Star-Thrower
Star-Thrower's JournalAre we ready to celebrate, of All Hallows' Eve?
Of course! Tis the seson to have fun and engage mischief.
Potus 45
Potus 45
He has tiny little hands
poor thing and a little round
pie hole mouth.
Does he have a tiny pee
wee penie? A weenie too
short to ... well let us not despair.
He has hair! long windswept hair!
That by god, covers his
insignificant little id or ego
or inferiority or impotence.
I'll go with that. Hark! All of
the above. Then there is
Melanoma. Oops I meant
Melania, the long suffering
first lady who would rather
return to the good 'ole days.
the days when she posed nude
in a photo spread for a
now-defunct French men’s magazine.
Poor thing now crying about
the damnedChristmas decorations
in the White House.
Well it will be soon over.
Melania will return to Slovenia and Trump
Will be headed to prison and our country will prevail
with a Biden presidency.
Jumping Into Waves
Jumping Into Waves
The waves washed up upon the shore
as the seagulls flashed grey against
the sun gone almost black cold sky.
Crying in the empty winds of summer's
day they dove then once more ascended,
as if trying to reach their distant stars.
There was no rain to soothe the violence
impending. Only yellow fog, stifling all in its
unnatural sweetening mood. Whatever rain
existed in the distance hung back as if in
fear. But there was no fear here. only
branches, silhouetted dark against the
sky, stark.
The sand had long since given up to grey.
no longer sparkling before dancing rays,
calm grains darkened to await nature's
wrath. Walking along this shore he knew.
He had learned once before, learned that
all nerve was only facing up to feelings
once felt.
Jumping into emotion waves and riding with
them until they died and lying on the beach
at sunset, exhausted and satisfied. He had
ridden the waves unto death. Whatever love
feelings he had could be likened to this
jumping into waves and floating back cold,
after the fall
Bus Trip From Montreal
Bus Trip From Montreal
The scattered remains,
strewn carelessly
here and there,
flutter down a
never-ending highway.
An endless sea
of unimportant faces,
erupting from what once was
tranquility,
is now fighting a hopeless
battle to retain
the importance
that once was.
The broken rotting bodies
left behind to fertilize
the younger fresher plants,
not yet set in their
growing habits,
turn to ashes
and ride with a wind
that cries "efforts wasted".
The barren desert
strains for the mountains
in the distance.
made entirely of thought,
they rise into the pitch sky,
ready to crumble if a new
strange dawn arises.
Flying in another country,
a faded tattered symbol
fights to regain dignity.
Forgotten it becomes but
a mockery.
On it's battered dead face
is a look, frozen, crying
to be burned.
Caught in a cement jungle
of uncomprehending minds
and twisted foreign tongues,
an alien wandered aimlessly,
lost in muddled thoughts,
caught and unable to escape.
The remains floated into
once visited, now forgotten
cities. picturing faces as they
once were known, brought a
cover of emptiness over
the alien's eyes.
Gaunt bodies with
piercing bleeding eyes
crouched together.
with thickened tongues
they went back over the
sea of faces, barren deserts
and rotting bodies.
The acrid odor of a
burning symbol
enveloped the wasteland
and stretched on to eternity. 1966
I hit all of the MSNBC talking points though this from
Ari Melber just got my optimism deflated on the election like a deflated balloon. https://worldnews.foredooming.com/msnbc/266800/
Still
Still
It is still. It met with
death so slowly,
so gradually, so
barely noticeably.
Fading finally, out of its
necessary,right now
existence, there was
no one to be left behind.
There was no one
left to touch this grief.
We are alone.
We have no one, you know,
to share deep mourning with.
Velvet blackness cloaks
the funeral night, night which
grieves starless.
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Member since: Tue Mar 3, 2020, 08:01 PMNumber of posts: 309
