite violence, attention
To get what I want, to be made a man

Real man, I am not real
As if my only job is to
Show others how to walk,
As if the rest of me
Is simply fake, fantasy, irrelevant

See how easily queer people
Are watered down to something unidimensional,
Something that is only a fragment of
“real” people – we are ghosts
Moving among you

Threatening, ******
Never just going to work
But always somehow
threatening, challenging
And forcing fantasies onto the world

Why do we always challenge
What is real? What is normal?
Why can’t a man strut? Why isn’t manhood
Something other than what swings with my
Legs?

Real. Ghostly. Fake. Invisible. Dangerous.
What I hear is powerful, noted, interesting,
….maybe even desirable. (GASP!)

When I walk now, I walk with an army of ghosts
Led by the fallen, queens, and divas
who threatened the men of the past.
I live their lessons and proudly
swish my hips in honor of my adopted
****** ancestors.

We Sashay however we want
Because we've realized that
a "real" men is always
Just a step away.

Ones and Zeros
In the online digital world
Every boy and every girl
Are villains and heroes
Who knows which?
Son a of a *****
 
The truth is lies
Wrapped up in disguise
We want to believe
Electronic love we receive
Is not there to deceive
The flirting
The sexting
The online molexting
**** pic rejecting
 
Encrypted ascii code
Sent through internet nodes
Wireless whispers transmitted
Thoughts of endearment committed
Fact are conveniently omitted
Lies are ruthlessly submitted
 
Straight jacket
Packet hackers
Hijacking a loving heart
Holding it ransom is their art
Scourge of the community
Harassing
Surpassing
Any level of dignity
 
Players and haters
And the masturbators
The downright crazies
Acting like timid daisies
The cheaters
Defeaters
And quite possibly
Wife beaters
 
The losers
The boozers
Mentally abusers
The popular sexter
Who may not be a her
Quite possibly a guy
But will vehemently deny
 
The whiner
Data miner
The ******* seeking minor
The scammer
The Christian Damner
Super **** grammar
All thrown in together
With the digital picture collector
 
And still we’re looking all around
For love to be found
In a world of made believe
That anonymously deceives
We are ones seeking zeroes
Running into villains dressed up as heroes
 
Hearts shredded and deleted
Retreating and defeated
Yet somehow we try again
Hoping for something less than pain
We are all a little bit insane
Playing the online dating game
One’s and Zero’s

DECADENCE PERVERSE

July 9, 2003 – Walton on Thames, Surrey

Everyone talks
And experiences
And experiments
And gets confused
Depressed
And anxious

People fearful
With multiple ****** partners
While a baby is alone
Crying nowhere
As people smoke their drugs
And laugh
And they start to go
Nowhere
Some doing business
And living out empty lives

In a souless planet
Christ!
I am really surprised by all of you people
Asking and questioning the same questions
Again and again and more
“Is there life out there?”
“Is there life in this universe?”
“Are we all alone?”
You keep on repeating your questions
And I ask you:
“Is there any life here on earth?”

I see a young girl suffering from torment
And hearing sorrow
Being riddled throughout her fragile mind
Is this, then, your civilization?
People!
You gamblers and prostitutes
Fraudsters and women beaters
Compulsive liars and addicts
Rich criminals, poor criminals
Slithering through your pointless slimy days
That we all know where it’s all ending

Christ!
But one baby’s life
Is never pointless!
I tell you so..

Check out the ink,
authentic as a groupie giving it up
each memorable stain
Taints / scars
"see this one, that was the time...
on the road, the streets of concrete and black"

waking up with something missing
another concert and back
stage passing out
green rooms become lucky charms
                                      "magically delicious"
when molly and 'cid drown out
the loud self hatred howl
the piercing sounds like snow on a telly
made of wood / in the hollow
of the skull
screaming fans
get giving head
(another Grateful Dead
teddy tats
le mort - with top-hats)

Check out the ink on them cats
'cuz its cool to hit it
And just like that,
they're just like bruises
Rorschach birth mark
Skin art muses
like permanent stickers
Yang and yin
punch bug & liquor
Business inc.

quarter machine
bouncy ***** and shiny things--
Smiley face!            
Have a nice day!
Happy colors cover up
To hide the deeper pain that dont hurt
but slowly softly kills
somewhere inside
where somethings
gone missing...
(now they swallow pills)

...

