Usage disputes: Words where people disagree on the correct definition or application
Undisputed. The environment of the venue was barbaric
Dispute a Job Title Change to document your actual work and start a formal dialogue
"Wrestler" and "Wrestling":
"Superstar" or "sports entertainer,"
"bouts" or "contests."
"Belt" or "Strap"
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------------------------------------------When a professional wrestling or combat sports promotion refuses to recognize a world title change, it creates what is known as a phantom title change or a disputed lineag
You dictate to me
as you want me to be,
you strap me down,
and then you frown
if I break free,
to be who I want to be!
Yes, I do not fit
I won’t stand or sit,
as you try to school,
dominate and rule
defining me to be!
what you desire to see.
How can you desire,
to light a specific fire
quelling other flames within me?
Oh, what expectation
and determination
to snuff out the me in me!
Deciding for me
to be or not to be!
how can you ever
make me want, what you prefer?
Copyright © by Crystal David John
(Published in my book titled 'Trails of Thought,' which is available on Amazon)
My fabric lanyard will often coil
Around the strap of my satchel.
My father's heartless attacks stung me hard
he claimed a cold world to do as he pleased
the darkness carried was marred and scarred
fate had given him a soulless disease
they said you should have known him long before
I answered I never thought it would end
struggling with memories I abhor
the hate in his eyes I'll never defend
the length and breadth of sadness bind those days
when his ghostly hand swung a razor strap
the shadowed terror remembered still stays
haunted by the anguished welts on my back
a child who sought love from a wishing well
my childhood cries shaped by living through hell
You turned on to your left side
There painted before me was your contour,
the resplendent lines of an hourglass
The rule of thirds composing the view
Your thick raven hair against the
pale linens in the morning twilight.
Strong movement from the back of your arm
Flowing, going down to the palm
and climaxing at the finger tips
With an aura of delicate benevolence
There was a single spaghetti strap laying lazily,
aimlessly over your olive skin, pretending to support
one of your breasts, Invisible to me
I wanted to run my finger along it but did not
The whole scene fittingly arranged
As if a great work was about to be born
A pose struck like a Waterhouse goddess
I wish I was he lying in this bed
This view has been within the artist scope
since the dawn of aesthetic sight
Yet it is to this beholder of beauty
as belonging to the one to whom I retreat
that becomes this morning's single tear
Let my feelings for you in this moment
be rendered upon this canvas
in the pensive hues and lines of my love
Let it be duly hung In the Museum of Reverie
from this day until there are no more lovers
The strap on my leather bag broke,
Its usefulness gone up in smoke.
My old shoe repair,
Like most others, not there,
So on Google my fingers did poke.
I found a small old-fashioned place;
Good reviews from the neighborhood base.
So I brought in my bag,
A short walk, not a drag,
And the owner stitched it up apace.
Eighteen bucks, which I gratefully paid;
The repair looks like it was well-made.
I asked, “Why did it break?”
He said, “There’s no mistake.
Nothing lasts for all time, I’m afraid.”
For that reason, his business exists,
But since life has ironic-type twists,
In these sneaker-clad days,
Tradesmen’s work hardly pays,
Though his livelihood somehow persists.
Sit in your seat, the driver's seat.
Strap down and lock in.
Now, go ahead and fire 'er up.
Pan your gauges while you listen to the rumble. Check all your mirrors... left, right, and don't forget the rearview before you peer ahead.
Now, take a deep, long breath.
And with that beautiful destination in focus, confidently pull the gear shift from park to drive.
Now, foot off the brakes and on the gas.
Up ahead, sweet dreams long last.
She used the incerating toilet to dispose of the horse dung.
it inspired someone to create an incinerater
for cattle , horse and pet waste.
the ashes could be used in mulch.
He titled it.
"Materails to Colonize Space'
the secrets of establish a colony in space.
they often dumped that dung into the old
hand-dug outhouses.
covering the dung with sawdust
so the oder wouldn't
ofend the next user.
But this idea ould be patented and alot of money could be made
by helping a lot of people do this thing.
It seemed a novel and humane way of thinking.
Written by: the Inventor and Salesperson
Language Of Patents
rights and processes
disclaimers and terms
maintenance fee'
priority and pending
variations like patent terms
esperson Sterculius or Stercutus
Patent Pending
+++++ResoLute+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++==++++++++++++++++++++++++++++The guy who creates the elastic snap-on strap for pants to make pants waist expand and contract to your size
will be one wealthy suiter!+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Emotional moments will bellow,
an accordion of anger.
Incendiary contact,
rushes into a mash
of conniption fits.
With all you are
shouldering
the strap
snaps.
An old bag arrives, stripped bare,
A collection of memories that have left on their own.
The worn shoulder strap carries the lingering stories,
Entangled with the scattered branches of recollection.
Though she sleeps beside me,
I find myself longing to see her once more.
A perfection of beauty and
Lovingness
How than are we same
That your technique is different
than mine
Seared the whole back strap
In olive oil onion powder, garlic powder
Mc Cormick cajin seasoning
And than into a large hotel tray
With 5 cups of lard
5 cups of tallow
4 halfed garlic heads
4 halved onions
10 jalapeno peppers
And 5 cups of sun dried tomato
Cover bake on low for
4 hours at 275 degrees.
Serve with a brown beef gravy
With beet marrow
Carmelized onions
Carmelized garlic
Carrots
Potatoes
Celery diced
And Red wine
It ah bouis-oh bouis kinda ooh!
Emma's a gift
Folded box
Red tight ribbon
Bow big talks
Filled with tissue
Packed to strap
Pulled releasing
Boinged for gap
Quatrain poem by Trevor McLeod
they strap him in like a free bank toaster —
leather belts immobilize the limbs,
the priest muttering fairy tales
while the switch man cleared his throat.
rectum stuffed with cotton--
next comes the electric hum —
Seventeen hundred volts--
a deep, angry silence —
then every nerve throws up
at once.
eyes cook and bulge behind the mask,
tongue swells like a drowning rat,
flesh jerks against the state’s approval
and no one flinches —
some of them are aroused.
the room smells like pennies and pork
and still —
some hack writes in the logbook:
“justice is served on a silver plate.”
Appleton boys
Are getting ready
For gin
They remove their shirt
From their chest
Now they put a
T-shirt on their chest
Now they remove their jeans
Finally it is time for them
To remove their underwear from
Their cocks
Now they will put
Their jock strap in their
Cocks
Then they put their underwear
On top of their jock strap
Now they will put on their shorts
Now they will change their socks
From their feet
It is now finally the time to put their
Running shoes
On their feet
Now they started to jog
3 miles
It is very hard to do
Our hearts are beating fast
And we can feel it
they sit him down, strap the arms,
not the old chair, not the rope—
this is cleaner, scientific,
no blood, no sparks,
just the mask.
the lungs beg first,
pulling at nothing,
a vacuum of sky
swallowing itself.
the heart beats like a busted drum,
then quieter,
the eyes go wet, then far—
a man drowning on land
without water, without storm.
the state calls it mercy.
but death is still death,
as the body visibly shows us.
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