Words do not always need to be loud;
they can be quiet,
kept hidden behind the outburst of a closing door,
or the hasty shutting of a window,
or the abrupt pulling away of a chair:
all of which can be called silence.
It has its own comfort zone,
at least for me now,
filled with the lingering air,
as though the air were scented with the perfumes of Arabia,
which could never sweeten Lady Macbeth’s little hand;
yet the perfume was not silent;
it carried loudness within.
Karma returns in silence.
Although the path toward heaven or hell
never remains unheard,
it is a long, hard road until the last dawn.
It is only me, myself, and my karma,
bearing every other entity within me
and negotiating with them
through my only companion: Silence.
I need to be heard in silence,
need to be nurtured in quietness,
need to perform without being noticed,
need to remain steady in my stillness.
I wish to be trapped in silence;
it might be a celestial trap,
where the trap itself is worshipped,
because it is a religion.
TRUMP CRIES OUT DAMMED SPOT
BUT HIS CRIES, ALL GO FOR NOUGHT
EPSTEIN JUST TOO HOT
Lady Macbeth, Lady Macbeth
Why did you want Macbeth to be king
Even when you have all you need
This is all caused because of your greed
You think you are like a bird
Trying to get away with what you did
But lo and behold!
Your spouse will die as the witches bid.
You may be proud of what you have done
But because of your guilt
You went mad
You know something was wrong, which was bad
Lady Macbeth, Lady Macbeth
Why did you want no sympathy
Neither did you wish for empathy
You wanted everyone dead
Macbeth, Macbeth
Bless his soul
But because of you persuading him to kill
His existence became a foul.
Your heart is as evil as witch
As hard as ice
If you had murdered someone before
It wouldn't be a big surprise
You look as gentle as a feather
So light and innocent
But inside you are nothing
but a crueler version of malificent
Fall'n into the sear
In my stead, a curse to hither
'til my bones, my flesh shall disappear
Canst thou nought raise a blade of sweetened fear
A bane to a burdened forest
Heal him down a bow, to a tyrant's ear
Petty face of the fog
Thou daren't drown a kiss of mist
Lest there be to famine's cleanst
Thy pouring fiend
O'er harness upon back
Thou mar in callst a blade
Palter within us a hark
Thou surely shalln't fight with thee
"Here may thou seek a tyrant"
Thou oppos'd dammn'd behold a kiss'd cry,
Ultimately ripp'd
Or none hast that be.
King Duncan wouldn't allow it
Chin sweat and air conditioning
Sending me into a linguistic shaming spiral
Flavoursome mints and sparkling water
Won't fix this wet nightmare
Telling the steps to SHUT UP
Sock sniffer
Chemical bomb leather shoes
Armpits oceaning
Give me Nigeria
Or the jungle
Where the birds don't sing
My wife has been reading The Return of the Native for ten years
But does owning an AK-47 count as knowledge?
To the bat cave
If we could look into the seeds of time,
and say which grain will grow and which will not,
we would arrange our affairs defiantly
in the face of current opposition.
If a thought should geminate and flourish
in the barren soil of the status quo,
it would likely be by sheer providence
that ideas would come to fruition.
Our dreams, our very imagination,
are what keep our momentum in this world.
Sans the prospect of incremental feats,
we would not strive to attain excellence.
If the portent of riches entices us,
would we forsake every value system
to attain the pinnacle of success?
No one could portend the foreordained path.
