For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania.
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The Lobotomizer honed his dark art
with an apathetic heart and patience.
First, he earned a fancy Masters degree,
a quite secretive, hush-hush diploma
in psychological advertising.
Then, covertly sponsored by Henry Ford,
the Lobotomizer flew overseas
where he became good friends with the Nazis.
Mengele offered a substantial wing --
when it came to experimentation,
the Angel of Death was the reigning king.
After the Allied Forces came on strong,
the Lobotomizer slipped further East
to become a student of the Red Beast.
The iron-curtained, cold-war Frankenstein,
taught the Lobotomizer many tricks,
including high-frequency hypnotics,
how to travel through electrical lines,
and even surf the beams of satellites.
Yet his travels were not nearly complete,
since the Lobotomizer knows no bounds
with his insatiable appetite.
He crossed the borders of every nation,
gaining more insightful experience.
He passed through many laboratories,
leaving behind countless horror stories;
leaving behind legions of empty minds.
Finally, in the fall of Sixty-Nine,
the Lobotomizer returned back home
to his motherland of the brave and free,
to commence his lobotomizing spree.
By the hundreds, thousands, millions and more,
the Lobotomizer plied his ill trade,
beaming himself via optic fiber,
satellite dish, cable, and antenna,
right between the eyes of his audience,
until the nation's vast majority
was left drooling, dull-eyed, slack-jawed and blank.
Nowadays, nearly the entire globe
can feel his dark probe in the frontal lobe.
The blue light flickers off walls, day and night,
as most people have given up the fight,
allowing their minds to be bought.
The Lobotomizer is not finished,
for he continues to push his prison
towards the remaining wisps of free thought.
2014 Subliminal Remix, July 30th, 2014
(10 syllables per line --
The original version was written on February 22nd, 2012)
In the heart of the blackest abyss, down,
Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light
Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls,
Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive
Weight, of the oceans deepest depth.
This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the
Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen
In the icy currents of the barren straights.
Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the
Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts,
From long ago, living krakens whom devour
All life, hidden within their dark domain.
In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer,
To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance,
Gives birth to the perfect storms rage,
Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging
Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high,
For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must
Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings.
Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas,
To release the last of the ancient Leviathans.
Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men,
Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains,
To this devil of the depths cage.
From within interments vaulted keep,
Captivities living spawn from hell, is
Unshackled and released, to reek havocs
An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker,
Flexing and in-flexing, its body’s motions,
Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic
Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike,
With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple
At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with
All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach.
As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters
Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn
Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone
Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of
Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms
For it is the beast, the true essence of evil
Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of
On judgment hill from on high,
Voices do echo downwards, as the
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west,
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you,
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Along the mountain pine valley did the Iron Horse roar,
A steam belching black demon, burning red hot coals
Within it's steel belly.
Speed's hell bound creation, driven by greed's insatiable hunger,
Faster, faster it moves at acceleration rush, to
Achieve manifest destiny's final arrival on time.
In the distance hear another lone whistle blow, spitting,
And spewing with brimstone's gray smoke.
This indeed is the devil's train, carrying the forsaken,
To the depot of no return.
With a half empty payload aboard, Satan makes a deadly
Judgment call, stoke up those engines boys, ramming
Speed if you please.
Made man beasts are these mechanical monsters
Of destructions, lethal death weapons, chained
Down to the steel rails, and iron pikes.
Ebony stallion's racing against the winds,
As redden sparks sizzle and bite at the crisp autumn
Air, bellowing fumes poisoning the night.
The engineer of the 10; 15 out of Tombstone,
Checked his pocket watch, speaking impatiently,
He did so yell out, come along fellow's, we have a
Schedule to keep, and we've hours behind in our dead line,
So let’s pick up the pace.
Now the devil's train came out of know where,
With hell's supernatural master at the wheel,
Heckling, and laughing, relishing in the carnage’s
Utter calamity to come.
On a lone chewed up mangled piece of track,
Lies wreckages debris blood, flesh and twisted metal,
Lain stewned for miles beside the wild wilderness.
Broken bones, and sheared off limbs, weeping mother's
Cradling limp, lifeless bodies, crying why, God almighty
But the lord and heavenly father, had nothing to do,
With this unnatural disaster, nay the devil had many
Empty spaces to fill, and his passengers list was lean.
