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Julian Jun 2018
The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!
Àŧùl Sep 2013
I have known this much talked about search for true love for over 10 years and I am aged 22 years now. There was this unforgiving loneliness till I was 17 years of age given that I am the only child of my parents who lives with them in a lonely campus of a research institute away from the small city.

A tumultuous relationship filled with resentment to the brim about my parents keeping me their only 'issue' was brought to the hilt and I was weary of being their arguably most beloved 'machine' who was supposed to live sticking to the 'guidelines' laid by them as the ideal only son.

We aren't from a landlord's family and have limited resources, so I was supposed to suffice in my parents' love and affection, studying at a fairly consistent dedication to bring forth the results worthwhile landing me a good job.

But who has been able to control a Romeo-in-the-making?

Answer: Nobody!

But my Juliet wasn't yet on the horizon till age 17, when I mistakenly took my first girlfriend who was my classmate till class 7, to be my last love. Period. Then for the first time I was introduced to the idea of 'love' by this sweet girl whom I dub "G3" over 11 months elder to me. I had proposed her, but it was not a pre-emptive proposal.

Our period of courtship had started over Orkut which was the most popular social website at that time. It was just friendship initially until I had unsuccessfully proposed two bimbets other than my first girlfriend. One of those two unsuccessful attempts was with her best-friend-once-upon-a-time.

I had told her about them both, she had even tried apparently helping me propose her best friend when I had told her that I had even written a song for my childhood crush over the years I had been away from my old school.

Her first reaction was, "I would die for having such a boyfriend! Wish it was I for whom the song was composed."

Then when I proposed my childhood crush, G1, I couldn't even mention about the song and she rejected my proposal. Period. I was distraught, I was broken & I was amazed at how easily she could've undermined my liking for her from the past 7 years.

To take my attention off the disappointment posed by my first rejection. I proposed a different girl, G2, non-seriously, knowing that another rejection was lurking behind the curtains of time.

Rejection 2 successfully diverted my mind away from the mess created. Anyways, I did have a girlfriend for myself. After all, people love guys who sing melodiously and can play guitar apart from having decent appearance, and believe me- I used to look this chocolatey young guy until I was 19 years of age.

The girl who later went on to have the place vacated by my first crush was her same best-friend-once-upon-a-time 'G3'. She went on varied lengths in narrating her own break-up story with the guy she was with. I got a second-hand  piece as my first girlfriend. It was no issues, at least till she was bickering about how he had broken her 'heart-of-a-self-proclaimed-princess' and we started having arguments and serious tiffs over what had been happening in her life.

We broke-up. I had enough of the hardships brought by myself upon her. She had taken to crying harshly over phone. I resented myself. I failed to identify that it was not true love indeed but only a mirage of the idea.

I next concentrated in studies and this time I prevailed over the hurdles offered by examinations and a second girlfriend, 'G4', who refused to openly accept she was going about with me was attracted to me. She'd go see the Taj Mahal at Agra and the Hawa Mahal at Jaipur with me apart from spending the night in the same hotel room but would still reckon me with my pending reappear supplementary exams and wouldn't openly accept a failure as her man. I was frustrated by her autocratic behaviour and opted for a different girl, 'G5'.

G5 was the prettiest of my first 3 GF's as far as looks were considered. We romanced around Delhi's historical places and malls; holding hands around cinemas and Old Fort walls in New Delhi. But still I was as ****** as I was when I was born.

May 7, 2010 was a scorching hot day with the sun ablaze overhead and me going on the busiest highway of India. I was going back to my home and met with a serious road accident en route that kicked me out of my senses into a frozen comatose state.

I somehow survived the life-threatening coma and was moving around in 52 long weeks, limping heavily all thanks to my parents and the kind physiotherapist. Thanks to a poor memory, I initially performed extremely below average at college.

Then I was all prepared to attack at all future examinations and nothing could stop me. I breezed past another girl 'G6', this was my last failure. She was confused between me and a different guy. Neither me nor any other guy with a high self-prestige would entertain the idea of being weighed as an option. I again moved on.

Then comes the continuing story of my true love. True love is the one that lasts forever successfully. She is incidentally my 7th chance upon the love pathway and last. I am sure this is her- my soul-mate.

She is my gateway to the 7th heaven, I find her presence in every aspect of my life. She is 6 years and 9 months younger to me and her descent in my life has been the best thing in my life. I celebrate and rejoice each day in her presence. Our tastes are so similar that we feel merely our X- & Y-chromosomes are different.

We patiently wait for time to last till the day till we perish after blessing our grandchildren. We live 250 kilometres away from each other and have only known each other through voices and photos. We are yet to meet. Till then I wait for the day my master degree gets over and she gets into a medical college.

Now I will end this post by saying that there's no end of love and no beginning of it - you just have to wait, identify and hold on to your truest love.
http://www.relationshiptalk.net/in-search-of-the-truest-love-3677.html

Self-Note (Not to be forgotten): This was the last time you wrote about your past. But what's passed is past now and is meant to be forgotten. I really hope she reads the second-last paragraph duly and gives it due thought. 143 Creeps!
Raj Arumugam Jun 2013
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”


(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”


(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”

Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?

Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…

Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances

(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as  I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me  –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated


Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
- don't you think the teacher was mad? -  and by George! -  I'm as sane as King George 3...?
kirk Aug 2018
The galaxy's in turmoil, it's at an all time low
Luke Skywalker's been demoralised, all for comedic show
No substance for new character's, old heroes full of woe
What happened to the Star Wars, that we used to know

The Empire has been replaced, by the Order of the First
No real impact is achieved, we're not really that immersed
Screen presence is not felt, characterisations at its worst
The legacy of the Jedi, is downgraded and disbursed

Luke's a Jedi like his father, so why would he elope
The Disappointment of this film, is on a massive scope
Star Wars fans are ridiculed, their on a downward *****
Galactic empires did strike back, but after a new hope

Jedi knights a force for good, they wouldn't just give in
Princess Leia flying through space, well wasn't that a sin
The saga of the Skywalker's, pushed aside for Rey and Fin  
Don't bring back legacy character's, to throw them in the bin

Luke's too out of character, it doesn't make no sense
Strong villains do not exist , so there is no recompense
The shallowness of General Hux, a lack of real suspense
Kylo Ren's fake saber duel, this fight was far from tense

Evil rulers are no more what kind of name is Snoke?
He's hardly Emperor Palpatine, he's just a head scarred bloke
Like most of the new character's, well what a ******* joke
The menace of the sith is lost, Since the force awoke

Wooden character's we don't want, I know this may sound mean
Kathleen Kennedy please keep away, from the Star Wars scene
We don't want Holdo, Rose and Poe, clogging up the screen
Admiral Ackbar was killed off, and it wasn't even seen

Rian Johnson's head is round, he looks like BB8
Unfortunately his movies ****, and his stories are not great
Redemption for true Jedi knights, I know it's not too late
A Jedi Master Ivan is,  The Last Jedi's futures fate

This is our most desperate hour, after the cinemas first screening
Ivan your our only hope, the Star Wars fans are screaming
No true fan is amused, we wish that we where dreaming
"a gracious gift from god", is Ivan's first name meaning

Ivan Ortega is the man, he simply is the best
His flare for editing is supreme, he has film making zest
Unruly Star Wars script writers, he'll put them to the test
Movie making is his skill, Disney give it a rest

So come on now check Ivan out, on YouTube or Twitter
His vision of The Last Jedi, may stop you feeling bitter
Optimism flows like the force, because he is no quitter
He'll reunite the Star wars fans, instead of a film splitter

A dark time for the empire, with the Jedi in the mix
Dark side powers hasn't been seen, since Vader in part six
True Jedi Knights have not returned, nothing that really sticks
We need Jedi Master Luke, in Ivan's new Film Fix
Ever since Star Wars The Last Jedi was released in cinemas in December 2017, there has been a lot of backlash and criticisms by fans for the treatment of the character Luke Skywalker and also Rian Johnson's script, however there is a guy called Ivan Ortega who is re-editing and  Fixing the movie, he has a YouTube channel called Film Fix where he shows you the editing process and what he is doing to make the film better, please check his channel out
Sethnicity Oct 2015
I was a fiend ... before I became a teen
I melted microphone instead of cones of ice cream
Music-orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Cause I grabbed the mic and try to say, "yes, y'all"
They tried to take it, and say that I'm too small
Cool, cause I don't get upset
I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet
Back to the lab, without a mic to grab
So then I add all the rhymes I had
One after the other one, then I make another one
To diss the opposite then ask if the brother's done
I get a craving like I fiend for nicotine
But I don't need a cigarette, know what I mean?
I'm raging, ripping up the stage and
Don't it sound amazing cause every rhyme is made and
Thought of, cause it's sort of, an addiction
Magnetized by the mixing
Vocals, vocabulary, your verses, you're stuck in
The mic is a Drano, volcanoes erupting
Rhymes overflowing, gradually growing
Everything is written in a code, so it can coincide
My thought's a guide
48 tracks to slide
The invincible, microphone fiend Rakim
Spread the word, cause I'm in
E-F-F-E-C-T
A smooth operator operating correctly
But back to the problem, I gotta habit
You can't solve it, silly rabbit
The prescription is a hypertone that's thorough when
I fiend for a microphone like ******
Soon as the bass kicks, I need a fix
Gimme a stage and a mic and a mix
And I'll put you in a mood or is it a state of
Unawareness? Beware, it's the re-animator
A menace to a microphone, a lethal weapon
An assassinator, if the people ain't stepping
You see a part of me that you never seen
When I'm fiending for a microphone, I'm the microphone fiend

