I hear a tight jazz quartet
smacking out lead-bottomed bass
tinkling a shaker, with a half-open hi-hat
some soft-fingered ivory tickling
peppered with a gritty groan
and cigarette smoke
I sit, and listen, and
I think to myself:
why can’t life be just like that?
-BSB
They walked to the pond
and the sun was warm,
it encouraged them to sit on a bench
and they sat awhile and talked.
A turtle sat on a log that lay
like a waiting crocodile in the pond,
while herons tred in outward arcs
in search of primordial nourishment.
“True enlightenment,” he said, “is a turtle sitting on a log.”
“Yes,” she said, “but reality is birds pecking your face.”
-BSB
-BSB
Suck dog water, you itchy scum.
I can’t believe your kind have survived this long.
You probably hold not a clue how reviled you are,
cushioned in your own delusion by a skull thick with illusion.
I hope you choke.
You fucking toad.
You won’t get away with your hateful game too long.
The wolves will hunt you down, make no mistake.
How you made it this far, you tainted scrap of humanity, I haven’t a clue.
Shouldn’t you have died off with the seven-legged mud crabs and trilobites?
You’re scum.
You’re worse than malaria.
Exile would be too kind.
What you deserve is incineration.
Death by massive fire-blasting until your hair crisps and skin curdles.
Your blackened crust will feed the urchins,
and any fortune you and your wretched ilk
will sink into the murky mire of obscurity.
When each of you swine meet your demises, I will dance and sing.
–BSB
–BSB
maybe we can get together for coffee
I can throw up all over you
and the little china cups, and cream, and tablecloth
you can sit there covered in bile
and tell me a story about somebody
you used to know
you can feel like you’re helping
it’ll be good for you
I’ll feel better for a while, knowing I
helped you out a bit
but your look is still sad
you’ll get the check, and I won’t fight
we’ll hug, and say fantastic things
“Call me anytime”
“I’m always here for you”
“I wish you well”
and then
I can go back to eating poison
and longing
for someone to care
–BSB
Never, oh! never, nothing will die... (Alfred Tennyson)
TemptationOfWords
by Lize Bard
A Podcast About the Writing Life
Welcome to my world.
"Diving into a writers soul is discovering the broken treasure and beautiful mysteries that make you gasp for air."
Word-Experimentalist
"Eye Fly High"
WELCOME TO om3ssa's MUSIC FREAKISHNESS AT THE WORLD WIDE WEB
let the conversation begin
Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment
But Still Living The Life
food family fun
Conjured by Sarah Doughty
Oh! Take a shit, read a story. - My Mother on flash fiction
"Die Kunst ist eine Tochter der Freiheit." - Friedrich Schiller
Trancension's VoiceBox
we are fish that play in a sea of light
Critical. Crazy. Catastrophic.
“The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” — Gustave Flaubert
My motherhood journey
Puking up Poetry, One Verse at a Time
- Chitkala
The chronicles of a new father