So he leveled the crimson ground with his dark gavel,
Taking souls at high velocities supernatural speed,
For this is the devil's ghost train, and it is so
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Marquees bright, and neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night
We're holding hands, we're in 'The Strand', red velvet carpets guide us in
Popcorn smokes, .. drinking cokes,... cracking jokes with Bing and Hope
Lamour's along, in her sarong,... With luscious lips, and cigarettes,
She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips
'Movietone' intrudes with news, which puts us in somber mood
Third-Reich goosesteps march again, ... an evil presence in the wind...
Cary Grant , (a news reporter), loves his girl, and his typewriter
"His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy. But Cary loves this ditzy lady....
William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,....
...an earring gold. The mystery is clearly solved.-- A crimson sun, is rising cold!
Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die
Another night, suspense on chart. 'Correspondent' , Joel McCrea.
Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day. BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way
Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp
Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked
It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here
Allied troops are moving tanks. I wait for you..God give me strength
I'm in the Strand, within the dark, there's no one here to hold my hand
I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio
For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Looked at the outside of steel window
Around in the dark, awesome feelings into the mid-night air
What the news was brought in the feelings!
Eyes of the orphan cat was flaming on the corridor.
Waiting for the light in the window
Dark vision comes down into my eyes by cycle-weariness
Down from one circle to another circle in time-blindness
Who stands here, the Islamic old man!
History of terrorism was carved on his burnt body
He wants to say something!
A white-complexioned Christian young man stands into the neighbor circle,
White-skinned history was printed on his blood-stained body
He wants to know something!
A dark-colored Hindu boy stands into the third circle,
History of third world is awakened on his envenomed body
He wants a little smile!
The old man, young man and boy are coming forward from the circles
Great distance... Near ...in front the room...
Who are you? No reply
They disappear into the tuberose equipped black and white photo of my father
Dad is smiling, I am senseless!
Tears are dropping from the eyes of our cat on the corridor.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
Current of tragedies broken
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
written on time’s page
with finite syllables of dust
he spelled my heritage
from earth to sky
along an umbilical line of faith
we fluttered from the lips of fingers
fully form for purpose
written on an invisible calculus
that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind
I have an argument
against the beginning begotten from a bang
before atom or element
I have an argument against force and natural laws
at work without mass or embodiment
for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
I have an argument
that the singularity could not become more than fragment
of energy again if a single atom explode
its forces flocking away from fusion
for energy fission to explode
flimsy as spiders web
dethroning my majesty gulped
in primeval slime unlinked history from love
minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering
the whip cracks louder than pain -
and on our black blistered backs … crumbling
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain
they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
for all our labors, lost, and grievance
what bang can buck the strain
and bring us broken souls to glory again?
Out of love foretold
secret raptures from the old
Illusions coves for their powerful voices
A place where our ancestors once walked
Where trees listening
and disperse seeds of hope
Creation marvelous portrait
About the harmony - it is said
that it can develop strong band
It is a reality that can
compare with the wildest imagination
Ancient villages built of marble and stone
Wind chimes a rhythm that beckons
Mystery melody that asks us to join
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Woke up to a new life in Egypt
I was young not more than seventeen years
Adorned with gold and precious stones
My body was in the shroud of silk and jewels in my hair
I sat on a throne as a Queen
My name was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile
During the day I lay on the silk cushions
and dozed in the shade of palm trees
Beautiful men and women kept flitting
around me with all sorts of temptations
Fed me all sorts of fruit and cold drinks
When evening came, it was time for romance
As Queen I had many to choose
My choice was of course:
"The greatest men of Rome"
Julius Caesar and Marcus Antonius
Why choose one when I can have two?
On a long journey down the Nile with
my love Julius Caesar, I was forced to
make a choice.
But a choice one must take...and the
choice was that I gave birth to a son
and Julius Caesar was the father
My love life was not popular
my husband was killed and I
was no longer popular
It was no longer a life of happiness and joy
No, it was war and national mouming
and I would not live anymore
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Many times the ocean
has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea,
an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see.
The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide.
The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil
or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones.
Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own
scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform.
With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born
with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested
tested by the hand of He,
tested and found worthy.
The children of the Divine Wind
rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected.
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading,
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Quarried, and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf.
