Page 1 of 1


PostPosted: June 26, 2011, 12:13:14 AM
by Lipinski
In honor of all writers who will read the following.

Good talk the other night. Good to see Va is still a part of the country.

Word Nazi's

By You know what I'm talking about

Chain tied to the ball of the Bic pen.
Keyboard letters worn thin.
Carpal tunnel, no syndrome physical yet the mind, your mind, my mind, knows the pain.
"I'm sorry," you hear written, driving more cyber daggers deeper inside.
"Try again later," time after time.
"Join our writers club, you will surely win," for profit, for them? Or is it personal gain.
I have the solution, the answer, the joy of a sick mind.
Stretch the body on rack of pain.
Not enough?
Try knives, spears, splinters under the nails, try hard for revenge.
Body cooling, blood dry, limbs dangle loosely, Oh! I feel such joy inside!
To spy such a scene, it is wonderful pleasure to see the word Nazi feel a writers pain.
Only brief is the moment, there are too many of them.
They keep on coming, breeding, multiplying by a factor of ten.
Such is the fact of the modern day world.
There is no escaping them.
Only through my writing can I show the true face of what I call 'them'.
Moment is broken, gone is the joy.
Back now to writing, to slavery, to submit yet again to their whim.
But twinkle of star, twinkle of eye, twinkle followed by grin.
I look forward to doing battle once more with the evil word Nazi.
Eventually, the writer will win.
The end

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 26, 2011, 10:08:00 AM
by Lester Curtis
Nice! I like it.

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 26, 2011, 03:40:11 PM
by rick tornello
Just remember, the pen may be mightier than the gun, as long as you stay out of range, for a long enough time.


Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 26, 2011, 04:12:45 PM
by Lipinski
Mighty gun, Mighty pen

By running low on ammo

Sounds splintering the air while death bells toll, metal shell fragments pulling the long history of war's handle.
Generals spell their soldiers doom, signing signature with bloodied quill.
"Charge you hounds of Hell, do you want to live forever?"
Reams of paper to pay, to send, to kill those who follow.
Weapons of war.
Weapons of words.
Bullets or pen, brothers, sisters, enemy, friend.
Some say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Others say my army will make slaves of them.
I laugh, I chuckle, I make no pretense as I truly know why.
The mind...
The mind is the power over the sword or the pen.
The mind you possess is what can take possession over men.
The end

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 26, 2011, 09:12:26 PM
by rick tornello
Outside the halls of power
those of us w/o the friends of influence
our daily lives, we go
our daily rounds
and, bread of frustrations,
believing the concoctions on the screens
while others
refuse to turn it on, or turn it in
not wanting the lies
listened to,

like a lover caught
inflagrante delecto
"would you believe me or your lying eyes?"

And we pay our taxes, tea taxed crackered piecemeal,
dollar by dollar, fee by fee
in the land of the living and the land of the free
to lower tax rate claimed,
well maybe, until the bell tolls total up, and the cash is due.

and ll the rest
dust today and us , next.

To rise again, to sum other time,
commit the same or similar crimes
same results, again,
so what!
big deal,
death brings an end to the simmering plots
great and small,
while a great crunch ends it all,
and from that singularity
possible, if the physics are correct,
another go at it again.


Shiva sleeps again.

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 27, 2011, 01:29:04 PM
by Lipinski
Cosmic poker

By it never ends

Shiva: Jud, Hindu, shank between the ribs.
Let's not pretend the stakes are low when politicians' egos, power hunger, is high.
Power, those are the stakes my friend.
Seeing those, I'll raise you GERMANIC, ARAB, and call.
Oil, lust, sexual dominance of trust, religious rants, the pile gets higher than high.
TV, actors, such is life some choose to live by.
Cards now, are on the table.
Shuffle the cards closely, keep your eye on the prize.
This piss-pot planet of water is but one game in the Universal poker game of life.
Are you all in? Are your cards on the table?
Even if we cheat, we will never win.
After death, there is more death, in the end, death wins.
In the end, angels weep.
In the end, it is where the true game begins.
The end

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 27, 2011, 01:54:20 PM
by Robert_Moriyama
Welcome to Ded Poetry Jam...

C'mon, guys, if you keep this up, you won't have anything to submit to the Poetry editor. (Of course, that may be your diabolical plan -- to avoid Iain Muir's wickedly sharp editor's pencil...)


Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 27, 2011, 09:49:24 PM
by Lipinski
Endless pencil

By much sharper than the pen.

Never, ever, does inspiration run thin.
Soupy mix, blood bone brain matter brings to light the word.
Spoken or written, it never ends.
Neural synapses, clicking fingers, grasping tight the number two pencil.
Flick of the wrist, taking time for a tryst, it bubbles forth where it matters.
Show me love of a woman, I'll show you the words that she follows.
Show me love of a man, I'll show you the words that he follows.
Flick of the wrist, this yellow pencil, hacking apart the word.
Flick of the wrist, I print this matter because this is what it is.
Bubble forth this brain of mine.
Spoken or written, it never ends.
Flick of the wrist, with time for a tryst, it only gets better with time.
Iain works hard, this is true, sharp of eye and heart.
But wicked 'no', it is his nature to make the writer work hard.
To him shall there follow, the poems from our hearts.
To you shall there follow, stories released from our brains.
To the reader shall there be the choice as there is 'enter' or 'delete'.
To all, do as you please, but take warning, do not become addicted to writing else you share my disease.
The end

Re: Dead-'I'-cation

PostPosted: June 29, 2011, 02:04:21 AM
by Lipinski
Oh my Zog!

By don't click on it if you don't want to read it

Maestro manifest sleight of hand, wand hammering metal, smashing wind,smiling stands.
Music, ahhhhhh, sweet music, still his hands wave on.
Mayhem masked by sound, by motion, swells beneath their feet.
Young lovers loving, quiet and discrete, listening to their own music, their own hearts beating.
Sounds bouncing.
Lovers sighing.
Audience pleased.
Maestro manifest sleight of hand, speed growing with the bass drum beat.
Clapping, not yet.
Ecstasy, not yet.
Cymbals clashing.
Maestro hands dashing the air with greater speed.
Oh, if only the floor boards beneath could speak.
Closer now, closer, listen, can you hear?
It's coming soon, closer, this musical masterpiece.
Sweat dropping from lips locked in rhythm, timing almost complete.
Maestro head high, swinging arms high, chest heaving as is she.
Final reverberation, it overwhelms the senses.
Lights go on.
Fireworks fire.
Crowds jump to their feet.
Clapping, cheering, Maestro faces bends and bows.
In this moment of pleasure, sounds come from beneath.
" Zog! Oh mein Zog! Ick bien liebe dich."
The end