Trump's MDs now searching the pool
Know organ transplant prolongs rule
For match perfection
Without rejection
His kidney must come from a mule
Here is someone who is worthy of all the grace,
Let me describe his glory before his name gets erased,
The Pharaoh Ozymandias of Egypt,
Who was even worthy of Shelley's praise.
He has done a lot I feel,
Even though I cannot see his real reel,
I am sure he was praised well,
Even by the worthy poet for that- I can tell.
He might not be alive now,
Nor even the graceful poet - You know how,
But then he is made immortal,
By the poet who made others in front of him appear Mortal!
Lost in this Little, big world
Of nightly sweats
I see a road sign that diverts
My attention to swerve
Away and Wake up
From the Reality around me ...
I just need a break
From it all, for awhile
My eyes cross as I reach
For the Blue something or other
Ahaed of me
I stop time for real this time
Because it’s my time, me time
To be real but not really
Because I feel like I’m dreaming
With my eyes wide open
And everything seems so strange
Around me as if
God is trying to get my attention
Somehow
And for some reason everything
Smells like plastic
Leaving a metal aftertaste in my mouth ...
I hear music in the distant clouds
And my stomach rumbles like thunder
Perhaps I’m hungry for something new
Something different
Where the earth beneath me is putty
Sucking me in and averting my attention ...
Reminding me
I am Grateful to be Alive.
stay your hand
with its obtund touch
take away your arid mouth,
your incurious eyes from me,
from my unscaled sight
you are but dull clay,
Ozymandias, barren
and I am fresh green
that strives for the light
spilling from your crumbling ashlar
jubilant, with scarlet buds
to catch the rain
and burgeon in its caress
to sway with the tumult of the wind
to kiss the voluptuous sky
to lay my feet on the lush earth
to live, to thrive
far away from your desert
I would dance on your tongue for 3 days in a row.
until you were completely wet.
pray for submission, pray for love,
a love that burns, in the body,
in the soul and between the legs.
Burn where your juices are ready to flow.
and you in fire, do not whisper, but moan,
as my tongue slides between your thighs.
you pray that my arrow will hit you
where your lust sleeps,
and you will wake up in a trance
to huddle close to me,
Until sleep takes you.
A 55 gallon barrel
Full of pulverized
Oyster shells
Mixed with wood ash
And sawdust
And porklard
55 gallons of
Pulverized oyster
Shells.mixed
With basalt.
Alkalinity
Alkalinity
Mind the
Bushels bouiz
Mind the
Bushels!
111 known to represent intuition
Trusting yourself fully is the mission
Have you ever felt something about someone
everyone else was blinded by the gaslight
but some time passed
and turns out - YOU WERE RIGHT
How many times does that have to occur
for you to finally accept
that listening to self instead of everyone else
will keep you from living inept
In-depth we could go
diagrams I could show
of the chemicals produced when you get that gut feeling
but truly its overriding your programming, unlearning... healing
but saying it with words
that you've definitely heard
Is certainly more appealing. More revealing.
You know... Yes you know
That overpowers what you were taught
Trusting yourself is winning the war
the battles lost, can get forgot.
A twist in the Plot! You were right all along
You can't believe that they achieved a mental shackling so strong
But now its time to know
You know yes you do
No shaman can tell you better, no priest or pastor or Guru
Do not ignore your feelings
Analyze them and understand them on this mission
Breathe, look yourself in the I, and tap into your intuition
Freedom startles me
Since fear is encircled behind your beds of lies
Acclaimed messiah plays a game with you
Compelling you to be the pawn in your competition
Every drop of his utterances counts
As my blood bubbles
With no pale to be submerged into
Yet, I could bath with it.
No one is your saviour
They are just a pollution
Without no solution
And breaking limits
They say everything happens for a reason
Perhaps reason itself is a person.
©Dr.Millz
The day of reckoning
A bird with an enormous wingspan darkened the sky
it was a night of horror in the Middle East.
A new country born in sin and filched land arose
blood ran in ancient, narrow cobblestoned roads.
The people fled over a broken bridge, now live far
from the homeland, the dream of returning is alive.
