The cat didn't give a diddly squat,
she played her fiddle non-stop,
accompanied by her kitten's song
they yowled from dusk till dawn
and the townsfolk never slept!
The fat old cow could not jump
even if she tried (which, of course, she didn't),
she gave no milk, nor cream for butter
so down the road she was sent
to Old Moon's Butchery and Deli.
The little dog is not the laughing sort~
with no sleep and no warm milk
it's no wonder his mood is foul,
he bit the hand that tried to feed him
dried up bits of moldy bread.
The spoon then decided it was all to much,
what with the noise and loss of proper table-setting~
with rules of etiquette in a shambles,
she took her matching dish
and ran away to Once Upon A Time.
The moral of the story is never give a cat a fiddle!
Your hands are silent executioners, each finger a hungry guillotine,
Let them glide over me slowly, like penance flowing as a slow river,
Let them cut every last fragment of restraint that still binds us,
This is not seduction, but a butchery of desires hidden beneath the skin.
I want your breath to be a burning pyre in the deep night,
Your mouth to become a tombstone, a sign of eternal silences,
Your hips to be the event that extinguishes worlds and creates chaos.
When I unravel beneath you, let it be a cataclysm of the senses,
Not a silent confession, but an explosion of worlds shattering within us.
The things of which we cannot speak
Make us become we cannot say
The thing brought back from yesterday
That praised the strong and crushed the weak
That thing whose name we cannot name
That fathers fought to keep at bay
The thing we thought had gone away
Now clothes our parliament in shame
Klaus Barbie made their king of spies
Elon von Braun their rocket man
Never more true American
A new Gestapo in disguise
As Gaza’s child lies in the waste-
land made by AngloSaxon bombs
From Mariupol and from Homs
The empire script is cut and paste
Old England sees a child as bad
And Gazan children were the worst
For pious butchery they thirst
In sanctimonious garments clad
We stretch barbed wire around our hearts
We tar the untermensch with lies
O Ichabod! the prophet cries
From you the glory now departs
Cruel and inhuman songs they sang
Again the human turned cyborg
London is come to Nuremberg
And from her ropes shall rulers hang
fork has many interpretations
connotations
as do
eviscerate
slaughter
butchery
all can mean less than they
appear to be
context is important
but War
War is the foulest of foul words
a word that only the dead hear correctly
the living
choose from a lexicon of oaths
they may banter
or throw stones
but War
War kills every word
in the dictionary
even to the last
blood-soaked letter
Watching the protests grow larger and stronger
burying hope in the stench of a dumpster
Hearing speakers extol baby-burners
they themselves as unhinged as murderers
What has America come to when human butchery is praised
with social media as their church, on such values our youth is now raised
wholesale butchery
burnings beheadings slaughter
~ cheers slogans parades
During war folks don’t breathe with ease,
Kids don’t keep frolicking; they cease,
Haters of blood shed soldiers seize;
There’s caging in a once free breeze.
During war most men jittery,
Eyes on the doors of Eatery,
In hands spoons in mind butchery
Some granted favours Trickery
Easily seen Debauchery
Yet some actors for Bravery…
During war Hard Principles bend,
Murder and Rape some kind of trend
No new Robes; The old one you mend
One for oneself prefers to fend.
So shaking and wan we are
In frighten peace to pant
We breathe short-wind broil
Our nature have been polluted
Our food have been poisoned
Our blood have been daub to erect our soul
Aah! Gentiles have over taken our land
Tread on our blossom appetite
The hostiles bruise our flowers with harm hooves
Heal! Our land
Our nature have been dominated by lavas
Shedding red like meteors of trouble heaven
Sending many to a room of a person
Our acting the genesis of the hazards
Those arms moulded in naturefrom mother's womb
To chase these pagans from our holy land
From our ancestors of centuries castles
Heal! Our land
The boot is on the other foots
Who will lead us to get the bum's rush?
They are coupling in secrete
Who will stop the butchery display?
The beasts are shattering our efforts
They are breaking our lives for their taste
Uneven and unwelcome news from the sphere of the nation
All theme of our arts is hopeless
We share red and sad our daily
Heal! Our land
A blot on our landscape are increasing
I can only just imagine you and Sam
Whilst working close together on
the butchery counter at your local
supermarket
At the site of both of your 1st job's at
the tender age of just 17
1 day somehow however whilst
putting out the ham on display
Locked eye's and figured out she's
the 1 for me as he is the 1 for me
And then you became childhood
sweetheart's for thee foreseeable
As unfortunately and to your cost
you found out much later
He was in fact sadly a real lady-killer
in reality not merely just actually playing
the role of 1 as an act
Until the day you told him you were
pregnant with me and then he upped
and left the both of us behind
Well that all now makes perfect sense
to me
And I am so sorry for not only just for me
my mummy but for you as well
As he sounds like a lowdown dirty filthy pig
of a man
But thankfully I am lucky enough to be your
son and proudly call you my mother
As opposed to ever having to admit even
to myself
I am the Son of Sam himself
Bones remain, retain, and nourish
the under-croft, the terrain,
the meadow green.
Bones replant. They are meals for
the mouths of ghosts.
