Dying is the first race

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Never mind Lawyers,
Children with no mouths,

Never mind Inspiration,
Write Now.

 

 

Photo – ♦Personal♦

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on January 29, 2017 at 18:15  Leave a Comment  
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Closet

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Quantum physics dictates that
Looked at directly matter will disappear.

Big physics says that electrons can be bound,
Entangled, still

Unified theory does not allow multiple existences.

These are matters of the heart;
Sometimes looking at love directly can destroy it,

And we don’t want lovers disappearing,
To burnt, brawny, Ulaanbaatar without us, we

Want them flourishing and,
No matter how ribald, how

Cherished they are, at times a
Gaze averted can fertilize love,

Parry an argument,
Can better the road ahead.

Dew off fingertips,
Off eyelashes,

Sweat,

May glisten brightest,
When not looked at directly.

Not everyone is free.

Picture – OZAN KOSECGettyImages

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on August 25, 2015 at 09:24  Leave a Comment  
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Violent language

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You wonder why homosexual men hate their fathers specifically –

Those who don’t know them, consistently
Want to know,

Who is the wife and who,
The husband –

And it seeps in,
Leaking insecurity like,

Laying fresh sheets for the night,
Satin,

Then fighting because fathers call boys disciplined or,
Pussy’s –

Violent words that not even women,
Use,

Scarlet language that,
Colours all things, that –

Thank God,
Good lovers, forgive.

♦Picture♦   – Christianos Gays –

-short evocative poetry-

 

 

 

Published in: on August 1, 2015 at 02:35  Leave a Comment  
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Insurrection

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I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Can he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move

See: STAN SOLOMON

Published in: on June 30, 2015 at 07:06  Comments (1)  
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My first lie

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I spoke French for thirteen years
I say to him
And he smiles.

More cheese.

Soft night yields to love,
Rap is the only hard night sound,
The White man is out of his depth,
Even in French.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear but,
The first lie was mine.

We’ll count them later,
In the fullness of time.

 -evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 21:59  Comments (1)  
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Dehli

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They are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Wrapped in Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan’s catching the breeze,
They are doing dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Elegant fingers prodding opulent buttons,

Elaborate mechanisms,
Stylish manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their fabulous Sari’s, flapping in the wind.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 17:32  Leave a Comment  
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The Contest

short poetry, words move, smoking gif

The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.

Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.

There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.

I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.

The barman glances at the silver case,
The man pulls his cigarettes from.

I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.

Two women,
One carrying a large important handbag,
The other,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.

We are at war.

Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.

image – twilightwap.com♦ linux hosting

evocative short poetry – words move

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 16:31  Leave a Comment  
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