Half flesh, half steel, sinews and twined wire,
Begotten in the heat of half-love, tempered
By hatred and the axe, fathered by one
Who killed her mother, the male chauvinist boar
Whose eye-teeth, razor-sharp, saw through the spine,
Joy-sword in sheath. Wrought iron, blood vessels,
Bone and cable, one part conceived, the other forged
On the hard anvil where gusts of blood are seed
Of all the axeman most does fear – cast iron woman
With stanchions for a trunk, iron breastplate,
A malleable black heart, a metallic chastity belt
No man may boast of stealing and still live,
Who beats men at their own battle games,
A dab hand with the axe herself, as salty tears
And globules of mercury exude from grey glands
And signifying nothing, upon life’s stage
meaningless, endless, a cruel war he waged
Fretting and strutting, as the curtains narrowed
Out, out, foul vegan, who doth hate man’s marrow
Comes back for encore, to be mocked, and broken
Having found mere hate, vaunting the unspoken
A shadowless ghoul behind faint shrills of woe
Sans a candle, roams hell’s abattoirs below
A dedication of respect on the
nihilistic tragedy of Macbeth
# # #
Bastardised here indeed
but more so each day by
a bard who flunked all meaning in life
# # #
Yet has somehow found faith
in putrid flesh eating flowers
# #
No doubt whilst searching for a niche
on the last syllable of soybean @urd
By
David Kavanagh
Daggers in smiles
Seeding wiles drawn
Pun viles, feeding
How many senses does it take
To prove to myself you’re real
How do I know the illusion won’t break
Or the devil be part of the deal
I reach out my hand to feel
My fingers trail over skin
Brushing the hoodie you love to steal
The veil between us is thin
The smell of sweet breath
Holding me back from the brink
I dare not mention Macbeth
Afraid the moment to jinx
Eyes lock for a magical second
Green meeting hazel-brown
Even when there is a problem to be reckoned
Your visage wards off a frown
You’re voice sweet and strong
Carried softly on still air
Claiming you are never wrong
And comparing life to a fair
One sense remains
But unspoken it shall stay
However, lipstick stains
Give the secret away
The night is cold
Its calmness is bold
Spring doth fold
In its manifold
My-my-my baby's not old
Your tender smiles
Make my moonlight shines
Your pretty eyes
Make my morning flies
My-my-my baby complies
The earth too knows
How sadly I glow
Just whisper so
I'll dash for what heav'n bestows
My-my-my baby my beau
The joy as you call
For Mama "ma-ma"
Fills my spirit for I'm your momma
O your cackles do get me enthralled
My-my-my baby my love
Your call is alluring
Your love is assuring
My soul is the offering
I'll see you glo-rying
My-my-my baby my dar-ling
Your life at birth
Was my journey to death
You stayed and wept
Whilst I took my last breath
My-my-my baby Macbeth
I'll always come
To watch over you
And sing you songs
As I can't hold you close
My-my-my baby I'm near
Dandelions, babies crying
walking in the woods,
astronomy, philosophy
chickadees and childhood.
Speckled trout, (a technical knock-out)
strawberries red and sweet,
winter, spring, summer, fall
Butterfinger and little "Twinkie" treats.
Dragon flies, questions why
There’s anything at all,
Making mistakes baking cup cakes
Cumulous clouds and rainfall.
Dancing, prancing and romancing
singing by-gone songs,
Christmas giving, loving, living
here at home and gone.
Wishing wells, magic spells
rivers, lakes, seashores,
children growing never knowing
what's in store.
Big parades in sun and shade
wild animals in the park,
ice cold beer and someone near
when comets pass in the dark.
Climbing mountains, drinking fountains
Liars, tricksters, cheats,
Saving grace and holiness
And poetry that speaks.
Dishes, wishes
and a pocketful of dreams,
Timbuctoo, Kalamazoo
New York and New Orleans.
And boats that sail watching whales
reading, writing books,
never-ending always spending
money on good looks.
History, wizardry and mysteries
inside a grain of sand,
life and death like old Macbeth
we may never understand.
Not even its oceans could cleanse Macbeth’s guilt,
Etched into palms and cut into lifelines, within skin everlasting.
Poisonous serpents twist like gaseous clouds acrid, in a helix of
Trust doubled, betrayed by a cousin valiant no more.
Unknown and unseen, unjust and unkempt - a fate handed down unanimous.
Nocturnal damnation circling circling, that coven three upon a heath
Erupting at the manipulation of a man come undone.
I regret nothing for drinking behind the curtains.
‘Cause it’s the greatest of hypocrites
Who are ever witnessed doing
Just what they tell you to never do.
There’s a reason I’m the queen of hypocrisy.
So step aside, all of you filthy peasantries.
All hail the Queen that is me,
‘Cause you’ve no choice whether or not I’m royalty.
I found a crooked dollar
and hired a crooked lawyer
to pursue a crooked case
before a judge to place,
but we found no crooked court,
however hard we sought,
but as long as we keep looking,
we'll keep the cauldron cooking.
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