Substance Versus Shadow
So, gentle critics, you would have me tilt,
Not at the guilty, only just at Guilt!
Spare the offender and condemn Offense,
And make life miserable to Pretense!
'Whip Vice and Folly-that is satire's use
But be not personal, for _that's_ abuse;
Nor e'er forget what, 'like a razor keen,
Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen.''
Well, friends, I venture, destitute of awe,
To think that razor but an old, old saw,
A trifle rusty; and a wound, I'm sure,
That's felt not, seen not, one can well endure.
Go to! go to!-you're as unfitted quite
To give advice to writers as to write.
I find in Folly and in Vice a lack
Of head to hit, and for the lash no back;
Whilst Pixley has a pow that's easy struck,
And though good Deacon Fitch (a Fitch for luck!)
Has none, yet, lest he go entirely free,
God gave to him a corn, a heel to me.
He, also, sets his face (so like a flint
The wonder grows that Pickering doesn't skin't)
With cold austerity, against these wars
On scamps-'tis Scampery that _he_ abhors!
Behold advance in dignity and state
Grave, smug, serene, indubitably great
Stanford, philanthropist! One hand bestows
In alms what t'other one as justice owes.
Rascality attends him like a shade,
But closes, woundless, o'er my baffled blade,
Its limbs unsevered, spirit undismayed.
Faith! I'm for something can be made to feel,
If, like Pelides, only in the heel.
The fellow's self invites assault; his crimes
Will each bear killing twenty thousand times!
Anon Creed Haymond-but the list is long
Of names to point the moral of my song.
Rogues, fools, impostors, sycophants, they rise,
They foul the earth and horrify the skies
With Mr. Huntington (sole honest man
In all the reek of that rapscallion clan)
Denouncing Theft as hard as e'er he can!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
To A Censor
Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend,
Impeach Delay and you will make an end.
Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot
For doing all the things that it should not.
Put not good-natured judges under bond,
But make Delay in damages respond.
Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled
Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold
Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled
To 'lash the rascals naked through the world.'
The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing
Above whose back your knotted scourges sing.
_Your_ satire, truly, like a razor keen,
'Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;'
For naught that you assail with falchion free
Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see.
Against abstractions evermore you charge
You hack no helmet and you need no targe.
That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice,
That wrong's not right and foulness never nice,
Fearless affirm. All consequences dare:
Smite the offense and the offender spare.
When Ananias and Sapphira lied
Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died.
When money-changers in the Temple sat,
At money-changing you'd have whirled the 'cat'
(That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen)
And all the brokers would have cried amen!
Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame
Have you no courage, or has he no name?
Upon his method will you wreak your wrath,
Himself all unmolested in his path?
Fall to! fall to!-your club no longer draw
To beat the air or flail a man of straw.
Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall
Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall.
Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal
Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel!
We know that judges are corrupt. We know
That crimes are lively and that laws are slow.
We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay;
That priests and preachers are but birds of pray;
That merchants cheat and journalists for gold
Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold.
'Tis all familiar as the simple lore
That two policemen and two thieves make four.
But since, while some are wicked, some are good,
(As trees may differ though they all are wood)
Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit,
The bad would sentence and the good acquit.
In sparing everybody none you spare:
Rebukes most personal are least unfair.
To fire at random if you still prefer,
And swear at Dog but never kick a cur,
Permit me yet one ultimate appeal
To something that you understand and feel:
Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade
You might be read if you would learn your trade.
Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed
Not one of you but all are here addressed)
Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart
Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart
Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green,
Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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A Political Violet
Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease
And talk as old friends do.
You talk of anything you please,
And I will talk of you.
You recently have said, I hear,
That you would like to go
To serve as Senator. That's queer!
Have you told William Stow?
Once when the Legislature said:
'Go, Stanford, and be great!'
You lifted up your Jovian head
And everlooked the State.
As one made leisurely awake,
You lightly rubbed your eyes
And answered: 'Thank you-please to make
A note of my surprise.
'But who are they who skulk aside,
As to get out of reach,
And in their clothing strive to hide
Three thousand dollars each?
'Not members of your body, sure?
No, that can hardly be:
All statesmen, I suppose, are pure.
What! there are rogues? Dear me!'
You added, you'll recall, that though
You were surprised and pained,
You thought, upon the whole, you'd go,
And in that mind remained.
Now, what so great a change has wrought
That you so frankly speak
Of 'seeking' honors once unsought
Because you 'scorned to seek'?
Do you not fear the grave reproof
In good Creed Haymond's eye?
Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof
And pass you coldly by?
O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich
Will rise from earth and point
At you a scornful finger which
May lack, perchance, a joint?
Go, Stanford, where the violets grow,
And join their modest train.
