Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
Tasmanian Tiger, Tasmanian Wolf,
A crepuscular hunting nocturnal beast,
Carnivore by nature, feasted upon wallaby,wombats and roos,
Caught by female of the species,
Was he a feline or a lupine beast, hyena perhaps,
No, this strange creature now probably extinct was marsupial with pouch,
Female with pouch to grow her young, male had pouch of his own,
Protected his crown jewels within a scrotal pouch,
Appearance of a stripy dog,
Looked rather like a tiger,
Had amber eyes filled with fire,
This diamorphic beast, (Means the chap was larger)
Had four toes on hind feet and rigid tail of kangaroo,
It's gait was rather odd,
Could move like kangaroo, if it so desired,
Strange call, a guttural sound, alerted his family when he was abound,
Shy secretive little creature,
Kept himself locked out of sight,
For in the late 188os, early 1900s these creatures had a bounty on their heads,
The bounty hunters had such fun, left our world with nearly none,
Last beast in the wild as noted,shot by gun by Mr Batty,
1936 the last captive creature died in Hobart Zoo,
Reported name was Benjamin,
Book called The Djin-jum Man, said man, Batty man maybe, was cursed for killing the last of their kin,
Poor things,
Living legacy remains,
On Tasmania's coat of arms, two of these fine beasts support the islands emblem,
Probably gone but never overlooked,
Still being sought but never found!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This was really difficult, hope its quite accurate!

I continue to be amused &
Captivated by Gabriel García Márquez,
His Love in the Time of Cholera,
Captivating me still.
His simple use of the name
“Bolívar,” por ejemplo.
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There is something uniquely Latin
About life in Latin America,
Once again, stating the obvious
For all the media-slain retards
Hovering around me.
Their never-ending enthrallment
With Strong Men,
Particularly when strength is
A measure of one’s honor,
Hizzoner,
Your honor,
To wit: Honor Killings.
In practice, a sober demonstration
Of the theory as it is practiced.
Americans—with swarthy exceptions—
Do unfavorably view most of us who
Can trace our ancestry to Southern Europe.
“Southern European,”
Itself a vicious racial slur,
And remains so north of Eboli,
No surprise that Christ stopped there,
According to Carlo Levi, writing off the
Il Mezzogiorno, beyond redemption.
Southern European:
Smug words you make them eat,
Throwing Greco-Roman Civilization
Up into their faces.
Athens & Rome--
Epitomes of culture and class--
Patricians, of course, yet
Skifoso bragging rights for all those
***** scratched plebeians of the mob.
But I digress.

Strongman Latino-Americano.
Some Bolívar, some José Martí.
Why not some Fidel?
¿Por Que No?
Tu compadre, Gabo--
Tu Generalissimo Cubano.
How could you miss, Gabo?
Castro lobbying for you, twisting the
Surreal & squirrely qualms
Of Nobel Prize Nabobs.
(SAS: Flights to Sweden, Norway and Denmark - Scandinavian Airlines www.flysas.com/en/us/‎ Welcome to the official SAS US website. Find the best flight bargains from the . . .)
You owe that bearded strong man, Gabo.
Fidel Castro: Maximum Leader to be sure--
Like Omar Torrijos & Noriega--
Panamanian Reds,
Tasmanian Devils!
And Sonny Barger –
Dubbed Maximum Leader,
By Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels:
(The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs RetroBites: Hunter S. Thompson & Hell's Angels (1967) - YouTube ► 6:21► 6:21 www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccyu44rsaZo‎ Jul 7, 2010 - Uploaded by CBCtv Hunter S.Thompson defends his book against an irate Hell's Angels biker.)
Come Perón, come Hugo Chávez.
But, Hark-a-lark,
Let’s wait a sec
Lest we forget
Cristina Fernández de Kirchner,
One tough, Argentine *****,
Illustrating again for all men
The root of all machismo:
La Mujer!
The ***** that bore him;
Nurtured & nursed him.
****** & ****** him.
La Mujer!
(La mujer sin cabeza (2008) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/ tt1221141/‎ Rating: 6.4/10 - ‎1,815 votes Directed by Lucrecia Martel. With María Onetto, Claudia Cantero, César Bordón, Daniel Genoud. After running into something with her car, Vero experiences a... I get 7 cents for each link, each hit, making poetry pay for once, the savvy poet, a marketer finally figuring out how to avoid death in the gutter, a death penniless, diseased, babbling and insane.)
Yes, the woman,
The woman, who loved him,
That widow who buried him.
The woman—at any particular
Time of life, in his life—
The woman who just happened to be there;
Was just hanging around
During that brief, emphatic,
Conversation lull.
Genesis got it wrong:
Adam was a stiff rib of Eve,
Made from sterner stuff,
A creation conceived in torture,
Reared in disequilibrium.