After 12, I'm worse than a Gremlin
Feed me hip-hop and I start trembling
The thrill of suspense is intense, you're horrified
But this ain't the cinemas or Tales From the Dark Side
By any means necessary, this is what has to be done
Make way cause here I come
My DJ cuts material
Grand imperial
It's a must that I bust any mic you hand to me
It's inherited, it runs in the family
I wrote the rhyme that broke the bull's back
If that don't slow 'em up, I carry a full pack
Now I don't want to have to let off, you should have kept off
You didn't keep the stage warm, step off
Ladies and gentleman, you're about to see
A pastime, hobby about to be
Taken to the maximum, I can't relax see, I'm
Hype as a hypochondriac cause the rap be one
Hell of a antidote, something you can't smoke
More than dope, you're trying to move away but you can't, you're broke
More than cracked up, you should have backed up
For those that act up need to be more than smacked up
Any entertainer, I got a torture chamber
One on one and I'm the remainder
So close your eyes and hold your breath
And I'mma hit ya with the blow of death
Before you go, you'll remember ya seen
The fiend of a microphone, I'm the microphone fiend
The microphone fiend
Microphone Fiend by - Eric B & Rakim
**Rakim is a Supreme Favorite lyricist of mine and this rap is
1 of My Top 5 favorite Rhymes of All Time!**
Not to be out shined his partner in crime Eric was a mastermind at the time on the steel wheels that underline all of their tracks. Take a moment and recognize and respect the raw untamed talent that these two present.
dev Nov 2014
These memories are like wounds,
and even though they are old they still feel fresh.
You never said you were sorry,
you never stitched up my gashes,
so every time I am reminded of them,
they start to bleed again.

In flashes I watch them, the memories,
like old-time movies on cinema screens,
in black and white, so monochrome,
the least my mind can do,
at least spare me from the colorful detail.

I am trapped in that theater,
forced to watch through ocean waves,
until a boy comes with a golden key to unlock the doors.

His smile comforts me,
covers up my cuts like bandages.
His voice, my morphine,
makes the pain fade.
But like every medication, the relief wears off,
the boy disappears,
and I am alone again.

Left to wonder when the delicate dressings will rip,
and when the blood will pour down my chest,
infinitely.
Terry Collett May 2013
Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those ******

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the **** films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of ****** and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much ***
will make you blind.
Cup Noodles Feb 2016
I have never really been into poetry,
Nor have I been into theater.
I was never interested in animated films,
Or movies in general
And music was just a hobby for me

Then I met you...

And now it seems as if,
I have found myself remembering you, by just listening to music,
And spending many nights, sleepless and lorn.

I'm patiently waiting for the next blockbuster hit
To appear in cinemas, so that I may ask you
For a single day together, once again.

Now my ambition is to create a cartoon,
Similar to that of Ghibli's, because you had me by a thread,
On that day we watched Spirited together.

I became the stage manager of a production,
Worked hard so I could make you say
That you were proud of me, but more than that was
To simply make you something beautiful.

And now all I can do
Is write poetry,
Every time,
I think of you.
Alex B Mar 2015
On silver screen cinemas
Actors portray pain
Sobbing
weeping
Dripping tears
Like that of thunderstorm rain

Comedies - that's all they are
Comedies is all I see
Sick and twisted parodies
of me and those like me
Horror flicks
and gruesome pics
are simple things when compared

Agony
Yes Agony
Agony is your true name

What actor dare play my part
what actor dare say
"I Dare"
Because of you Agony
My bittersweet agony
Joy
is but a lost memory
Because of you.... Agony my sweet agony
Peace
Is a mystery- never clear
And my heart, my agony
Is a flame
flickering, riddled glimmer
Beating..... nevermore

Thanks to you- my sweet Agony

I know Hate
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
since childhood
and since I first knew
that such unglamorous places as libraries exist
(well, obviously the masses think
places of worship and amusement parks
and cinemas and mosh pits are much more attractive
as these draw crowds like scavengers to carcasses)
ah, but I digress
like a man past fifty
which is what I am -
but, as I was saying,
since I first discovered public libraries
(I couldn’t afford to buy books once
and the books I can afford to buy now
are not worth the dollars
the booksellers say I should part with)
ah, but again I digress…

and as I was saying,
all my reading since innocent childhood
has been of borrowed books
from public libraries
which I read and appreciate
but in which I dare not write comments;
I dare not scribble
in the books
for I am worried about fines
and being labeled ‘delinquent borrower’
and losing my reputation
as being an eminent citizen;
and so I do not write comments
but I have to say something
as you can well understand
to express my disagreement or approbation;
but I cannot write my comments beside the text
or at the end of the short story
or at the end of the poem
or in the margins of utterly un-understandable Einstein
and so with no other way
and my frustrations building
and determining through reason
I should not allow my pent-up emotions
to explode into expletives and ravings
and such implosions and explosions
to ***** up my precious emotional and aesthetic life
I decided
since childhood
when I first started reading -
I decided, and
what else could I do?
to explode into expletives and ravings
and such implosions and explosions
and so
unable to write comments
on borrowed material
on public property
I shouted at books
(and still do)
and uttered expletives
(and continue to do so)
or went done on my knees before books
and made sweet moans, something akin
to ****** ecstasy
before, say, a poem of Keats
or shouted and hollered with joy
at a volume of Leaves of Grass
or screamed with disapproval at stories
turned out with worn out plots
and predictable turn of events
where every man had his maiden
and lived happily for ever
well-fed and well-sexed and fatter and happily ever after;
and I made faces at writing
that were just clichés
and poems that waxed lyrical
and I scowled before un-creative pieces
that waffled with thin sentiments
and moans and sighs of love
or of poetic philosophical bombast
and so my reading career,
since childhood -
O most cultured gentlemen and most elegant ladies,
my reading career has been
dogged with explosions of expletives before books I read
or books I refused to read
and also of course with ecstatic cries before
well-written and well-thought out prose or poetry
but, tragically, unable to write on spines or margins
or between lines on borrowed books
this became
a habit so deeply ingrained
I cannot tear myself off from it
and so
you understand why
even in this age of the internet and cyberspace
I find it excruciating to punch in comments
because this borrowed-books mindset
is fixed and ******* so firm in me;
but you can imagine I have
knelt before your poems and blogs
in near ******-ecstasy
or more unkindly
I have uttered expletives
and shouted obscenities at your blogs and posts
and my family have run in to my study
happily thinking I was going insane
and they could finally confine
me in a Hospital for the Insane
but I am ready
and I just grin with a stolen book of Shakespeare
which I keep near for such occasions
and I say to my precious wife:
Oh, I’m just practicing to direct
a modern production of Shakespeare’s plays
sometime in the future, soon
and disappointed,
the family curses and utters profanities