Like plumes of flamboyant flocks
Birds of dying paradise
and schools of shimmering fish,
Anima and abyss
Inside this living planet, all
makes for interesting documentary
nature shows
            since nuture blows
Goes to show
Some guardians using
back of the hand
belt / buckle / switch

Yo peeps pay close attention...
Check out the ink
swats and ****
                   wears wife beaters
and his chick in the summers
wears faux
furs of mink...
***** on roller skates without a rink
expert skill sets for Sonic
always runaways
drive by drive-thru,
So cool I'll call 'em Culo...
Wouldn't you?


*(In their natural habitats, the group and packs
and ****** of crows, find one another
Lushious... candy color coded hides...
like the wilde-beast their multitudes progress
run migratory trails anywhere from the law
or their own **** making a mess...
Welcome
Mutual Of Omaha's Wild kingdom
in permanent ink ... stains...
memorable times...               wasted)

I wake up and feel something is askew.
Then I remember what I heard last night on the news.
Then I push it aside and turn on the TV.
I’m sure someone can deal with it better than me!
Our politics are failing. Society’s flailing.
Getting’ crushed under the weight of our own pompous detailing.
But I don’t mind, there’s nothing I can do.
I’ll just grab a bite, get another tattoo.
Maybe by the time I’m done, it’ll have worked itself out.
If it hasn’t I’ll just shut my eyes and think of something else!

I guess I could try to make a difference,
But I’ve got more important things I have to deal with.
Like the season finale of my favorite show,
A bottle of Jack to finish and a party to throw!
I guess I can try to help out, if I’ve got the time. We’ll see.
Hey, look! Beer over there is buy-one-get-one-free!
I gotta stock up for the big game tonight.
Gotta go. I’m sure you got the problem covered, right?

Drunks and liars and posers, you’re fired.
Idiots, *******, worldwide mob masses.
Outcasts that walk alone, self-loathers, homophobes.
Jesus freaks. One more drink. Intelligence levels sink.
Dumb jocks and ******. Gangbangers. Guerilla wars.
Drop the dime, save the time. Pretend you’ve lost your mind.
Uppers and downers. Immigrants, minors.
Emos and cheaters, and ******* wife-beaters.
****** ex-girlfriends, freaks, frauds, text message sends.
Alcoholics relapsing. Governments collapsing.
Oil spills, anything for thrills. Hold on, just one more ****.
Suicide bombers, no mothers, no fathers.
This world’s so ****** up, how will it end up?
I don’t wanna know, don’t wanna see.
Don’t make me face reality!

HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US

DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR

We do not die.
We do not fear death.
Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness.
But the Animus returns.
But we are not all brave.
We feel pain, and fear it.
We feel shame, and fear it.
We feel loss, and fear it.
We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.
The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.
The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.

THE CLAN BOND

We are not born;
we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.
The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.
In the clan-form is strength an purpose

THE OATH BOND

We serve by choice.
We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.
Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.
Dremora have long served the dreamer but not always so.
Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.
When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.

HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.
How then do you imagine we view you humans?
You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.
The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.
Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.
As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.
But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up.
You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish.
You are always lost, late or soon.
Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites.
It is a small thing.
When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore.
Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.

MAN'S MYSTERY

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?

Hunched over the stove top,
meticulously folding melted chocolate
over and over itself
in infinite tides of glossy excellence.
Incorporating yolks into sugar
whips a wholesome protein
into sweet thick ribbons
that tumble from their metal beaters.
Milk and cocoa powder whisked
until ominous brown clouds
explode into the sky.
The slow incorporation of pieces
climaxes into a smooth custard,
so **** and luscious
you'll lick it off your own fingers.
Any attention that can be
drawn to your mouth is
good attention,
particularly that of homemade ice cream.

The kind of cars
that I like,
are those 87' monte carlos,
subs
big as aircraft carriers
in the back.

Gold spoke
wheels,
able to turn
holes in the sky.

Chameleon
paint jobs,
green
and full
in the sun,
fading to black
and
glossy
in the shadows.

When I was a teenager,
the kings
used to ride by
in the
monte carlos
with open
windows
letting loose
a humbling roar
so loud
that it
put
ubiquitous vapors
into
the air.

The neighborhood smelled
like the thumping
and the hard hum
of their vibrating
windshields.

The kings
always
let the car slide slowly
in neutral,

and as they took
stock of their domain,
Their glossy gold fronts
made you realize
why gold
was
so important
each tooth looked like
a tablet of commandments.

Our wife-beaters
were
stained with ketchup
and other things
that bleach could never
get out,
and we smelled
funny.

But the kings
wore hawaiian shirts
and smoked
cigars.

The kings
were the preachers.


