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rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy

we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.

Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock

They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems

We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.

We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.

There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government

We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.

And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.

We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?

I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor

The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.

I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Rob Cohen Jan 2021
i
From the streets of Dublin
the hordes re-Joyce
as Odysseus waxes lyrical
with colloquial finesse
    his golden tongue spitting fire
steamrolling the jargon wagon
on stairway rails from tube to paper.

Live stream of consciousness
flows from depths below
bellowing out of shadows
an intoxicating wave
breaking the surf on black peaks
of spiked stone keys typed in gonzo.

  ii
Aristotle stood firm
at the pulpit in his symposium
while his quill penned poetics
preaching the genius
of metaphor and metaphysics.

Embryonic parsel-tongue
waving a wand in wizardry
from ink fountains bursting on parchment
delivering the gift
of ribbon wrapped eloquence.

  iii
Unbuttoned rolling flow
in fluid monologue
skipping ropes of jazz speak
unedited
unfiltered rivers
where rough diamonds are crowned king.

Standing on one leg
inspecting the heart
the past fell
growing arachnid telescopes
and digging in every anatomical tract
to extract the distilled essence.

  iv
Musical motif
shining constellation of text tessellation

Lyrical relief
binding formation to flex evocation.

  v
Vineyard winding with jump cut scenes
fermenting fruit
ripe for the picking
inducing intoxication laced reading
    sliced and spliced
a chalice of spice
blinking
weaving
overflowing.

Godard's lens zooms
blooming in district cloud nine
rolling ***** of raw nervous energy
shaking from screen to belly.

  vi
Magician of allusion
pulling Shakespeare out of his hat
peeping from leaves of grass
and Walt's multitude of class.

Join the dots and fill in the blank
to a spectacle
for spectators wearing spectacles
who open their cans of interpretation
worming out and ransacking the sack.

  vii
Unchain the shackles of form
abandoning umbrellas
for free falling
s
n
o
w
f
l
a
k
e
s

  viii
From Greek theater's
staging Freud's favourite play
to a trek with a scarecrow,
a tin man and Dorothy's pet lion
  the hard to swallow
jagged little pill
pulls the wool over hollow eyes.

... the lowest form of wit
... the highest form of intelligence
- the wilde wit-king wrote
wearing a fab fur coat.

  ix
Jigsaw piece of the trivium
with five canons plugged into the auxesis
aimed at the poet
while unfolding inner turmoil
and cleaning out the cobwebs
in the closet of self.

The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself
Inspired by several of T. S. Eliot's essay's relating to Modernism & lectures by Duke University English Professor Victor Strandberg as well as Gregory Wolfe, writer in residence at Seattle Pacific University, and editor of the literary journal .
Yüreğimdeki sessizliği,
Boğarcasına susturmak,
Parsel parsel haksızlık,
Diz boyu sıradanlık,
Paylaşmak yerine;
Hesap sormak,
Fedakârlığa bu mudur vefa.?
Sende kalsın, benimdir cefa.
Ama bir seslenirsem,
Bir haykırırsam,
Ama bir esersem,
Şahlanırsam serserice,
Ne yapabilirsin ki ?
Hem de kime.?
Adalet istiyorsam bir parça,
Sadece kendime değil, herkese
Aman kimse duymasın,
Adalette yok, merhamette,
Zaten kimin neyine gerek.
Karın da doyurmuyor,
Bir parça ekmek;
Her şeye bedel.

Zor oyunu bozar derler,
Benim zorum kendimle,
Bir de yalaka insanlar,
Otur oturduğun yere;
Sen kimsin be adam,
Her şeye tamam, o kadar,
Kaderime razı olmuşum;
Bakalım nereye kadar..?
Her şeye tamam dersen senden iyisi yok…

— The End —