Await the work of William Stow
And be surprised again.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Verses Addressed to the Imitator of the First Satire of the Second Book Of Horace
In two large columns on thy motley page
Where Roman wit is strip'd with English rage;
Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence,
And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense:
Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought,
And on the other how he never wrote;
Who can believe, who view the bad, the good,
That the dull copyist better understood
That spirit he pretends to imitate,
Than heretofore that Greek he did translate?
Thine is just such an image of his pen,
As thou thyself art of the sons of men,
Where our own species in burlesque we trace,
A sign-post likeness of the human race,
That is at once resemblance and disgrace.
Horace can laugh, is delicate, is clear,
You only coarsely rail, or darkly sneer;
His style is elegant, his diction pure,
Whilst none thy crabbed numbers can endure;
Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure.
If he has thorns, they all on roses grow;
Thine like thistles, and mean brambles show;
With this exception, that, though rank the soil,
Weeds as they are, they seem produc'd by toil.
Satire should, like a polish'd razor, keen,
Wound with a touch, that's scarcely felt or seen:
Thine is an oyster-knife, that hacks and hews;
The rage, but not the talent to abuse;
And is in hate, what love is in the stews.
'Tis the gross lust of hate, that still annoys,
Without distinction, as gross love enjoys:
Neither to folly, nor to vice confin'd,
The object of thy spleen is humankind:
It preys on all who yield, or who resist:
To thee 'tis provocation to exist.
But if thou seest a great and generous heart,
Thy bow is doubly bent to force a dart.
Nor dignity nor innocence is spar'd,
Nor age, nor sex, nor thrones, nor graves, rever'd.
Nor only justice vainly we demand,
But even benefits can't rein thy hand;
To this or that alike in vain we trust,
Nor find thee less ungrateful than unjust.
Not even youth and beauty can control
The universal rancour of thy soul;
Charms that might soften superstition's rage,
Might humble pride, or thaw the ice of age.
But how should'st thou by beauty's force be mov'd,
No more for loving made than to be lov'd?
It was the equity of righteous Heav'n,
That such a soul to such a form was giv'n;
And shows the uniformity of fate,
That one so odious should be born to hate.
When God created thee, one would believe
He said the same as to the snake of Eve;
To human race antipathy declare,
'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war.
But oh! the sequel of the sentence dread,
And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head.
Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence,
The female scold's protection in offence.
Sure 'tis as fair to beat who cannot fight,
As 'tis to libel those who cannot write.
And if thou draw'st thy pen to aid the law,
Others a cudgel, or a rod, may draw.
If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue,
Or give thy manifold affronts their due;
If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain,
Unwhipt, unblanketed, unkick'd, unslain,
That wretched little carcase you retain,
The reason is, not that the world wants eyes,
But thou'rt so mean, they see, and they despise:
When fretful porcupine, with ranc'rous will,
From mounted back shoots forth a harmless quill,
Cool the spectators stand; and all the while
Upon the angry little monster smile.
Thus 'tis with thee: -- while impotently safe,
You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh.
Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees,
A puny insect shiv'ring at a breeze?
One over-match'd by every blast of wind,
Insulting and provoking all mankind.
Is this the thing to keep mankind in awe,
To make those tremble who escape the law?
Is this the ridicule to live so long,
The deathless satire and immortal song?
No: like the self-blown praise, thy scandal flies;
And, as we're told of wasps, it stings and dies.
If none do yet return th'intended blow,
You all your safety to your dulness owe:
But whilst that armour thy poor corse defends,
'Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends:
Those, who thy nature loath'd, yet lov'd thy art,
Who lik'd thy head, and yet abhorr'd thy heart:
Chose thee to read, but never to converse,
And scorn'd in prose him whom they priz'd in verse
Ev'n they shall now their partial error see,
Shall shun thy writings like thy company;
And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more
Than to thy person they would do their door.
Nor thou the justice of the world disown,
That leaves thee thus an outcast and alone;
For though in law to murder be to kill,
In equity the murder's in the will:
Then whilst with coward-hand you stab a name,
And try at least t'assassinate our fame,
Like the first bold assassin's be thy lot,
Ne'er be thy guilt forgiven, or forgot;
But, as thou hat'st be hated by mankind,
And with the emblem of thy crooked mind
Mark'd on thy back, like Cain by God's own hand,
Wander, like him, accursed through the land.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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The search
We slide the razor-blade against the skin,
Swallow the pill and stick the needle in,
But it never replaces what's missing,
We have just got to keep on searching,
What if we find it but then can't claim it,
What if we can never quite feel content,
What if we go and forfeit everything,
Just to find that we end up with nothing,
Be it a cold hand or a gentle touch,
We will learn there's no such thing as too much,
After all that's seen and all that is done,
We may just find something is someone,
What if we find them but then can't claim them,
What if the torment is too much to bear,
What if we then create an obsession,
Which makes us go completely insane.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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NO more SUNSHINE
A new morning arrives but I can't see the sun rise.
