It’s pretty obvious that dogs are simple
Yet alert and engaged creatures.
They live in the moment
And are alive to everything that fills their senses.
In this they are like most animals.
What I often wonder is what do they get from us,
Us with our sense of abstract time
And third person perspective?
Does this perspective rub off on them,
Bleed into their minds the way other mental illnesses
Can become contagious?
Since they are such great empaths
Do they get a sense of our otherness
Our uniquely differentness
Which we call consciousness
And value so highly?
Or are they actually not so different than us,
Conscious but not egotistically so
More like dog-like
Simple and honest, enthusiastic and something
We humans seem to find so difficult,
Relaxedly so.
(10/3/26)
Photographed at the bank
Everyone knows you are just
Another Ska-Ank and a loser
Wish you were wanted
But now everyone knows
You are sort of ree-tard-ted
Everyone is better than you,
And you're a loser
Saw you with a drug dealer, too
Were you hoping his money
Might rub off on you
Forget it…
You're a loser
You're just tra-sh
And you’re a loser
You're just tra-sh
And you're a loser
Last time I saw you
When you were down on hope
I saw you on 6th Street
Hustling for a piece of dope
You're just tra-sh
And you’re a loser
You're just tra-sh
And you're a loser
So if we should meet up some time
Don't act like you're a friend of mine
Don’t smile at me, stay away from me
I don't want to be seen with a loser
I was only a boy when it happened
when they came for me
my family all cried like kittens
I was only a boy when the door opened
they came in like snakes
their coats casting strange shadows
I was only a boy when they fetched me
when my life changed forever
and the colours in my mind turned black
I was only a boy when they struck me
a blow that took away my youth
and my song died in my throat
I was only a boy when I became a man
not knowing the souls I would suck
nor the blood I would drain dry
I was only a boy when I saw them
falling as snow in the east wind
like moths when you rub off their skins
I was only a boy when death came
when I realized the time had come
and I stood there, hollow and empty
I was only a boy when I understood
when the darkness was pierced
And I felt regret beyond my years
I was only a boy when I finally earned my title
When I could no longer distinguish
And I wept
I was a Nazi
The image girl
Rolling into oblivion
Only stopping to say goodbye
Before she dies
Her body sculptured
Marble skin that men admire
Cocooned in beauty and grace
Dressed in sequins and lace
Only her eyes betray
A past that no elegance can hide
The dirt under her nails, hidden
But the reminiscence ingrained
The past and the present
Beat a different heart
One stronger today
One stronger tomorrow
Today, they bask in her glory
Wishing her beauty would rub off
A photograph in her presence
An autograph to cherish
The past was always stronger
Chipping away from within
Taking her back to the dirt
Where conception was forced in blood-soaked fields
The end was always the legend
Portraying a different past from the present
Fairytales always have to end in splendour
Otherwise, the children cry.
I'm promised to your finger tips
The ones that run through my hair and run across my skin
When there's space between that skin and the cloth that hangs off me
My shirts aren't tucked into my pants you can enter and exit as you please
Your fingerprints left over the seats of our parents cars
People we forget we know
People that are nearly the blood we rub off our skin and let drain into sinks and bathtubs
I promise you my nights
When no one can hear us and no and can recall what exactly we've done
Asleep or unaware
Passed out or might as well be
Your the drug I take
The one that makes me forget
Making me numb
Your lips the cure for the problems I can’t solve
You the reverse to the sins committed that night
I smile for you
And for the numbness you bring
For the morning may come and your name may be gone
Auntie Whee the absurd arrived, on her hat, a red bird.
Her jacket is ever so loud! I knew it meant she is proud.
She is not like the others, not the sisters or mothers.
Living in New York, and not eating burgers or pork.
Don’t let her rub off, I was warned, but I scoffed.
Her life looked brilliant to me, she was wild and free.
Her stories were a delight, I stayed up half the night.
More please I said more than twice, she was gentle and nice.
She’s different than us you see, said my uncle Lee.
Actually, different than him, but much the same as me.
When I grew up I would go to New York, and stop eating pork.
I wanted to be wild and free like my Dear Auntie Whee.
the long day and Hitler
It is Christmas Eve the TV has nothing to offer but sentimental
crap, where the rich rescue a Christmas for the poor and everyone
in the park and sing while bells chime; no one has bored anyone
by pointing out that it is Jesus’s birthday today.
Flicking through the computer’s many sites, I came across Hitler’s
drawing of Father Christmas, a haunted face casting a side glance
not sure, if someone is making fun of him, the eyes also tell us of doubt
over his profession as a clown.
Hitler didn’t travel much, once he stayed in Liverpool for two years
worked as a waiter serving bangers and mash to the local population
the famous sense of humour from that place didn’t rub off on him.