The dead feed the living,
and the living cut down the alive
to feed themselves.
The world must eat itself.
This is called husbandry and farming.
It is also called shopping and carrying,
killing, and butchery.
Those that eat only vegetables
also partake;
for the leaf and stalk
are seeded in the mellowing marrow
of a long planted bone-sown mire.
Often bones are dropped into the soil
as if the dirt were an ocean
and the land all that is or was left-over.
This is known as litter.
A grave is a half-way house,
Urns are waiting rooms.
Worms wheel the bon-rich earth
towards the sky for its blessing.
Osseous is the ancestry that seeds nations.
What follows bone and bone ash
becomes the crop, the tomorrow-cart
laden with its bone harvest.
Bone-flowers scent the air
from the empty canals of nowhere.
Bones scaffold wingspans,
they riddle citadels of stone.
Bones in tombs and catacombs
are pabulum for the larder.
A storage for generations.
Years have come, years have gone
Many have slept and others, borne.
But Calm and peace is yet to be seen
For the streets are red, and so it has been.
The countryside lies deserted
Barren of animals and people long, departed
From the guns of destruction and pain
That hitherto, has brought no gain.
The streets litter with bloody Bees
Who, in rage, burn down villages and trees,
And the bushes disclose armed lads
In their spheres of blood and rags.
Who bask in butchery and malice,
Their minds, free of peace and disgrace.
In confusion, my people are trapped in-between
In consternation, they are raped and beaten
Bullied and ransomed like sheep
Chased and driven from their keep.
Hope, out of the window has flown
Despair, like a mustard seed has grown
And while Grandma cries over her burnt wares,
People disappear, adding to our fears.
From dusk to dawn we endure
For things are not like before
We can only hope things may one day flourish
But, while the sun shines, my people perish.
© Temajung Michael T
She wails over the clasped corpse,
the sound ricocheting across the classroom
entwining with other morose voices,
baking the atmosphere in melancholy,
and immersing the cacophony of wails and squealing.
into shouts and screams of aghast lads and lasses.
Mothers, brought in haste by news of woe
and Witnessing Barbarity in first ordeal;
for such was the scene on that campus,
and astir was the town.
Rocking to and fro was the nation
With breathes, held in fright and trepidation.
The left wing said 'Nay".
The right wing said "Nay."
Speculations clashed on streets
as who could be this bloody
For the Kids in neutrality
now repose in butchery.
From the town, some took to their heels
just to alight back months later
and be mocked by same wordings:
"welcome to Kumba".
Hitherto, a mystery it remains,
but the pains still lingers
and all what remains
is the mounds of Earth,
that separates they, from us.
© Temajung Michael T.
Bones and their ash remain,
retain and nourish
the under-croft, the terrain.
The meadow green.
Bones replant.
The dead feed the living,
and the living cut down the living
to feed themselves.
The world must eat itself.
This is called husbandry and farming.
It is also called shopping and carrying,
killing, and butchery.
Those that eat only vegetables
also partake.
A grave is a half-way house,
Urns are waiting rooms.
The soil nurses bones,
worms wheel the earth towards the sky
for its blessing.
Osseous clouds seed nations.
What follows bone and bone ash
becomes the crop,
the tomorrow-cart laden
with its bone harvest.
Bone-flowers scent the air.
Bones underpin bridges and wingspans,
citadels of stone.
Bone dust scaffolds every stem and branch.
Bones in tombs and catacombs
are food for the larder.
A storage for generations.
Stars shed their elemental dust,
becoming bone fodder.
Bone ash is the genesis
of all unknown beginnings.
By the will of a shill
They deface the blood-filled memory
Marauders invade the capital city to the steps
Spoiling the roots of liberty tree by butchery
Strike the man who stands upon a mountain
Art of memory destroyed to satisfy mediocrity
“Let it burn” controlling hunger of a mob
A fitting placebo for the mentally maimed
Destruction remains of smoke and graffiti fire
Then the children ask in horror
Why a proud man died?
Demeaned like Santa Clause
They fall with grace withheld
Soon the young in strife will seek to vilify
Anyone those lacking leadership decry
Until no neutral Hun exists
Acceleration of the withering slain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cBayEcXsxc&feature=emb_logo
https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2021/01/07/pers-j07.html
Once, a very long time ago
You truly understood our woes
Your youthful energy burned bright
Promising to deliver us from limbo
Indeed, a welcome beacon in the dark
Maybe it was the lesser evil
For surely, the corrupt regime had to go
In crises like those, sacrifices had to be made
So we dutifully turned our backs
And let the blood flow
For a while, you were the ideal leader
Our dear and beloved liberator
The butchery forgotten, tranquility returned
Success for all was certain
The fruits of democracy as we know it
It was all too good to be true
Murmurs of discontent flared
Pertinent questions arose, zero answers came forth
The leader had lost sight of the noble goal
Democracy was a mere mirage
Injustice of all forms is meted out generously
Murder and gore freely roam the streets
Empty pockets stare at us mockingly
Tears stain our cheeks
We call to the government in vain
So here we stand once again
Swearing that the correct regime must go
More than ready to sacrifice
But the blood.Oh God!the blood
Let blood not flow...
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