but I digress -
so back to the subject at hand;
and gentle reader,
perhaps we are both one of a kind
and you too suffer from this
borrowed-books mindset
and you give my poems and blogs
and my online posts
the same treatment I give yours…
well, we understand each other
and we naturally utter obscenities
or kneel with pleasure
but leave no comments or scribble
because the shame of public library censure
has too strong a hold on us…
but what is important is,
we understand each other
Terry Collett Nov 2013
You had never seen kale before
it looked like large cabbage plants
reaching skyward
so that you could hide in it

and not be seen
from the farm
and Jane walked
with you there

and you both sat there talking
she about her father
and how he prepared
his Sunday sermons

right after the one given
on the previous Sunday
and how he liked
to close himself away

from the family
for hours at a time
with just his Bible
and other books

and God of course
and get it down
and afterwards
polish it up

until he had it off to pat
and you listened to her
trying to imagine
what it must be like

to have a father
who was a pastor
and you'd met her father
a few times

and her mother more
(and was told
she liked you)
and tried to think

about what her father's sermons
were about
(you never went
to the services)

and as she sat there
with her flowery dress
red and yellow
and those white ankle socks

and walking-about
-the-farmland-shoes
and dark hair
tied at that moment

with a red ribbon
you noticed
how beautiful she was
in her own way plain way

and how her hands
were held together
over her knees
as she raised her legs

and how the sun light
still reached
you both there
in the kale

and warmed
and eased you both
and you talked
of London

and when you left
and why
and how so different it was
and how you could walk

to at least to two cinemas
whereas here
there was none
but that you didn't mind

as it was a new life
and next to nature
and you could learn
new things kind of life now

and she smiled
and that thrilled you
that smile
that spread of lips

that pierce your heart
and mind kind of smile
and her wrists
slim and white

and the fingers
thin and white
and the nails
had white half moons

on them
and you wanted
to sit there
with her forever

in the tall kale
with the bright sun
and secret love
and feel inside

and 13 year old
sensibilities
each wanting to touch
but not at least not much

and she pointed out
a Red Admiral butterfly
fluttering over the kale
and slowly by.
Cold rain pelting on my skin,
city lights reflected in the wet black tar of
a road almost too narrow for the cars racing by -
all this I saw last when you were standing by my side,
feeling the nighttime city live and breathe around us
as we watched people scurry by and call for taxis in the cold.
It has never felt lonely to me before, I never saw
how isolated you are in a city when you're standing in its heart,
watching the blood pump through veins around you
and yet not moving, stagnancy amidst torrents.
A neon light flickers across the street from me
and I am ripped out of my dream to realise
you are not with me this time.
I see you in every street lamp;
around every corner I expect to see your face
to face only myself in the mirror of a dark shop window.
My face looks unexpectedly hollow,
my shape unfamiliar without you next to it,
and I wonder when my life became about you.
I do not belong here, into this city where
lights gleam bright even in the darkest hours
and sirens scream agony all night long.
I am from a different world, one where
dogs run free across wide fields and along rivers
and the air smells of fresh-cut grass in spring.
I am from a world where nobody locks their door
and stone-and-wood houses are made to live in,
not concrete boxes where numbers rule lives.  
All this was once foreign to me, and is again;
I do not belong with the neon lights and cinemas,
the glass facades and cold black tar,
I do not belong with the flashing ads and loud sirens,
the people who don't smile as they walk by.
All these things remind me of you.
I was one of them, one of the souls that made up this city
but I cannot live in it when you are not here.
I do not belong here anymore,
among the thousand lights that remind me of your eyes
and the constant noise that sounds like your breath.
All this reminds me too much of you.
I've been gone for a while because life has been a mess but guess who's back
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
Oh it’s just gorgeous outside
pale skins hide
sunworshippers basking in a lazy glow
work, troubles for a while they don’t know
cinemas, libraries emptier today
as kids want to go outside to play
natures calling
work rates falling
beer gardens, beaches
suddenly enthralling

Oh boss can we have a reprieve
Can we have sunny days leave?
Especially in this lovely Emerald Isle
where glorious sunshine only stays a while
Michael Hoffman Mar 2012
There will be no better days
there were no bad days
there were just so many days
one after another and another and another
and there will be unendingly more
because this is never done…

…each day is a quantum string of moments
shimmering with meter, rhythm and rhyme
if you listen
moments make days of music...