One of the kings
was Luke's brother,

whenever he stopped at a corner
we'd pile around
putting our fingerprints everywhere
until
he told us
to
"*******,
don't you have any
home-training?"

Luke would stand closest,
squinting
as he leaned on the driver-side
window,
all that bass
hammering
his bones.

"How much
did you pay for it?"
Reggie would ask
from the back,
peeking his head over,
trying to see
the king.

The king would smile,
and say
"enough."

we'd all be rapt.

He'd get a call
on his cellphone,
and we
would come up
with crazy numbers.

Luke didn't even know
how much
was
"enough".

The kings held the secret
of god
and power.

I wanted to be as close to god
as they were,
I wanted to know the secret
to contentment.

I wanted to come back home
with money like
the kings with gold teeth.

Many contrive du-jour fêtes to make love look self-evident; whilst the taken hold hand's, making locution the regular, in letters they trade off into lusting hands.

Winsome cut-out caricature cards, sell fresh off the press, whilst lovers meet at bars; to await the next years
Valendine.

A holiday for only once in a darkly year, as the meanwhile divorce rates spike from cheaters, woman-beaters;
Amour's no longer of the creator, but made to be the abzere.

Mine jane, please do not fear, I know I mayest not hath much, but a soul and spirit; I connect to thine.

None inauthentic word's, or thoughts you'll find;

Only what I hath to give thee.

The indigenous necklet that grows around this neck, a buttoned up longsleeve, that holds mine back;
With a black vest that caresses mine chest- with a smile I hardly show
Because of mine soda stained, missing teeth in a mouth where
Poetry speaks of pain, yet where
Affection is created by mine tongue
That creates wonders and Shame.

I hath not much material thing's, though material is temporal; not fit for kings and queens.

As I hath thou, as thou dost me,
I hath not much mine jane; though
Thou dost hath the key.

The key that open's this beating
Heart for thee; wherein mine
Love is always seen, in the
Specks of thy eyes.

The more ourn love grows, it burns
As a wildfire, I hear the wedding bell's
Require; ourn calling in
The distance.

©lonesome poet's poetry
©Brandon nagley
©earl jane sardua nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)

The other morning,
As opposed to this one,
(There was indeed
Another morning)
As I walked the
10 1/2 blocks to work,
I passed by a playground
Full of post grad
Parents who dress
Real nice
Real fashionable
And all of their
Children who are
Dressed the same, in
Non gender specific
Garb, because it’s
2011 not last century
And they run and
Scream and get
Their thrift store
Clothes all *****,
They laugh and I
Hear crying
And reprimanding
And ‘good job!’
And I can’t help but
See the future in
These kids, with
Their well adjusted
Parents adjusting
Them well to the world
And making sure
They follow all the
Advice in the hip
Parenting and child
Psychology books they
Read, and I see
Among the smiling
Innocent faces
Yet to be
Drug addicts
Wife beaters
Alcoholics
Strippers
Drunk drivers
Liars
Cheaters
Thieves
Heartbreakers
And the occasional
College grad
Who will be well
Adjusted
And will adjust
The child they have
At 34
Very well to the
New society
So that
Child can become
A date ******
Or a car thief
Or a vagrant
Or maybe a college
Grad who
Will be well adjusted
And adjust their child well.
Our children are the future.
Go to school, kids.
Adjust.

Exalted eggs
sell lent egg salad
to eggshells.
Egg beaters
beat her
for the better
of the better
eggs.
Yokes of the yokel
yolks
choke the yolks
they’re meant to yoke.
Though runny and broken,
run he and broke in.
****** he,
dumped he,
leaving all the eggs
in eggshells.
These saddest fractions,
in shattered
silence, sigh “Let’s
decompose.
Let’s be compost.
Let’s become a flower.”
But on the wind
they twist,
they wind,
they rose.

[IN]
Blowing up her phone for a chance to meet,
What I didn't know then; I was already beat,
Resending messages, no way I'll take defeat,
It wasn't an option, I was dying for the meat,
Spinning the wheel of fortune, I was dying for the greet,
Talking about tryna take you out in my 2seater,
Tell me where you wanna go, I’ll take you on my feet,
Said you like movies, well let'***** the theater,
Your *** is cold in that dress, I got leather heaters,
Lucky Charm on my chest & my ’01 beaters,
Movie was great but you're not sleepy,
So we hit a nearby bowling alley,
Played a few rounds & it went by speedy,
Don't forget I have to drive back to the valley,
Take your *** home, maybe you'll tell me to come in,
& that'll be the finale…