All I see is the darken clouds in my light-less skies.
Heavy rain pours down from the clouds on my worn surface
Lighten strike thunder roars another hard hit to embrace
Wind so bitter my skins feel like it's being slice with a razor blade
Everything is being up rooted by the wind that won't fade
I am hold on for life but I seen no end to this destructive force
It's not a known storm; no weather man could've seen the source
It's more like a predator/a carnivore and I'm the main course
Eating at my heart and soul nothing left no remorse
It's the darkness of storm on my most terrifying of days
I prefer my skin get slice repeated with Chicago wind's razor blade
No more tears can fall from these dark clouds of this rain storm
I must accept this faith/find my shelter, and move on
It's easy for me to say now but without you my divine
I feel the rest of my days I will have NO more SUNSHINE
poem by LoKis White
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Razor
===========================
Smashing Pumpkins - Razor
===========================
Razor in my hand
Nine little lines in someone's hand
Shot down from this group
I wish for something and I know it isn't home
Razor in my hand
Six little lines in someone's hand
Lay down, rest your head
You reach for something, and you feel something sting
Razor, razor, razor, razor
Want it
Now you rip apart who you are
Deliver
Yeah, you deliver who you are
Oh, razor
My little razor
Oh, razor
I wanna go
I wanna go
I'm like a junkie, I want it all
I wanna go
Want it
Now you rip apart who you are
Deliver
Yeah, you deliver who you are
Oh, razor
My little razor
My little razor
I wanna go
I wanna go
I'm like a junkie, I want it all
I wanna go
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mummery
THE TWO CAVEES
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
FITCH _a Pelter of Railrogues_
PICKERING _his Partner, an Enemy to Sin_
OLD NICK _a General Blackwasher_
DEAD CAT _a Missile_
ANTIQUE EGG _Another_
RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance
_Scene_-The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.
_Time_-1875.
FITCH:
Gods! what a steep declivity! Below
I see the lazy dump-carts come and go,
Creeping like beetles and about as big.
The delving Paddies-
PICKERING:
Case of _infra dig._
FITCH:
Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips
Come with but scant propriety from lips
Fringed with the blue-black evidence of age.
'Twere well to cultivate a style more sage,
For men will fancy, hearing how you pun,
Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun.
(_Enter Dead Cat._)
Here's one that thoughtfully has come to hand;
Slant your fine eye below and see it land.
(_Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw._)
DEAD CAT (_singing_):
Merrily, merrily, round I go-
Over and under and at.
Swing wide and free, swing high and low
The anti-monopoly cat!
O, who wouldn't be in the place of me,
The anti-monopoly cat?
Designed to admonish,
Persuade and astonish
The capitalist and-
FITCH _(letting go):_
Scat!
_(Exit Dead Cat.)_
PICKERING:
Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung!
Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young.
Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though
'Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we owe
The traitor one for leaving us!-some day
We'll get, if not his place, his cart away.
Meantime fling missiles-any kind will do.
_(Enter Antique Egg.)_
Ha! we can give them an _ovation_, too!
ANTIQUE EGG:
In the valley of the Nile,
Where the Holy Crocodile
Of immeasurable smile
Blossoms like the early rose,
And the Sacred Onion grows
When the Pyramids were new
And the Sphinx possessed a nose,
By a storkess I was laid
In the cool papyrus shade,
Where the rushes later grew,
That concealed the little Jew,
Baby Mose.
Straining very hard to hatch,
I disrupted there my yolk;
And I felt my yellow streaming
Through my white;
And the dream that I was dreaming
Of posterity was broke
In a night.
Then from the papyrus-patch
By the rising waters rolled,
Passing many a temple old,
I proceeded to the sea.
Memnon sang, one morn, to me,
And I heard Cambyses sass
The tomb of Ozymandias!
FITCH:
O, venerablest orb of all the earth,
God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!
Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw
I freely tender thee mine own. Although
As a bad egg I am myself no slouch,
Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.
Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and say
If-whoop!-
_(Exit egg.)_
I've got the range.
PICKERING:
Hooray! hooray!
A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:
It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!
Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,
And deafening odors scream along the skies!
Pelt 'em some more.
FITCH:
There's nothing left but tar-
wish I were a Yahoo.
PICKERING:
Well, you are.
But keep the tar. How well I recollect,
When Mike was in with us-proud, strong, erect
_Mens conscia recti_-flinging mud, he stood,
Austerely brave, incomparably good,
Ere yet for filthy lucre he began
To drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,
That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick
Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick.