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe
Giants again shall walk this earth in
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
On a pubescent class trip,
I became enamored with impossibility.
Vanishing verdigris yet cosseted
the L’Auberge de la Paix,* a work-in-progress .
Floorboards slowed gawky treads with furrows.
Ten feet above, death-row cherubs
surrendered frail wings, a plaster molting
advanced by workmen too eager for the plucking.
(The curse of romanticism
is to perceive the imperceptible.)
Home was a bungalow with suburb secrets,
while the hostel’s curving staircase
openly tattled on former hosts
and guests who had perfumed stale conversations
while carrying dance cards.
I could almost hear each half-note baluster —
treble clef handrail, so smooth —
orchestrating encounters by the front door,
Bonne nuit, mon amour.
Once, a Grande Maison owned by une l’artiste,
then, a hostel for students in the core of Quebec City,
the building charmed with its soft dishabille,
stripped layers of faded wallpaper, pooling;
the pong of fresh paint and sanded wood
hustled the dame into the times
with ever-going modernization.
Dorm rooms pouted.
I was not interested in tours
with corpses of cannon balls,
toy soldiers arranged on miniature plains of Abraham,
narrow streets echoing battle cries,
remnants of a lost sovereignty...
the war of 1759
those thousand phantom pleasantries,
dusty sofas, freedom halls,
air hockey and air guitar,
new parlour games.
Upstairs, bunk beds awaited roommates
and creaked somewhat like nagging history
Romance was a trompe l’oile,
a fading fleur de lys,
I can easily recall the coy throes
of noisy pipes, closet confessions,
giggling, blameless nights
when ghosts dusted every shifting wall,
altering even moonlight
* Written Aug 24, 2014
*The Peace Hostel, Quebec City
31 rue Couillard, Latin Quarter, Quebec City
Grande Maison – estate
Une l’artiste – an artist
Cocooned in orange plush, obscenely safe,
in false cinematic twilight,
light leaping out of nowhere,
dizzying the frozen yet titillated onlooker.
The popcorn-crunching crowd have eaten myth.
your seaweed ropes -
drowned umbilicals -
attach you to the seabed's vast placenta.
Your rusticles drape you like a sleeping shroud.
The knife-edge of your bow; the knife plunged into mud.
A spherical light fixture sprouts a sea pen,
snaky-fingered: a poignant Medusa.
A high-button shoe rests close by.
White ocean crockery, ghost porcelain -
appurtenances of a sunken pelagian people.
Your silt bed, more than two miles below,
private even now,
refuses to yield its virgin treasure still.
A valedictory message, torn from a pocket calendar,
forced into a cold clasping hand -
a desperate flutter of paper.
Strobe, a marine rapist, raking the ocean floor;
invasion of the depths below.
Your one-way virgin voyage, inescapable.
The night was a still pool of indigo.
The berg glided silently by,
lethal as a shark's fin, with terrible finality.
The pinprick stars - flowers of light -
averted their eyes respectfully.
Are you educated?
Have you injured heart?
Have you purified brain?
Do you believe in truth?
Are you alone?
Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic?
Are you a secular person?
Do you believe in democracy?
If your answers are YES...
You have poetic mind.
You are the reader of poetry.
You are the real minority in the world.
The earth is moving.
It is proved that new history is created by the minorities.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
In the dusty cobwebs of my inspirational mind,
I’ve written volumes of scripted details, pondered
Epic thoughts, and let mine imagination roam the
Fields of complete abandonment.
A wild child of freedom’s reckless spirit, I’m dived
Head first into the untamed wilderness of the human
Stratosphere, seeking beyond the unknown country
Of the mental unconscious mind, then free fallen into
The waves of insecurity, rescued by mine own self
Sustaining life preserver, called survival.
Line by line I’ve written into my life journal, leaving a
Legacy behind me worth preservation’s finest gilding,
Bound are these pages of mine existence with love,
Tenderness, and freshly cut rose petals, of remembrance.
Reflected in the cover of my life book, are the joyous
Faces of those whom loved me beyond words of
Expressions comprehension, without emotions tears
For they celebrate my life, not with sorrows regrets
But with prides respect and honor.
Through hell’s fire I’ve rambled and traveled, being
Tested by friend and foe alike, but I’ve lifted myself
Beyond the flames of reality, bathing within the warmth
Of a divine faith of loves power everlasting.