…but not loud
more like angels whispering to each other
just out of earshot
there it is
behind the other sounds
traffic of door and automobile
the hiss that kills the middle ear
that makes hummingbirds hide…

…so just listen;
be present
and the leaves will shiver in delight
as the hawk cries
and cat stiffens
and you finish your latte
and the barrista smiles at you
and you…


…remember childhood’s pets
rain rivers on windowpanes
through which you sat and watched
cinemas of sunsets
with those sweet, few others
who understood this
with you…
Y, desgraciadamente,
el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato,
crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso,
y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces
y la condición del martirio, carnívora, voraz,
es el dolor dos veces
y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor
dos veces
y el bien de ser, dolernos doblemente.
Jamás, hombres humanos,
hubo tanto dolor en el pecho, en la solapa, en la cartera,
en el vaso, en la carnicería, en la aritmética!
Jamás tanto cariño doloroso,
jamás tanta cerca arremetió lo lejos,
jamás el fuego nunca
jugó mejor su rol de frío muerto!
Jamás, señor ministro de salud, fue la salud
más mortal
y la migraña extrajo tanta frente de la frente!
Y el mueble tuvo en su cajón, dolor,
el corazón, en su cajón, dolor,
la lagartija, en su cajón, dolor.
Crece la desdicha, hermanos hombres,
más pronto que la máquina, a diez máquinas, y crece
con la res de Rosseau, con nuestras barbas;
crece el mal por razones que ignoramos
y es una inundación con propios líquidos,
con propio barro y propia nube sólida!
Invierte el sufrimiento posiciones, da función
en que el humor acuoso es vertical
al pavimento,
el ojo es visto y esta oreja oída,
y esta oreja da nueve campanadas a la hora
del rayo, y nueve carcajadas
a la hora del trigo, y nueve sones hembras
a la hora del llanto, y nueve cánticos
a la hora del hambre y nueve truenos
y nueve látigos, menos un grito.
El dolor nos agarra, hermanos hombres,
por detrás, de perfil,
y nos aloca en los cinemas,
nos clava en los gramófonos,
nos desclava en los lechos, cae perpendicularmente
a nuestros boletos, a nuestras cartas;
y es muy grave sufrir, puede uno orar...
Pues de resultas
del dolor, hay algunos
que nacen, otros crecen, otros mueren,
y otros que nacen y no mueren, otros
que sin haber nacido, mueren, y otros
que no nacen ni mueren (son los más).
Y también de resultas
del sufrimiento, estoy triste
hasta la cabeza, y más triste hasta el tobillo,
de ver al pan, crucificado, al nabo,
ensangrentado,
llorando, a la cebolla,
al cereal, en general, harina,
a la sal, hecha polvo, al agua, huyendo,
al vino, un ecce-****,
tan pálida a la nieve, al sol tan ardido¹!
¡Cómo, hermanos humanos,
no deciros que ya no puedo y
ya no puedo con tanto cajón,
tanto minuto, tanta
lagartija y tanta
inversión, tanto lejos y tanta sed de sed!
Señor Ministro de Salud: ¿qué hacer?
¡Ah! desgraciadamente, hombre humanos,
hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer.
Paul S Eifert Dec 2012
Night's hours gathered slowly at my chair delayed to stare
as each conferred upon the next I was still.
The hour of doubt crept in a shroud for me fear
a storm to tremble in the hour of remorse so reticent to leave.
Memory gave Judas' kiss desire an empty cup to parted lips.
At the edge of dawn the morning stars do fade I saw
an amber line on distant hills weak before the vow of dawn was made.
In that final hour only you.
Before what light could prove
gathered round the hours of my days whispered hushes
rustling as crowds do in cinemas and concert halls.
Then only you
the one I fell on spent a scent breathed in
out object of my touch the parts of you
the wish to hide the night in you.
Terry Collett Sep 2013
The road up from the farm
the smell of cattle
the sound of them
calling across the fields

and you and Jane
having helped
weigh milk
and feed the cows

took a steady walk
up towards the Downs
the sky blue
the clouds white

the trees
above your heads
crows and rooks
calling downwards

you are doing well
Jane said
for a London boy
anyone would have thought

you've been a country boy
all your life
you smiled
well I just get stuck in

you said
when you haven't got
any cinemas or shops
near by you have to find

some way
to occupy your brain
I've even taken up
bird watching

with a cheap book
I picked up in town
when the bus
took us there last week

she looked happy
her dark eyes
lit up by
the sunlight

her dark hair
well brushed
reflected
the light of sun

she wore that blue dress
with the solitary flower
(the one her gran
had bought)

you liked the way
she walked beside you
the calm manner
as if she'd known you

all her life
I heard you got in a fight
at school on your first day
she said out of the blue

yes
you said
in the greenhouse
with Nigel

he said he didn't like Londoners
and I said too bad
he pushed me
and I socked him

and there it was
but you're friends now?
she asked
o yes after that

we got along ok
you said
what didn't he like
about Londoners?