He left, and there was a rumour of him and a pregnant scullery maid.
The next time he journeyed abroad, he went to Paris to see the usual
tourist sites, he didn’t enjoy Paris much took the first train home back
to his mountain retreat, where he played with his dog, went for long walks
and lived in peace until the bombing began.
into a tiny clear glass bottle,
about the width of a thumb,
through its narrow top,
through a long tapered neck,
he pours fine coloured sand,
from small glass tubes,
quickly shifting from
one colour to another,
the sand just rushes down,
into the bottle to take its place,
as he deftly shakes and moves
guiding a circular shower of sand!
the colours settle down,
a demonstration of precise skill,
a coordination of eye, hand and mind,
of a family tradition and gift,
a proof of what humans can do!
he puts a tiny cork to seal it all!
I look at the bottle he hands me
after dusting of the dust with a cloth,
The bottle now is a work of art,
I see the Syrian sands with palm trees,
three camels with their mounts,
a sunset and a few birds
and my name to sign it of!
his bright eyes look at me
as if to ask if I am pleased,
he shows his fingers to say 5 dinars!
A priceless art, for such a small price!
I give him 10 and hug him
and shake his hand,
hoping some of his skills
on me would rub off!
2nd placement
Podium placing promise(5)
Brian Strand
Written 7/Jan/2021
Life gives us no clue about our purpose
In its midst, it gives us no answers
Forcing us all to tune our vibe to its focus,
Easily lying to ourselves, as if we were bluffers
Somehow trying to believe in it being our
Master, having us always knelt down
Yearning for some luck at every hour
So that we do rub off our faces, that frown,
That same which is always there, as if tattooed
Ever ready to shed upon us downpours of calamities
Ringing always with the bells of death, so unvalued
In essence yet, bearing with life, so many similarities
Especially there where it pertains to the veil
Shielding from us the ability to understand where we hail!
Written on 26th Dec 2020
the numbers
of age have
no meaning
when love is
using an abacus
she is minus
and i am plus
but meaning
nothing in
abstract geometry
to her concave
i'm convex in an
equation that
perhaps suggests
one can digest
the other or the
other the other
so so together
her youthful legs
rub off on me
No angle comes without a perspective,
Every opinion given,
Has a perspective behind it,
Every shadow at the mercy of how the Sun perceives it,
And every act of kindness,
Showcases the perception of the giver.
Hope has a perspective all of its own,
Every painting is a reflection, of the perspective seen,
Through the eyes of the artist,
The adult and the child come to the party with different perspectives,
And those who stay in one spot too long,
Are in danger of losing all perspective,
As are those who remain on the outside looking in.
I think the best we can hope for is,
That somewhere, sometime, someone with perspective to spare,
Will need of what we have to offer,
And that perspective, will rub off on us.
Behind the mighty structures of brick and stone,
Are the naked hands of people who stand alone,
Fighting against all odds through the sun & rain,
Until the last drop of their energy drains.
A group of faceless people lacking urbanity,
Yet striving each day for their pride and vanity,
To build castles of dream for their family & kids,
So they don’t have to suffer, the way they themselves did.
With tanned, battered bodies and soiled sores,
They are forever ready to take on more,
Only to earn enough to make ends meet,
And manage a jhuggi on the narrow street.
No matter how often they drop to the ground,
With illness or by exhaustion downed,
The hope of a bright new day in their eyes,
Makes them rub off the dust and rise.
No matter if they have to stay miles apart,
From friends & families so dear to their heart,
The lamp of hope within them is always alive,
The grit of a labor isn’t dead till they die.
Beautiful obsidian figures
Artfully sculpted from the smoothest and hardest of stone
You have a luster like no other
As if God were your makeup artist
And she sat you down one day,
Took a beauty sponge out of her kit
And applied sunlight to not just your face,
But every inch of you
Just you
It doesn't wash off
Rub off
Or crack
No matter how old it gets
And you're wearing it well
You're all wearing it very well.
The ‘F’ word floods the floor of my lips in disgust,
everything we built was on sand,
whether castles or huts,
whether with bricks, blocks, wattle or daub,
It crashed beneath the strength of one hand,
Or two, upon your breasts,
your bosom beneath another pressed,
squeezing out my memories from your mind,
like oil from its parent nut that’ll never return.
Deceit, like lipsticks upon your lips,
that won’t rub off e’en when French I kiss,
your eyes wide open, your mind with his.
Trump Becoming Ambiguious
Trump already appears to be ambiguous
And was scrutinized for being contiguous;
Completely off each wall;
Leaves dirty shower stall;
Rub off of body in fashion that is rigorous.
Trump always finds so much appeal
when has been exposed to a dirty deal.
Jim Horn
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