I’ve been given the spark of the eternal, it breathes
Within me, it drives my spiritual being, to over come
Ignorance, intolerance and ambience sloth of spirit.
At times I’ve been tempted to dance, against the flame
That flickers in the night, teasing me, taunting me,
To choose wrong or right, but mine feet stood stead
Fast, yielding only in my secret world of dreams escape.
Yes I’ve mused amongst the fantasy realm,
Flying, soaring into the abyss of illusions mirrors,
Clashing as a bird smacking at the glass of reality,
But I’ve awakened wiser, a soldier better prepared
For the battle known as life.
In this journal I bequeath all that is the best of myself,
To those for whom I’ve touched, and in memories moments
Of stilled realization that I’ve gone, dare let no tears blind
Thine vision let no words of sorrow spill from your trembling
Lips just do me the one last favor for which I ask of thee,
Simply look upwards, and smile.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Draped in silent fog, is a reservoir of dreams
weathering each season, with a mystifying scheme …
On a wind-swept shelf, she is silently sleeping
Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping
Looking out at the tide, where the seagulls are sweeping
In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld,
Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style
Names locked in history, many stories revealed
Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled
The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures,
Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare
Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes
Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide
Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead
Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken
Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead
From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid
There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade
A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry
I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye
Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by
Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells
Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells
Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes
A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies
Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides
For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject"
Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial,
This disconnected intellect of society in retrospect
Is nothing but a retro spectrum of colors.
Gold chains and disco lights,
Black, white, and grey faces, red Adidas stripes with no laces
Cardboard boxes unfolded on concrete streets
Where the founding fathers of modern culture would meet
And write our Constitution by moving their feet.
With a spectacular repertoire of flashy moves
And a deep reservoir of verbs that mingled with words in the mind’s river
That flowed from the banks of lips as the first freestyle
When style was really free.
Not compromised, chopped up, glamorized, marketed, processed, pasteurized
and then subliminally delivered as a shrink-wrapped, shiny medium of bad ideas.
Back when people actually had ideas,
Not just the regurgitation of pre-chewed vomit music.
The DJs cooked up beats in their basements
Just crack for the bass-heads
Denied treble ‘cause trouble was all they were faced with.
There was music laced with dope, and dope was good.
Darwinism of hip-hop.
You know what I mean?
Of course not ‘cause these young bucks would rather spend fifteen dollars on 50
Then spend fifty cents on a education.
Flagrant, our testimonial to a religion that’s pagan
We pray to money, pray to greed, pray to fame, pray to succeed
And denounce life when we pray that our bullet hits its target.
The Boogie Oogie became the Boogaloo
And the Electric Slide met the electric chair.
Time is money.
Money is life.
Life is a game.
I invest Monopoly money in the New World Clock Exchange
To collect interest in fate and become disinterested in buying my life back.
My soul is currency, currently spent on reverting from the current state.
Back to when sex was more taboo than a smile
Back to when freedom didn’t equal censorship
Back to when love for family didn’t negate the fact that times change.
Back to when the Big Hand spun backwards two seconds too late.
And minutes were miniscule and minute, hip-hop was rediculed
Not because it was demeaning, but because it represented Revolution.
An occurrence that has come and gone with the wind.
My name is Hip-Hop O’Hara and I am in love with Civility Wilkes.
Reverend Run preached gospel, now he rolls in his grave
If musical revelation is impossible, than who will be saved?
The essence in lyrics is kept underground in a cage.
Struggling to survive like illiterate slaves.
Reaching for freedom, which lies on the next page.
Free the music.
This is a decade that many wonderful things happened;
I was born, the reign of hard rock began,
Michael Jackson began to moonwalk, Cars became smoother
on the road, Cold War reigned, and also a time that soul music
massaged our souls and emotions.
This is a decade that never dies. People who were born
and lived in the 80s still live, the music still exists in hard-drives,
teenagers have immortalized the fashion sense, and
my yellowing birth certificate still lives on, with one piece.
My father's abeng blew up my mother's womb
And I was chained there
Nine months in darkness drinking blood
Longing for my resurrection from the tomb
Longing to break the chains
Holding me before my birth to a carnal earth
Longing to stop him pounding
Pounding on the door of my bereft eternity
I carrying the weight of him already
The weight of them against the gravity
Of my life. My wings folded
Longing wield sword edge of flight against the sun
I burdened to undo what already is done
Have no finality here.