she asked
he said his parents
said Londoners smelt
and had fleas

and so forth
she frowned  
where did they get
that idea?

they had evacuees
during the War apparently
you said
you reached the hollow tree

by the side
of the track
up the Downs
and entered in

and sat on the ledge
this she called
her secret hideout
few people know it's here

she said
I used to come here
and sit and think
she added

you thought
of the last time
you'd come here
it had rained

and you had run in
out of the downpour
and she had kissed you
and then sat back

surprised by what
she had done
and you both sat there
in silence

until she spoke casually
about the church nearby
and how small it was
and how you both must

go there sometime
there was no rain this time
she sat there
next to you

looking at you uncertain
can I kiss you?
you asked
she looked away

and downwards
then nodded
and lifted her face to you
your lips touched

and you kissed
it was a long kiss
eyes closed
hands touching

bodies near
then you both
broke away
we mustn't tell anyone

she said
we're only 13
and they wouldn't understand
of course not

you said
my lips are sealed
she smelt of apples
her eyes

were searching you
her hand
still touched yours
I'll show you

where the sheep wool
gets stuck
on the barbed wire
at the top

she said
and so you climbed
out the hollow tree
back on the dry

mud track
the rooks above you
the sunlight
on your back.
KV Srikanth Dec 2021
Man with no name
Laconic in every frame
Smoking a cigar
Or driving a police car
Westerns or a Cop Thriller
As a Drifter or a Rider
Iconoclastic instant justice
44 Magnum to carry it out without prejudice
Mayor of Carmel
All American Male
Filling cinemas across the globe
East West North or South
Its got to be Clint Eastwood
Zulu Samperfas May 2013
Most breeze through the Boardwalk Big Dipper Bling
Ocean Street Sleeze, and a walk on Cowell Beach and say
I've seen it all, that's Santa Cruz, as they cruise off on highway 1
or crash into the barriers or 17 but that's not all, at all
I love Santa Cruz on a bright sunny day in May as I
gorge on the Indian vegetarian buffet, available all day, by the way
And check out the O'Niel sidewalk sale, and then past the sweaty crowds in front
of the Cineplex and the sign in the window display at Camouflage that reminds:
May is National ******* Month, are you doing your part?
and at Pergolesi a homemade sign says "friends don't let friends drink Starbucks"
and there are two art house cinemas within 200 yards of each other
and there are lesbians holding hands and homeless people breathing the fresh air
with their shelter pets and I feel free
like anything can happen here, even me
nivek Apr 2014
Derelict concrete buildings from the second world war sit like the skeletons of dinosaurs with gaping holes where someone used to look through windows dotting our island that look now empty eye sockets in great big skulls
lookout towers and brick built barracks and cinemas and pump stations and piers reach out to supply ships that now either turned to deep reefs for fish and sea creatures of myriad kinds or cut up and recycled into modern metal sea horses carrying a new generation of teenagers on to  some kind of glory death and war.
Terry Collett Dec 2013
Ingrid knows
the absence
of real love,

she 's known it
all 9 years
of her life.

Her mother's
indifference,
her father's

strict and cruel
attention,
the beatings,

the cold stares,
the loud shouts,
the harsh threats,

promises
of spankings.
There is just

the one love:
Benedict
from along

the narrow
balcony
of the flats,

9 years old,
brave of heart,
with his sword

painted blue
(his old man
had made it),

false silver
6 shooter,
cap firing

toy hand gun,
gun holster,
leather belt,

with wide grin,
hazel eyes,
with talk of

cowboy films,
Robin Hood,
Ivanhoe,

and she his
pretty Maid
Marian,

so he  says
or cowgirl
borrowing

his rifle,
to shoot down
bad cowboys

or Injuns.
He takes her
to his haunts:

the bomb sites,
the bombed out
old buildings,

the play parks,
cinemas
to watch films

in the dark,
feeling safe
beside him.

He has seen
her bruises,
her medals

of beatings,
the red welts
on her skin;

understands
the reasons,
who did it,

but not why;
giving her
cruel father

the cold eye
or hard sneer
when he sees

her father
in the Square
or passing

on the stair,
*******
two digits

(up you pal)
gesturing
behind her

father's back.
Ingrid knows
the absence

of real love,
she known it

all 9 years
of her life;
except for

Benedict,
her young knight
with blue sword,

and one day,
when they're grown
and left home,

she'll be his
pretty Maid
Marian

love and wife,
so she dreams
in her bed

in the night
of her sad
childhood life.
BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.
Terry Collett Oct 2012
Fay met you
at the bus stop
on the New Kent Road
she was dressed

in the lemon coloured dress
you liked
and her hair
was pulled tight

into a ponytail
where are you going?
she asked
to the Globe

you said
what Shakespeare’s Globe?
she asked
no the fleapit cinema

at Camberwell Green
you replied
oh
she said

I’ve never been there
my daddy doesn’t like
me going to cinemas
he says they’re

dens of sin
she looked at you
as if you would confirm
her father’s words

well it’s certainly a den
you stated
but whether its
of sin I don’t know

she looked puzzled
and touched
her ponytail
with her hand

are you coming along?
you asked
she looked about
as if her father

might be behind her
should I?
she asked
do you want to?

