Long Regressive Poems
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His hand reached out to mine, open,
Holding it, I smiled, our eyes danced with understanding,
Form and blush outlined his expectations,
But I could see that there may be fear inside.
Mary restated their predicament,
That the child was born out with the marriage bond,
And that people were swaying to the opposite side,
And course dialogue, laughter and spitting were norm.
So I asked the two for their thoughts and predictions,
About the child, if he perhaps could be like, special?
And they specified that he would cure, heal and exorcise,
And also promised that they’d talk to him about the poor.
Could this baby be the messiah?
I pondered and hoped in their certainty;
Was this the predicted son of god?
He would be free from aggressive victimisation,
If we could just name him as god's son.
So I suggested to his parents,
That if the wise men came with a quest,
To accept the name Jesus Christ,
And certify the census, no less.
Freedom for some is in lying,
When there’s no possible alternatives,
But I believe Joseph never lied,
In the population census of Bethlehem,
That just so happened to pass by.
The child would have been suppressed by all,
Assumed to be dirty and unclean,
Not for chat or dialogue,
And certainly not for work in a trade of his call,
Or for work in any trade for that matter.
Nothing would ever have been done,
The poor would never have been healed,
Or not so quickly for sure in history;
The government would not have been rifled,
And Christ would not have come.
Treating the poor for health problems,
Would have come through government legislation,
A long time after Christ,
In an austere, aloof manner.
People to people relationships,
Would not have been respected,
If care had been awarded top-down,
By bureaucrats and officials:
As supervisors of the protected.
Society at that time was narrow minded,
Stuck in traditional religion;
There were outcasts, sinners, infectious people,
And assumptions were remedial and red:
There were no special people,
No exceptions to the rule,
Only one place for the messiah confided.
One baby matters to me,
A life should be saved at any cost and risk,
Because the abilities you show when young,
Shouldn’t be muffled or labeled regressive,
But nurtured in acceptance and love.
The regressive Supreme Court decision
hustled, proclaimed, and voiced
June 24th, 2022
immediately quashing pro choice option,
struck down constitutional right
(upheld for half a century -
formerly allowing, enabling and providing
the muliebrous population
access to secure and safe abortion)
and sent a chill into the air.
A woman of childbearing age
within the United States trade
risk seeking abortion if she
unwittingly finds herself pregnant
resorting to desperate measures
sans mortality written
courtesy blood and gore costly paid
for ownership of body electric
autonomy usurped to choose abortion,
especially females representing
low income statistic,
whose chaotic, frantic, hectic..., existence
quite unlike bucolic, idyllic, poetic
lifestyle exemplified, exhibited, and exuded
by Thomas Kinkade
impossible (aery) mission
to buzzfeed another mouth
hence unlucky gal
now faces criminal charges,
whereat strong arm of the law
one lass unable to evade.
Despite being an older
long haired pencil necked geek male,
(a genetic product
of the baby boomer generation)
albeit one dazed and confused man,
whose body resembles
a miniature lead zeppelin
I a baby boomer guy
always inclined toward
remaining aforementioned gender,
nevertheless can empathise
with red hot poker anger
fecund women most likely experience,
when in the heat of passion
birth control measures vehemently
even non verbally overruled,
when an aggressive partner
thwarts such rational precautions
exerting patriarchal domination
loosing abundant seminal fluid
with deliberate intent to impregnate.
Many instances abound,
(since time immemorial)
whereby linkedin couples
ardently, fervently, maddeningly
strive to beget offspring
and thus shuck off
the application regarding
accessing, kickstarting, wielding
invocation of divine spirit,
thus their sexual relations
forfeit applying prophylactics,
oftimes feeling down and out
when biological fertilization
breeds despair, grief, mourning...
yet no sooner does adoption
appear as the last best hope
the maternal hormonal gonadal
secretion agency, propensity, viscosity....
and quirky unpredictability,
where unsuspecting latent virility
to procreate ironically occurs.
~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!
And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying gigolos
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub
I am drunk-- in his eye,
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness
Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name
Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say
"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"
by: PD
It is disgusting that 734 people died at Mecca,
Last Thursday, when so many lives were lost,
Needlessly, for want of crowd control officials,
To restrain the 1.4 million who’s emotions cost.
Religion is never an objective thing,
It's extremely emotional, out with rational thought;
And the ritual that the pilgrims were approaching,
Was, in my opinion, religion’s most irrational shot.
It was the Stoning of the Devil ritual,
Which celebrates Abraham’s obedience to god,
Who told him to kill his son and ignore all conscience,
Rather than listening to Satan, who seemed to have the nod.
This sacrificial story sickens me to my stomach,
Always did, always will, still does:
That you should reason by faith any action,
That's it's valid, whether moral, immoral, or even just a shove.
Killing your own child just for a voice in your head,
Which says he’s love’s superior, consummation,
Is insane, wrong, and really quite mentally ill,
And certainly should not be taught in admiration.
As a child it was one of my main objections,
To faith, the liturgy, the Bible and god,
Who today should be represented by elders or imams,
Who should contrive to keep within morality’s rod.