Look at me like an eagle flying in the sun
Blood dripping from my talons when the flight is done
O let me cleanse the world again
In the red flood that alters pain.
One day I was born screaming for a cause
I could not take kindly to tradition
Slapping black and blue a baby's arse ... laws
Must have been broken to beat the innocent
Unless it is a crime to come into this earth
To carry so much legacy
From maroon history to Jesus Christ, blacklisted
Like my my forebears: Shaka
Father of my grandfather's mother,
My other grandfather, Accompong warrior
Slain between the stones of Holland Estate and Mountain
Bridging the way for fleeing slaves
I come Cudjo less, Nanny less, merciless
Carrying on the war of generations
Calling no more for repatriation but reparation
Of human rights, human dignity, and racial sovereignty
Where Africa may find again its concord
Without false treaty and flimsy accord
Raping the Congo of natural resources and life
I come, the bushing through guinea grass
Tumbling kingdoms with wisdom and knife.
For this I was born, beaten at birth
Given resurrection from the night of earth.
My father sought to be civilize
Recite poems of Britannia's might and lies
And I, I was singing with the night
Reading a long history of pain to make write
Of my own proclamations, to declare
I shall not bend my knees, nor walk in fear
Where death measure us in dust
And vampires and conquistadores lust
For El Dorado buried in my disgust.
I am a man, and I will make my monument of truth
Upon the gravestone of the brute.
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
With a squint of an eye my heart skips its beat
Beneath roots leaves and trees
Hides what Mother reclaimed
The relativity of wealth and poverty
Einstein’s formulations pale
In juxtaposition to universal carnage.
Obese pigs of a glam,
filled holes of cultural blacktop.
“Get your plump white asses off the necks
of the weak!”
“Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”
The cyclic nature of problem and solution;
“Ahhhhhh,” Eldritch Cleaver where are you?
“Thump, thump, thump,”
The arterial pulse of a puss infected
Raw, heedless, mercenary killers of diversity
It afflicts king and queen alike.
Brought to the castle
by the master of infildelity.
He moves smoothly from one to the other.
He swiftly takes them
as is his right, he believes.
Only to have his fill
from the fair maiden
to the sullied trollop.
He sees them all equally
in his adventures.
He spreads his curse
from one to the other.
It robs it's victims
of their eyes and senses.
Over the years, it slowly degrades
their intelligence and lives.
It can bring down the greatest Empires
if given enough time.
I am like
embraced by serpents many
always trying something new
and dramatic with my
I am like
growing up with a painful family
getting lost in movies
thinking of my own
hypnotizing when I speak
First lady of Argentina
meeting you, after death
would be a treat
a nervous habit, of nibbling
on my jewelry
the similarities, between us
gave me a sense of foolery
I am like
Chief of the Cherokee Tribe
for ten years
fighting against Native stereotypes
despite such distress
enemies did stress
promoting to ‘be of good mind’
you were a leader, of your time
an advocator for women
that they may grow up
and become chief
as a child, you wondered
the forests, like me
not the streets
I am like
Aung San Suu Kyi
wearing three types of
flowers in your hair
feeling at times like a
‘splinter of glass, sharp, glinting
power to defend itself against hands
that try to crush’
winner of a Nobel Peace Prize,
for courage, was
I am like
Catherine The Great
a love to laugh,
coffee, and feeling compelled
to always fill abandoned blank
sheets of paper
you were a Royal Russian Empress,with
not one red drop of Russian blood
and her people, were blessed
to have her
I am like
the Queen of England
longest royal lifetime in history
strong built, from a miserable childhood
this is no mystery
preferring candle light
handwriting over typewriter
I am like
dreaming to live as she did
riding elephants and having
tiger cubs as companions
your own Sikh security
killed you, the story
a sad one
secret dreams of being a writer
angered, by the imbalance of
between men and women
listening to beat poets
as a great Prime Minister of India
you were heard
I am like
drew the worlds attention to
native Indians rights,
because of you
your goal, to be
a drop of water on a rock
dripping in the same spot,
eventually in the world, you
may leave a mark
wearing many colors
‘because it gives you life’
insisting men and women be equals
you fought this fight
to relax, as I do
writing poetry into
I am like
Joan of Arc
French Military Heroine
burned at the stake at just
known for keeping your cool
even on the battlefield
being a courageous and inspirational
Legendary Lady Leaders
I salute you
Telepathic messages dancing in front of me
Energies left by thousands of freed souls
Their train stopped at Birkenau,Auschwitz
Sickening stench of burnt human flesh..