yes
she replied
then let’s go
but I haven’t any money

she said
I have enough
you said
my Mother gave me money

for chores I did
oh I see
she muttered
and she bit her lip

what would my daddy say
if he saw me?
he won’t
how can you be so sure?

trust me
you said
fathers know little
of what their kids do

she smiled
if you think so
she said
sure I do

besides it’ll
do you good
you said
giving her a smile

and then the bus came
and you both got on
and sat next
to each other

and you paid
the bus conductor
the fare
and as the bus

moved off
you both swayed
to the motion
of the bus

her arm touching yours
the fading bruise
on her flesh
a mixture of yellow

and brown
and blue
but you said nothing
besides you thought

if her old man
beats her
what the hell
can I do?
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON AND PARENTAL ABUSE
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
I lie awake contemplating,
an insomniac stricken with
the explorer's mind
that wanders in search for exciting possibility;
the revolutionary heart
that fights for an unknown positive change;
an ignorant soul
that believes that all is possible;
and a weak man's body
that takes the punishment.
The power is out,
the heating is turned off
as a dimming flashlight flickers
like the light of a flame,
but such shimmers onto
white, blank walls
provide the backdrop
of cerebral cinemas
playing blurry features
of painful pasts
where lessons are learned;
of the struggling present
where limits are tested...
I lie awake, contemplating,
a stomach empty, rumbling
because of forced financial responsibility,
a body aching from mandatory life labor,
silence from those I seek
for help, for comfort, for a voice
to aid these ears that
no longer can simply hear silence
but instead the loud shouts
of a conscious trying to persuade
a feeble mind into conformity
using what the eyes see,
what patterns the memory recognizes
as refutable evidence.
Would it not be so easy
to live the life of a normal man
or live the life of a normal woman,
carefree, to enjoy the youth
in ecstasy, without care
of the future?
Would it not be easy
to instead spread out
each M&M; to small hands
around and instead
empty each piece into my mouth?
And if I were to see a woman
crying on the bench,
would I choose to sit and sew
the torn fragilities of human vulnerability
to risk punctuality...
Would it not be easy?
To live life to oneself
to one's own need
to one's own desires
without care of the future...
But during these cinemas
on my dark bedroom wall,
I see poverty within the past,
I see pain through the present,
and because of that I fear the future
that maybe the precious time
spent on these late night contemplations
will amount to nothing,
that in time the mind withers
and ultimately dies
blank as it began.


Yet I wonder, to act on impulse
leads many to mimic
society that surrounds
the observant eye
who has a mind, but is afraid...
Am I a man who is different?
Or am I a man who is the same?
Or is it that in this finite spectrum
of infinite possibility of these
two questions: I stand in the center
unable to place a point
and remain stationary?


I lie awake contemplating
of personal practicality
that if these thoughts will impact
any eyes, ears, or minds
as separate as they can be.
I hope that in time,
these thoughts will be refined
after being confined
and eventually redefined.
Maybe then these poems will make sense,
or that any of these arrangements
of words taken straight from thought
will translate to normal English
for it is not the curve of a "y"
that should matter in the marking
of a name, but instead the name itself.


As the films end
in memories' credits
where people are listed anonymously,
the flashlight flickers,
the stomach growls,
the body weary,
and the mind drifting
but the eyes wide open;
with few thoughts
left in the darkness,
a paintbrush childishly
draws an insomniac
who contemplates his past,
who recognizes his present,
and who is afraid of his future
but faces it even as
the flashlight dies.
Llahi Fuego Oct 2012
Tonight is something different.
Not the cinemas, not the bars, not the restaurants.
Tonight we chose to lie on the front deck of my dad’s catamaran,
In total silence.
Just gazing at the sky above.
Your head rested on my chest,
My fingers twirling and digging in your hair
As if there was something I was searching for.
Above us, the silver moon stands out in brilliant splendor,
And perfect contrast with the deep, dark, night sky.

I twist my head slightly
                           And look over to the shore
Where I spot tiny silhouettes of little children playing on the beach,
Kicking a ball and running and dancing about full of energy.
Their distant playful shouts and screams are carried across to us
By a pleasant gust of wind that brushes past,
Whoosh!
And the boat dances in the waves.
A slow, rocking motion.
As we lay
In silence.
ThisIsMe May 2014
It’s in the night,
when light recedes to leave me with my thoughts
and the darkness encompasses every crevice of my room and of my mind,
that the person I am is most illuminated.
In those long hours
that stretch with lack of sleep
my thoughts are as clear as a cloudless blue sky.