Young men living in squalor are attracted to Islamists
the grim head cutting people, who know no mercy
know they will win one day, and more blood will flow
Into sand and time.
When everything is forgotten, walls erased, the losers
will flock back to Europa, whence they came.
The song contests
I came across an apple tree it looked like
a child’s idea of this type of tree, big red
apples and a blue sky; when I realized I do not like
big red apples have farinaceous and taste
like they were dreaming of becoming potatoes
and not picked at by bird.
I joined my wife she was watching the final
Of a song contest, the finalist were two women.
One was buxom and belted out a song with full voice
the other one sang sweetly like opening the window
and letting a songbird and sunlight in.
The ample woman won, but we loved the sweet one.
You must see Slipback, the popular new app!
It's a primary clock of tick-tock;
brief time-travel is what you can make.
Anything can necessarily be changed in and for
just a few seconds.
Certainly, lives may unravel,
living life as a movie with a second take.
"Misremembering" becomes a thing.
Challenging what was done is done.
Eliminating what we thought was a mistake.
Creating misery for others, just for fun.
Mayhem only for mayhem's sake.
Now that we exist in this short world
of now and then,
the longer world of why and when
cannot survive.
And we will have vague memories of when
we used to be alive.
There I was, stranded in a hull
Talking to a skull
While trapped in the Maw
of the deep
Cold Water at my knees
I started to plea,
"Why Sell my Soul to the Deep?"
While dead men say nothing
Cold Water at my thighs
Now i started speaking lies
"The doors creak shut, i tried,"
Empty black eyes gaze
Salt in the mouth, i began to taste
"I deplore you and this cursed ship"
All while the water rises in haste
Destroying the little hope left
Cold water at my neck
The lights now flicker and spec
Nothing more can be said,
as black surrounds me on all angles
Sigh
Someone say
Something
Sate my starving
Synaptic surges
That slowly but
Hopefully won't
Succumb to so
Stated selfless
Self-proclaimed
Salesmen and
Women
Selling
Subjective
Sylabbic
Alphabet
And omega
Steamed
Stodgy
Soup
That
I seemingly
Stir slightly
Swirling
With a
Spoon
While
Staring
Some
Where
Where
Babel has
Fallen into
Babble but
Silas sings
Off these
Shackles
So sing
I while
Silent
Stupid
Sheeple
Graze on
This page
And no one
Says anything
Sigh
In life,
What calls the heart becomes the legacy
We leave behind
And those endowed will assure that its destiny
Will be manifest in kind.
Builders of
Tombs and monuments, attempts at perpetuity
By those whose vainglories feared only mortality,
(Since at least Ozymandias)
Fade to pitiless objects of curiosity
Sans a life force for continuity.
Then
Mark my end with no icon of marble or of bronze
Whose fixèd stare dons but one gaze on and on.
Rather find me in those I taught
Shared with, loved and fought,
For
I am yours as surely as when I lived.
Summon me through times remembered
(The image of our laughing renews your smile)
And I will be yours again
In ways open to us now 'ere we began.
And
When comes the Call, whether your heart
Will heed
Can a legacy live and an endowment start
In deed.
Copyright Paul Thomson 2016
It's blisteringly dry.
Martian, winedark, overweight -
No lawns on this mesa of millet-baked pie,
To make this crater straight.
No spades here, no scraping rake.
Just sharp sticks, blood-bricked mortar.
Berbers camp here for old time's sake,
But can't stay; as there's no water.
In this sahara's nape,
There sinks this winderly dome.
Winedark, martian, squat-blooded black grape,
The Nomads' ruined home.
Its winedark walls're muralled,
Of a grand god grazed by honest plague.
His gentle green ways enmarbled,
Wonderfully weathered, and vague.
He sent no fire or floods,
So those drifters still kiss his hand.
He let grave waves pave their jungly woods,
In a lawnless scheme most grand.
Ancient bone-sands, sifting.
Campfire rise, boots trace.
Dead trees' shoots forever lifting
That Martian, winedark place.
The green god grins, in a mirror's embrace.
The dome, squat-blooded, has an ozyman grace;
If lawned, he'd have deserted it, its peoples displaced;
And there'd be less life living upon his face.
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