When you’re at Mecca, the epitome of your faith,
Approaching the most irrational ritual in your life,
Your emotions are bound to get the better of you,
Such that regressive behaviour will be your strife.
Iran blamed the Saudi authorities,
For having no safety mechanisms in place;
Fundamentalism should come under, like all else,
Crowd regulation laws and standards which grace.
Even the Billy Graham stadium events,
Used ushers and councellors to ensure,
That people were behaving considerately:
They were ready to attend to and direct the pure.
I would like all fundamentalism to be regulated,
Supervised by a human-centred body,
Such that god coincides with morality,
Giving seekers their lofty and loving somebody.
27/9/2015
Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac is in Genesis 22:1-19.
At school I excelled at maths,
And English I found very hard;
Essays and interpretations floored me,
Although at poetry I was a bard.
But I managed a B in my O Grade,
Under the old teacher who was past it,
But was relieved when she fled and left,
Overjoyed when a young graduate started.
Throughout the school holidays with vocality,
I swore I’d been fine with the new teacher,
But my parents insisted that I have a tutor,
For Higher English, for university to enter.
I was very angry ‘cos I knew I’d get in,
With my other grades, two A’s and maybe a B,
So if I even got a C for 5th year English,
That wasn’t gonna upset or bother me.
But they just didn’t understand socialism,
That state schools were just as good,
And continued to deride my special school,
Which had school care very much under the hood.
So John from Edinburgh Academy came along,
Every Thursday to tutor me at Higher English,
But my biggest issue was that he attended,
My parents church and possessed an evangelical blush.
I really wanted to discuss the romantic poets,
The course novel and my essay interests and topics,
With a normal person who was not north on society,
Who would nurture me without any Christianity antics.
He had an axe to my neck about John Keats,
About Keats’ Ruth and how the man believed in god,
But I said No, no, no, he’s an atheist, a romantic,
About nature which was then far too divinely awed.
I didn’t even ever write the essays I wanted,
In fear that John would make my life harder,
And I always thought before I spoke to him,
Which is not the best for an English tutor.
But he is a very interesting, loving man,
And I did ask if I could use his last name,
To refer to him, to suggest a distance,
Between his views and mine, not the same.
He wouldn’t let me, but I got a B in the end,
And enjoyed anyway his lessons on literature,
How to express yourself and answer the question,
And knew to buffet his regressive caricature.
Letter to the rest of the world:
don't feel sorry for the United States of America.
the vast majority of we the people get along just fine...
its the five percent (dead enders) fueled by the press
that think lady liberty owes them something
that democracy has somehow failed them
but truth be told they have failed democracy
they've turned shortcomings into flaming arrows
firing them at members of society-
if you don't fit their narrow minded narrative
you're branded a racist
your successes diminished
by chants of white hot privilege..
In their regressive malice in wonderland world-
good becomes bad-bad becomes good
rioters and thugs are turned into martyrs
the flag of freedom and thin blue line are scorned.
For the most part we the people are doing fine..
plodding along doing our best in life..
learning from the past-not dwelling on patina sins.
The disgruntled losers amongst our society
spray paint America as a horrible place to live...
but the funny thing is I don't see any of them fleeing
asking for asylum in another country
they'd just rather continue taking and complaining
they've no intention of ever giving something back.
The haters in this country find grand wizards in every breeze
behind every thin blue line with every stir of a leaf..
some are even trying to put Jesus into exile
for crimes of purity and compassion?
spray painting the gates of heaven
with the the latest flavor of hate.
The grand illusion that America
is systematically racist is the latest flavor of madness.
if that were true there'd be no chance in hell
America would have elected a black man as
the leader of the FREE WORLD.
are you woke yet!
I say if you think its so bad here
simply take the next flight out
into the third world
I'll happily pay for your one way ticket..
I say you'll be back before you can say Xi
complaining and demanding things
because you know you've got it made.
Alone I sat on the wet sands,
Of the Sernabatim beach lands.
The sun reflected blue sky,
On the greenish grey waters it looked so dry.
My inner face I saw on the bed in the sweltering sunny afternoon,
With the heat and shock I began to swoon.
Alone, I moved myself towards my inner face lying on the warm sandy bed, the into the waters warm,
The breaking waves look to me like many a headless limp form.
Warm waters I sense splash unto my waist,
Cool salty breeze sting my moist lips and chest, sweat erased.
The frothy waters seem so white,
Feral imagination within me is beginning to run regressive and makes me feel all right.
Alone I am rooted on the sandy shore,
Now,I have within me, coming to the fore,
Feelings… deep feelings inside ignite,
Need to hold on to them tight,
The feelings incite,
A poem in my mind’s eye I feel and now see, that I would have to write,
Without any spite.
Alone, I am in the waters warm,
The breaking waters pass over my inner face and lash against me and quickly change form,
To myself feelings that turn to spirity words I begin to recite,
As I cast my eyes on my inner face lying on the warm bed and from within springs delight,
And in its own right,
The poem begins to rewrite.
Alone, I am in the waters warm,
My feelings have begun to rewrite,
In my mind without any spite,
I am now filling myself with delight,
As expression is flowing freely in its own right,
And will transcend on to paper in black and white.