On good nights, there'll be thoughts of my future, of my hopes and my dreams.
On good nights my imagination will soar to heights beyond the sky
for on good nights not even the sky is the limit.
But good nights are rare and most nights,
the darkness seeps into my thoughts
with the past.
with each and every imperfection that owns me.
All my weaknesses and fears
are painted on a black canvas
portraying the things I’m so afraid the world will see.
my cowardess,
loneliness,
hopelessness.
my fears of betrayal
of feeling too much,
caring too much,
loving too much…yet not enough.

Like tendrils of smoke
the thoughts linger on one fear then float away
only to be replaced by another.
As my eyelids become cinemas of the past,
images of innocence lost flash behind my eyelids
Almost as if they’re stuck on repeat

Sometimes, I embrace those nights
As if they were an old friend.
I wonder if that makes me masochistic but
Truth is those nights,
difficult though they may be,
are the times I’m most honest with myself.
KV Srikanth May 2021
Dr No the first entry
Showcased the talent of Sean Connery
Brilliant score by John Barry
Ursula Andress the first Bond Girl
Set the standards for those who coveted the role
Joseph Wiseman the title character
A legend from the New York theater
Unforgettable introduction scene at the casino
The title score would become the theme music
Never dated even today pure magic
Dr No recieved a yes from the audience

From Russia with love
People went to the cinemas like droves
Great villain in Robert Shaw
Remains one of the best performances in the series so far
Daniela Bianchi runner up in the Miss Universe contest
Followed Ursula in here hp footsteps and stood the test
Train journey from Istanbul to Belgrade
Remains in your memory forever
Title song by Matt Munroe
Melodious and fills your heart to the Core

Goldfinger the franchise became better
Gert Forbe a German actor
Portrayed the title character
Buying Gold and Destroying the world
Twin objectives planned by having Fort Knox bombed
Sean Connery drives the Aston Martin DB 5
Revolving number plates
And ejector seat designed
Honor Blackman as ** Galore
Glamour delivered more
Pilot in Goldfinger's fleet
Unaware of his sinister deeds
Joins forces with Connery
Everything ends happily
Title song by Shirley Bassy singing to the tunes of John Barry

Thunderball beat them all
In box office ticket sale
The gun barrel sequence
For the first time
Performed by Sean Connery himself
Loss of two nuclear warheads
Masterminded by Blofeld
Claudine Auger as Domino
More than just a cameo
Scenes shot underwater Technology testing new waters
Filmed in Nassau
Amongst other stunning locales
Sean Connery is Vintage
Adolfo Celi
Tested to replace Connery
Cast as Emile Largo
Gave the role a go


You only live twice
Heard it in Nancy Sinatras voice
Set in the far east
Found villains in the Japanese
Sean Connery thought this would suffice
Wanted to give up tole after five
Top actress of Japanese cinemas golden age
Akiko Wakabayashi
Got the chance to play
The role of the Bond Girl
A rare choice in Roald Dahl
As writer for this adventure
Cold war theme with Donald Pleasance playing Blofeld
Superpowers missiles gone missing
With both sides blaming
And Sean Connery saving

Diamonds are Forever
Brought back Sean Connery after a near disaster
Unheard of salary paid
To the Scottish National party donated
Jill St John joined hands
The thriller filmed in Vegas
Blofeld killed by Bond
Resurfaces after the misleading con
Diamonds smuggled
Not resurfaced
Found by Bond a plot
Involving Blofeld and weapon in space
Shirley Bassey renders the song With an original score by John Barry
Sean Connery final official outing as James Bond
A great swan song
Zulu Samperfas Mar 2013
I got the flu in mid January and it's nearly Spring and still I cough
but I decided to force myself to go out
and get on Bart and go to Berkeley
and I saw things
stared at an ad for "American Idol" on the platform
for an unseemly amount of time trying to figure out which
human representation had been more photo-shopped
Fascinated, coming out into another land other than work home bed

Standing on the Bart platform, with no evil smells like the New York City subway and a breeze
and a polite voice telling me when the train would come
And at the next station an ad for the Jewish Museum and a young Ethiopian Jewish man
has an exhibit there and I felt good, that yes, there is such awfulness in Israel
but even there, like here, some can rise

And then Berkeley and my favorite cafe,
and it so reminds me of Columbia University, only cleaner
but it doesn't hurt about my X anymore
but it reminded me of my cat who was dieing in July and
he didn't want me near him too much because
dieing things like small spaces and not too much attention
so I left him in the closet curled up as cancer worked it's inevitable devastation

And I was coughing and tired, an invalid at the end of the day
but I made it to the Shattuck Cinemas to watch "Lincoln" and they have
a bar, and couches in the theater and you can take drink in if you're over 21
and that was our idea, in my days as a theater manager, we'd
talk about ways to bring more people in and we suggested couches and alcohol
and our manager laughed and thought we were crazy
but here is crazy and people walk in and love it
I sat in the back and took up a whole two seat couch selfishly and
listened to people come in and say how nice it was

Today I was an invalid again and could hardly get up
but the memory, it was worth it
I am slightly more alive again

— The End —