..lays heavy over the consentration camp
recognized even when the wind blew away from it
Like some new mountain range
They rise themself up from the ashes
Shaking the dust off..
The once deadly gaz has gone out
Cremation ashes has turned to cold leftovers
Nevertheless their spirits lives on
They`ll find their own way out
Out of the relentless Nazi camp
Into a world with pure freedom
No greed,hunger or merciless regimes
Nor any blasphemous,persecuting religions
All humans raised above hate and inequality
2 million humans met their fates in Birkenau,Auschwitz
6 000 per day..some days twice as many
From the ashes of Auschwitz..
..comes a cry for us to learn from history
November 30th 2012
In memory of those arrested and sent to the Nazi consentration camps 70 years ago.
November 26th 1942, 530 Men,Women and Children were chased onboard the German
ship "Donau",to meet their fate in Auschwitz,Birkenau.By the end of WWII a total of 759
Jews had been deported from Norway to Nazi concentration camps.Only 25 survived...
Singing praise of past lives
with the dreams of swastikas and rose-tinted spectacles
floating through my head.
One moment, a Polish Jew,
the next, an Aryan German -
dual reflections held in the iron gaze
of a predatory raptor and the sharp-angled, six-pointed star
perpetually spinning, reopening wounds
which the weeping Roses of Sharon cannot heal.
I held you in my youthful arms,
serpents rising from the secret codes of my loins,
and I worshipped you as an old, universal lover
as I penetrated your dark womb;
a sanctified temple of Angels and Daemons.
Initially we prayed to the inverted graves
sliding through oil-slicked skies,
so young of heart and mind we were.
Our love was purified in the hellish Axis-kiln
paralleling the flames flickering against our skin.
The vessel of our love shone like glass,
cooling off to less dangerous levels
in the forgiving breeze of empathy
(aside from the fact that when I watched you move,
the world stood still for me).
And then we wiped away the green grins from the glass.
We became one pulse,
the Jew and a Nazi
teaching each other how one should not pray to 'him' alone,
for both phallic powers are needed
to light the spark of creation:
"Our Father AND Mother who art in Heaven(after),
hallowed be both thy names."
Male and female energies
breathing life into each other,
like slightly distorted transvestite, Siamese twins.
We wanted to stay in our fleshly pleasures,
but our minds spread wings.
ascending smoothly within turbulence,
we transformed into golden light,
moving invisible objects with our thoughts,
removing shackles, opening secret locks,
figuring out who was who --
who were the real Jews, and who were the true Nazis,
who were the Angels and who were the Daemons....
....who were Daemons and who were Angels.
~2012 New Berlin Remix~
Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the wicked Beast in the East,
seeds hidden in the cuff links
returning home for the victory parade.
The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage, as desert sand blows
through the desolate streets of Basra,
spray painted slogans of 'Aryan Nation'
scrawled across crumbling walls.
High level Terror-alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
of commercial-class passengers
flying high above barbed-wire compounds:
camps of cells in solitary confinement,
centralized secret service agents
unload the next set of trains.
"Son, do you forget all that we sacrificed?!
Have you lost all of your respect?
Okay, so maybe the Feds
became brainwashed by the Reds,
but this is for our freedom and safety.
This isn't about racial impurity,
but our Nationalist Socialist security!"
"You are all mixed now anyway,
doesn't matter if you are female, black, jew or gay,
we must unite together as a nation,
proudly wave our flags, fight our common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the very fabric of our free society!"
"Son, why can't you just see?!"
"Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi
I wake-up from a horrible nightmare,
remnants of images floating through my head.
Something about flocks of carnivorous sheep,
and rabid wolves for shepherds?
Jumping out of bed,
I quickly look in the mirror
just to make sure.
Everything looks as it should.
Lawnmower growls in the background,
sunshine leaks into the room
adding a warm touch to reality.
Through my bedroom window,
I spy the neighbour's Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the east.
Everything appears normal,
here, on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.