Women create the men they touch.
Strong women.

Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.

The man who used to "**** his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.

The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more —
We're all Australians now!

Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,

Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!

The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.

The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.

With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.

Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.

And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle-bough
To symbolise our unity —
We're all Australians now.

I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through gods mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitos don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious god. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.

God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of me lot drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I see you in front of me. I think of that a lot.

Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.

December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.

She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first."  She wants to make blood soup out of you. She'll tell you to quit whining as she wrings your crooked spine. She wants all survivor, no guilt.

Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mobs a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.

We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?

Loony Tunes

Bugs Bunny is my favorite rabbit,
watching him became my habit.
He was smart, funny and two steps ahead,
his popularity was very widespread.
His best friend was Daffy Duck,
he never did have the same luck.
Rabbit season, duck season,
rabbit season, duck season,
watching them, I needed no reason.
Speedy Gonzales was so very quick,
this fast mouse was also a *****.
Owned his own pizza place,
won a gold metal, at the local rat race.
Yosemite Sam was a short tempered man,
killing Bugs and Daffy was always his plan.
He's a liar, a cheat and a sore loser,
maybe he should have been a drug user.
Tasmanian Devil was a tornado of destruction,
he never needed any kind of introduction.
Foghorn Leghorn never saw a negative situation,
I say, I say boy was his favorite quotation.
Pepe Le Pew was a French skunk,
women loved his smelly *****.
Marvin The Martian was from Mars,
his laser gun would leave you with scars.
Tweety was an antagonizing canary,
lived with Granny, and flew like a crafty fairy.
Sylvester was Granny's pet cat,
him and Tweety always went *** for tat.
Road Runner was so very fast,
said beep beep as Wile E Coyote he passed.
Never fell for those Acme supplies,
getting blown up was his ultimate demise.
Porky Pig was just happy to be included,
the, the that's all folks, is how this will be concluded.

She came in like a lion. Long wild hair everywhere, loud and outlandish. She was outspoken and shameless, so settled in her own skin.  You couldn’t not see her, not hear her, not want a part of her to be inside of you. Vibrant and never ending. There were memories jam packed behind her eyes, things you knew that she was dying to forget. But she was stronger for them, better for them. She grew from every tragedy. If you were lucky she might whisper them to you alone in the safety of darkness, but in the light of day she would never show weakness. No, she was all over the room, opinions, and laughter, hand motions and impressions, spinning like the Tasmanian Devil of Human Emotion. Everywhere, and spreading like wildfire. There was no stopping her, no controlling the wildcat inside of her. She came in like a lion. She roared and everyone listened.

I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through God's mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitoes don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious God. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.

God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of ocean state job lot drinks a lot, I'm waiting for my mom and nothing in the world's more scary than waiting for what you call protection. The man drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. I knew a guy who smoked ***, quit because he used to do it a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I think of that a lot.

Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.

December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.

She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first."  She wants to make blood soup out of you, she'll make it so you have a chipped spine, tell you to quit whining. She wants all survivor, no guilt.

Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mob's a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.

We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?

Ink drying
as my well self
realizes how much
I mean this
  need this -

the weaving,
                  the bleeding;

                                     the needing
            dampening future happiness
         each step tripped backwards;

    like the sounds you hear
                               or feel
                  when there's only silence,
                             or truth
                               to settle in
                             with the mush
                                    or pile
                                       or illusion,
                                          dream
                                        of something that
                                            came too soon -

  things I don't need
  anymore;

            My tear jerking
                            Prince,
            reaching, mmm,
                      a push too far
          
          without reason
             or real love
              enough to
             set me free -

   release me
     from these dark clouds
      of your little,
           play-dream;
  
          plucked your last pedal;

   tasmanian devil
    fiddling with my grace;

    How cruel have I been
                     in your deepness?

    I want you, baby,
                 but I need you not

             to keep this steady pace;

     deeperdeeperdeeper
        in not being afraid
         to sleep in this empty house
             we built together -
                 but dare I
               pull myself out?