[&]
But no, you wanted more,
The nerve of some women,
I just wanted to score,
There was no way I’d go home empty-handed,
But she was really taking everything for granted,
So what's next? At my cousin's spot, we landed,
Already three in the morning, I might leave this broad stranded,
I'm getting played aren't I?
But then she complimented my eyes & my patchy beard,
I know it's all a disguise but I wasn't ready to disappear,
It was too late & she was grinding my gears,
Two dates & an after party, not even a kiss on the cheek,
& her smile was so fake, it made me so weak,
She was so fake & I was so weak…

[OUT]
We got inside in an instant, yeah I'm special treatment,
Found a few of her friends, I swear she's a demon,
It's like she knew all along that they would be present,
So she played the "I'm gonna sleep at my girl's" card,
& I'm thinking how pleasant,
I got ****** over in the blink of an eye, you'd think I learned my lesson,

I didn’t.

I paid for her hookah & her Monster too,
& she didn't look twice my way, I feel like a monster too,
I got fed up so I told her I was leaving, she gave me a handshake,
I couldn't believe it, for ****'s sake, I'm so heated,
All I could take home with me is an empty pocket & a heart on the verge of break,
I don't know how I slept through the night, woke up wishing she would've flaked,
But she didn't because she knew what she was doing,
This wasn't brand new, my confidence was ruined,
& to top it all off, she ignored my every call & text,
Probably went on to the next,
Did the same with him, now we're both in wrecks,
I feel you my G, I feel the regrets,
I was never enough but who am I kidding?
She was master of the bluff,
My homies asked how my weekend was, man that **** was rough,
Looking back at when times were so tough,
& I got every girl in the world I could imagine,
I guess it all worked out in the end,
******* JASMINE.

@moesdeph ~ http://moesdeph.tumblr.com
[email protected]

Copyright © 2015 Mohamad M. Ali. All rights reserved.

Is it love and affection
Diamond and pearls
Or to be called the most beautiful girl in the world
What is it that ladies want
When we're good to them
Some say we're to weak
When we're bad
They always end up hurt
And I don't speak upon the woman beaters
We all know those guy's are jerks
But what is it that ladies want
For us to stop our cheating
For us to stop our lies
Cause there's nothing more painful hearing than a woman's cry

Admit it every guy should understand
That a ladies tear has the power to bring tears to a man
But what is it that ladies want
For us to open there doors when we go places
Maybe they want more attention from us
They may even want more conversation
More appreciation for the things they do
they might even want more ***
But I really need the anwsers before I move on to next
What is it that ladies want
I really wanna know
Because not knowing this
May allow a lot of danger to show

what is it that ladies want
for us to take care of you while you sick
hold your hands when we walk to places
hold the door for you as well
and hold you in our arms at times when you feel lifes a livig hell
you want us guys to tell you how much we love you
tell you how much we appreciate you
tell you how much you are important to us in this world
that world lady,girl,female,women,and woman it shows power
without yall we are nothing
must guys dont understand how much we need ladies in the world

so what is that ladies want
they want us to be there for them
they want us buy them gifts
to not cheat
or abuse
cause there's nothing more hurtful than a woman's broken heart
God himself created women for a reason
not for guys to dog them
or have *** with anyone he sees

so what is that ladies want
its all in the heart
i mean every guy should know
they just want a person who cares for them
i guarantee you if we love our women like an husband
protect them like an father
then this world wouldn't have so many ******
we wouldn't have so many women commiting suicide
i just want for every woman around the world to know
that somebody understands what you go through
somebody cares
and that somebody is me

the value of Money is relative,
(relatively speaking)
giving power and prestige
to a prestigeless Nation
(filled with Cash cow cheese eaters)
(business-men drunk wife beaters)
(game players
and cheaters)
and, to me, at least, it seems so cheap
but my idols are now sheep
(and slaves) in this country.
Slaves, for what?

ask not, "what?" but "why?" do you do for your Country!

why do you pledge Alligence?
why do you give them Power?
why do you make their Money?

"if Money is worthless then so are you"
it is not true.
they've taught you this
but you never knew.
(and now you do).

eliminating need for interaction
eliminates protest
eliminates people
(like me)

if your mind is free they detest
(if your hair is grey and your ******* sag
they say "dye" and "lift".)
die and left, the left and right
and all the little wars we fight-
they don't matter with no morality left.

give me equality-
I'll give you my TV.
(DVD, CD, Phone, Plane, Car)

(My Days Will Be Sunny
But Have Fun With Your money.)