Alone, I now sit, drenched,
To the sands entrenched.
Melts the noon,
And evening falls attune,
The sun reflected blue sky,
Has now swooned away as to my inner face I turn a blind eye.
Alone, I now sit, drenched,
Content in me and with no feelings wrenched.
Gratified….soothened…satisfied…pleased,
Relaxed…happy….at ease and contented……eased.
What seemed to all a ghastly inner face,
Now to me is full of grace.
Incomplete metamorphosis of this stilled adolescent...
petrified, sheltered, and mortally wounded prepubescent
I consider myself
analogously buttressed, cocooned,
garrisoned, hardened, insulated,
where cell baited jumping frog
o' Montgomery County ne'er
went leaving larvae stage,
now no divine providential
power can assuage,
yours truly metaphorically locked
within invisible iron bound cage
every occasion to shower
validates steep wage
permanently doled out,
yet tis futile to rage
against this human machine
i.e. body dielectric rampage
clocking three scored
orbitz chronological gauge
forever fixed feigned fodder,
when unlived uber story
of mein kampf writ faint
chicken scratch final page
gin hated anorexic
regressive toddling cribbage
deadly game of mine Life pampered
post infancy attended
Aladdin (a lad in) his hermitage
late childhood marriage
with grim reaper as
coefficient co-inhabitant
feasting emaciated lovely bones
verily scrawny, puny, and
nerdy, yea easy to lyft
courtesy lost livingsocial scrimmage
trademark spindleshanks -
stagnant embarrassingly useless
two legged equipage
at childhood's end...,
me skinny package then
weighing, eh no
more'n half dozen stone,
these days when
undressing to wash
forced to espy physical
*****sapiens wreckage
constant visual reminder
this spare rankled, stunted,
tendered ship of state,
yours truly nah oh sage
enlightenment gleaned i.e.
20/20 hindsight kickstarted
quickened, leveraged, mortgaged...,
principly unbalanced worthiness
anatomical disparity
impossible mission to salvage
accounting rent permanently askew
fixed APR rendered
amortization sabotage
irreversible penalty suffrage
escaping serfdom volunteering
self as webbed vassalage
til death do me part.
he could not remember when he last put it to purpose
but nostalgia stared at him straight at face values’ frown
the typewriter ribbon hung onto the spool for dear life
a once proud carriage corroded and set on no return
like in a silent movie the roller release was speechless
a tray full of paper lay moth ridden in lost anticipation
a story in itself abandoned on the trash heap of sorrow
then an air raid warning siren disturbed his thoughts
incendiary bombs were drawn to the attic of his mind
fighter planes cradled the sky and dropped heavy loads
they called it retribution but it was massive slaughter
of epic proportions as memories flushed out retrograde pain
the laptop gave one final moan and the electric circuit
tripped and trapped him powerless in regressive void
his fingers burned on the keyboard and he was careful
to ration the oil for the machine in view of explosions
and the fine screwdriver trembled in his weary hands
somewhat disconnected but he refused to give way
to arrest as he fiddled with the Olympia Travel Deluxe
out of touch but in tune with overwhelming detonations
the trigger of flash backs emerged from his conscience
a candle of life flickered and breathed a sigh of relief
wax smirched his hands as he tried to steady the flame
accused him of falsification if he failed to recall reality
and recollect the dangers of power politics and assault
his only weapon remained the antiquated portable tool
and his only chance of survival was to narrate the truth
they retrieved his body and thought a finger was missing
but found it firmly attached to the shattered front scale
like a ghost writer some part of his memories told the tale
31st May 2021
Giordano Bruno looked up at night
Suggested stars were suns, not just points of light
Planets might circle those many suns
They might even have life, we might not be the only ones
The Church called his words a crime, not just a mistake
For this heresy, they burned him at the stake.
If your ideas undermine the narrative, you're a threat
And in medieval times, that was a bad bet.
[chorus]
If you're not a heretic on something, maybe you should be
To keep the dogma honest, new ideas are the key.
But telling the truth can make you pay a price
Check the terrain, should you refrain? it's hard to give advice.
In Stalin's Russia, random terror was always feared.
Even geneticists were put in gulags, or just disappeared.
Genetics meant your kids didn't inherit the new you.
And changes to socialist man were every generation's due
In 2014, USA, Brendan Eich went out of line
For opposing gay marriage, he had to resign
Not a church, but his employees made him depart
Though Dating apps like OKCupid also played a part.
[chorus]
If you're not a heretic on something, maybe you should be
To keep the dogma honest, contrariness is the key.
But telling the truth can make you pay a price
Check the terrain, should you refrain? it's hard to give advice.
In 2024, Efraim Haim revealed his hospital flaw
They were transitioning teens, against Texas law
Puberty blockers, hormones, on an 11-year-old
Now he's indicted, the feds won't release their hold
The old times, regressive, superstitious night
Now we're so progressive and we see the light
We're so tolerant, we don't settle the score
Scratch that, we're the same people as of yore.
And the waves of old keep beating at the shore.