                                               God be with you, too.
          
                                   Cold and dry.

If you do come to Australia
don't think just of the kangaroo--also the dugong
the koala, the platypus, the wombat and the Tasmanian Devil
and learn to sing Waltzing Matilda the nation's most-loved song

far superior to  Advance Australia Fair (believe me)
our uninspiring national anthem (most Aussies would agree)
and the lyrics were so badly
written-- no wonder Aussies could never sing the song properly

Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.

The Tasmanian tiger

The last one died in captivity in 1936
and that was a sad moment for humanity,
added to the list of animals we have eliminated over the years.
The Tasmanian tiger was easy to ****. It didn´t know
how cruel we are.
There have been sightings of it by gullible people, but it is an illusion
based on regrets and unspoken longings.
I, also hope, it exists somewhere, but it is a dream,
yet I have seen the animal in clouds formation in the sky
forever condemning us for what we did.

At 4am you are as alone
as the last Tasmanian Tiger.
You are a bundle of screaming nerves
with no skin to protect them.
Absolutely nothing matters:
not women, not friends
not ***, not money, not poverty,
not friends, not lovers,
not the future, not the past,
nothing at all. All that exists
is the terrible freedom
of the insignificant
blob of protoplasm that you are.
You know in your soul
that there is a strong possibility
that nothing means anything.
So you go back to bed
and anticipate remembering
nothing of this in the morning.
The bliss of unknowing
is your only hope
in a world of hurt.
Try it. Perhaps it will work.
It never stays 4am forever.

You tell me about the bruise you got today
How even though you carefully avoided him
His pleading words started nipping at your toes
Like a new puppy
At first it sounds like a good idea but once you take that little bundle of joy  home it will turn into the Tasmanian devil and destroys everything in its path
But you wouldn't know
On the outside you love dogs
But deep down inside you're afraid
You've told me
The tears swimming in your eyes
Threatening at any second to defy you

You are not perfect
We are all made of deformities
Of awkward angles
Puzzle pieces
So that one day we can find our match

Love is a battlefield
Full of scars and bruises
The blue turning into a deep purple before it can get better
It's so hard to not step on the land mines of emotion
The ***** traps of hatred
But you have a shield
A bullet proof vest that will block you from those fears
But it can only withstand so much

The bar-tailed godwit
caught birddom by surprise
When word got out
just how far this bird flies

A juvenile Limosa lapponica,
satellite tag 2-3-4-6-8-4
flew nonstop from Alaska
to the Tasmanian shore!
13,560 kilometers nonstop,
eleven days and nights
A new world record for
marathon bird flights

“From Alaska to Tasmania?
The devil, you say!”
cried ravens and crows,
“Every bird knows
Claiming to fly 8400 miles
To the Tasmanian isles—
is the height of audacity!
No bird has the capacity
We protest with pugnacity
Demanding veracity!”

The godwits conveyed
a very chill groove
They had, after all
nothing to prove
having set the prior
world records in ‘20 and ‘21
A controversy was brewing
Would their achievements
be undone?

A commission was appointed
for a bird’s-eye review
into the facts of the matter
the truth to pursue
Wise owls were chosen
to adjudicate this claim
To settle once and for all
who deserved the acclaim

First item considered
had scientific backing
Since satellite data
Allowed accurate tracking
Of the tagged young bird’s
ultramarathon flights
The facts indisputable
No need for bird fights,
ending investigation into
this migration gyration

Bar-tailed godwits awarded
the Oiseau de Plume
for being the farthest nonstop
flying bird in the room
The Arctic terns too
received acclamation
For flying the farthest
In their migration—pole to pole,
24,000 miles each year
causing most birds present to
stand up and cheer
in spontaneous applause—
But not all birds were willing
To concede their cause

Displaying proclivity
to resist the festivity
The crows and ravens
As they stormed out the door
vowed in unison, wings clenched,
“Nevermore!”





Mark Toney © 2022

Based on a true story with poetic license added for spice.

When was the last time you flew 8400 miles nonstop? A bar-tailed godwit flew nonstop over 8400 miles from Alaska to Tasmania from October 13 through 24, 2022, setting a new world record for nonstop bird flight.

