We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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Machine WindWind tip-tapping againststeel pipesdesperate to attract attention, off desolate rooftops where there's no blue skiesbut the lingering pollution of yesterday's work. The wind infers longing, where they once worked, sweeping each corner in search of their presenceor past existence, a distance too farof just what happened and why now absent.Still tipping and raising the alarm, there must be someone there-a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope. no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
the center of the universewhen i die, the earth will remain unchanged.mountains will still soar above the plains, andthe moon will stay in control of the oceans,repeating its orbit around our planet.when i die, cities in africa will remain the same.buildings will not tumble to the ground, andthe citizens will go about their daily lives,repeating their orbit around the sun.
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
EmoSo what if I'm emo?So what if I cry?I'm not THAT emotional,I dont want to die.So what if I dress in a different style?There's no need to scream and run for a mileI dont like to cut and abuse my arm,I am not depressed,so why cause self harm?Could it be that I am just like you?That I can smile, giggle and laugh along too?Could it be that I am happy with myself?It's just that I am not some pretty doll on the shelf.Could it be that the only reason i dye my hair black;Is because I dont want to be some barbie in a bimbo girl pack.These are the reasons, and I'll tell you why,that I dont look in the mirror and start to cry.I know Im not perfect,I'm sure you will agreeBut I am so very positive,as positive as can beThat Im not like you,Oh dont make me laugh!I dont spend hours on my make-up's maskI'm totally self-confident,Ill smile for all to see.Because the great thing about being emo,Is that I am happy, with just being me.Dont be afraid of who you are.<
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgeslike the smoke from some great unseen inferno,the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to usin low groans,of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,and there was flickering light from a candle,and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspondin some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythmand I believed that part,and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey dayand that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythmsor any question a farmers son could ever mutter, and the wind slowed to a stillnessand the rain moved in and our voices gave wayto what my Father would call The Lords Music,the pitter-patter of wateron the dry and flaking earth.
NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect for hungry lions, than man's greedy fingers,she really, really doesn’t want to write this poem.As she forgets how to use words (on most days,)relying on curses like casting some witch's spell-with only ten dollars to her name.The oldest daughter:she’s still somewhere in the middle,filed under miscellaneousbecause they had no other way to categorize her.Getting her first gravestone at three-she prayed not to the gods,but to the lily stargazers in her palms.One day she would become a bird, fly south & never come back.She doesn’t want her deathlaid out like a fast-foodrestaurant menu-so, how does she begin to explainthe greenhouse cultivating in her breastbone?
Being A Good Person is a CHOICE!Now, imagine this situation for a moment:You are a good father, a wonderful husband.You go 'pray' every Sunday, doing a wonderful lip-service.You've taken your kids to soccer practice And you are ready to enjoy your Sunday.Tui bu qi, ni ke yi pang wo ma?You turn around and see an old Chinese lady.She can't speak English and needs assistance.You pretend you cannot hear her and drive away.Smooth-stuff dad, you should return that #1 mug...To me however, there would be no question.I was late to a part-time job, it would actually cost me money;And did I mention I can't speak Chinese either?Instead I communicated with gestures and signs.She wanted to go to the train station, as I later learned.With your car it would have taken five minutes.But we walked and that is also okay.To be honest, you might think you've done more good than evil.You might think there is a welcoming committee for you at the pearly gates.I regret to inform you however, that
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.