Although we're warming the earth and poisoning our air and water...
We may be able to fix that.
Just because most people in the world today don't give a **** about anyone but themselves...
We may be able to fix that too.
I know it looks bad when animals are driven to extinction by the stupid things we do, and chopping down all our beautiful trees for money makes sense but...
We may be able to fix that, no problem
I say that because if you were to tell me two days ago that a controlling, insensitive, overbearing, egotistacal idot like me, who speaks before he thinks, and repeatedly throws the baby out with the bathwater, would be allowed to hold the love of his life in his arms again,
That he would be blessed with the opportunity to kiss her velvety lips, while running his trembling fingers through her wild Tasmanian locks, soothed by her gentle voice whispering soft, precious, I Love Yous into his ear - ever again... I would have pegged you for a bigger fool than I - but it happened - and now I know that...
Anything can happen.

Extinct
I saw a picture of the Tasmanian tiger
it was taken in 1936 and showed the last one on earth
I felt so sorry for the extinct animal
I was angry too here we go, white people to a place
that promises land we could not have where we came from
but what do we do eradicate animals that have lived
from time or long before human footprints.
Can you begin to image the loss when a living thing disappear
forever the burden of our guilt and now as the climate
of the world, chances are we will disappear to
Now I read a few animals might have survived which give
Hope to humankind. If they exist and not dream by dreamers
like me, one can only hope that men with guns will not
go hunting for a rear trophy

We all learned to make mistakes
But simultaneously hide from them
Block out learning opportunities with pride
Because we've idolized perfection
The plan was to grow
But instead we've engorged ourselves with
False bravado
I blame it on the pain
I mean how else do we cope
With so many hands on our throats
I CANT BREATHE
So introverted
to much energy drains me
How could you blame me
In a time where everything is so fast pace
Rapid
I had to wrap it at 14
Senior thought it was cute to ride me
I mean rob me of childish glow
I swear i didn't know how to say no
She said "This what I called u for
Don't make noise my father won't be to fond of you.
Just let it happen"
Toxic Masculinity told me I was the man
Couldn't understand my feelings until now
I'll never get it back
She took advantage
Probably why I desire control so much
We learn from our mistakes if we don't lock them away
But that little box in my mind been shaking for some time
Like it's something whil'in in it
Tasmanian memories
Tornados in my psyche
Don't give up
Cause there was a time when suicide
Would excite me
Thank God we couldnt afford prescription
I gotta learn from everything
Even ignorant experience
Like the time I said "******* ain't **** and I don't like black women" please forgive me I was going through some internalized ****
I work on loving myself everyday
Cause internalized hate will breed a monster
I called the suicide hotline twice last week
I swear I'm doing better I just needed to talk and I knew they would actually listen when I speak.

I had to write because the world told me I was too emotional
Wasn't strong enough
Close friends call me soft because I like to See the good in stuff
If we just let people be themselves, would that be to much?
We all makes mistakes
Why are we so scared to learn?
Pain is a shame
but
a reward you earn
My mental high way is always croweded from all the bridges I burned
I was just Tryna learn to stand on my own
Build my own thrown I didn't know telling people I didn't need them
Would make them throw shade at your shine
Rain on you cabana
I knew from how lonely our Christmas tree
Was
It wasn't no Santa....


My parents try to teach me to learn from their mistakes
But vicarious learning was never great
My hard head is what most hate
Listen if I could tell you anything in my short time on this earth
It's
Make mistakes and learn from them
That's how life works

The same outcome time and time again
What happened next was yet to be the trademark of these nights

It was all going swimmingly
No tears, the fears all washed away
No fresh broken veins rising to the surface of my mother's face
No stutters in the risk of turning happy times to grave

All was fabulous, darling

Then the taxi driver came
Prompt, on time, pulled up to the line
Got out the car, held our door, greeted us

We hopped in and he softened the sounds of his zithers and drums and CRASSSHHHH
like that..
Father Jack was back

The Tasmanian whirlwind of Dad
His vomiting of ignorant bile
The tarnished look of shame
The spit escaping his furious tongue
Our blushed red cheeks and the look of fear in the rear view mirror

The want to float, erase, rewind the time to drumsticks and toothpicks digging out smart price nuts from our teeth

To fly to a time when Dad was 5 and be there
Not just fob him off to nearest kids home
'John, she's pregnant again, fetch your clothes'
... and nurture him, tell him he was loved and teach him right from wrong

Those rear view eyes, counting down the time

We cleaned up the aftermath, disinfected the air with our apologies and curtseyed away whilst he licked his wounds

Next gig pencilled in, St Patrick's Day.