_(Enter Old Nick)_.
I hope he won't return and use his arts
To make us part with our immortal parts.
OLD NICK:
Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;
For both your souls I wouldn't give a damn!
I want my tar-pot-hello! where's the stick?
FITCH:
Don't look at _me_ that fashion!-look at Pick.
PICKERING:
Forgive me, father-pity my remorse!
Truth is-Mike took that stick to spank his horse.
It fills my pericardium with grief
That I kept company with such a thief.
(_Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat and
the tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culprit
reproachfully and withdraws in tears._)
FITCH (_excitedly_):
O Pickering, come hither to the brink-
There's something going on down there, I think!
With many an upward smile and meaning wink
The navvies all are running from the cut
Like lunatics, to right and left-
PICKERING:
Tut, tut-
'Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke.
Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke.
(_They sit and light cigars._)
FITCH (_singing_):
When first I met Miss Toughie
I smoked a fine cigyar,
An' I was on de dummy
And she was in de cyar.
BOTH (_singing_):
An' I was on de dummy
And she was in de cyar.
FITCH (_singing_):
I couldn't go to her,
An' she wouldn't come to me;
An' I was as oneasy
As a gander on a tree.
BOTH (_singing_):
An' I was as oneasy
As a gander on a tree.
FITCH (_singing_):
But purty soon I weakened
An' lef' de dummy's bench,
An' frew away a ten-cent weed
To win a five-cent wench!
BOTH (_singing_)
An' frew away a ten-cent weed
To win a five-cent wench!
FITCH:
Is there not now a certain substance sold
Under the name of fulminate of gold,
A high explosive, popular for blasting,
Producing an effect immense and lasting?
PICKERING:
Nay, that's mere superstition. Rocks are rent
And excavations made by argument.
Explosives all have had their day and season;
The modern engineer relies on reason.
He'll talk a tunnel through a mountain's flank
And by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.
(_The earth trembles, a deep subterranean explosion is heard and a section of the bank as big as El Capitan starts away and plunges thunderously into the cut. A part of it strikes De Young's dumpcart abaft the axletree and flings him, hurtling, skyward, a thing of legs and arms, to descend on the distant mountains, where it is cold. Fitch and Pickering pull themselves out of the debris and stand ungraveling their eyes and noses._)
FITCH:
Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade,
And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.
PICKERING:
God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start.
Well, fate is fate-I guess I'll drive this cart.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Consultation
‘How are you feeling in general? ’ he asked.
‘Pretty good most of the time then I get these occasional black periods when nothing makes sense and I fear the worst’ I replied.
‘Hmm, any suicidal thoughts? ’ he asked thoughtfully as if embarrassed to ask the question.
I thought for a moment.
‘Well, not really. No, not really’ was all I could say.
He made some notes at this point.
‘And those times of feeling good’ he asked ‘what are they like? ’
‘Like the sun is shining and I feel on top of the world’.
‘But there’s no real reason for that? ’ he asked ‘you just feel good and that’s it? ’
‘Yeah’ I replied.
‘What about your libido? ’ he asked as if enquiring what brand of beer I liked.
‘Funnily that’s pretty good’ I said smiling.
He frowned.
‘Is there any guilt that you feel? ’ he probed.
‘Do you feel guilty when you feel good or see others around you far less well off than you are? ’
‘I guess I do. I feel bad that I can’t feel that good all the time and also sad for those worse than me’.
‘But not real guilt? ’
‘No. Not really’.
‘So you feel bad at times but not guilty? ’
‘Guess not’
‘Do you ever feel bad about not feeling guilty? ’
He knew I was lost at this point and changed tack.
‘When did you last masturbate? ’ he threw in.
‘Can’t remember’ I said startled.
He made some notes.
‘So, you feel guilty about masturbation? ’ he continued.
‘No, not at all’.
‘But you don’t remember when you last did it? ’ he said with a manner of distaste and disbelief.
‘Not really’.
At this point I did not know where all this was going.
‘Do you go to church? ’ he asked.
‘No’
‘Why not? ’
‘Can’t see the point’
‘So why are you here? ’
At this point the confessional ended.
I had been diagnosed as not having enough guilt or grief or angst to be normal and no further help or counselling could be offered.
But, at long last, I felt truly guilty.
So, perhaps, I will find redemption one day.
poem by David Keig
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Razor blade
Razor blade razor blade
Sharpe glass shards
Knife blades
And all things sharpe.
These are my only friends
They slice into my flesh
Crimson blood flows.
Blood and sharps
Their my only friends
Razor sharp
To cut my skin
Get the badness out
Leaving trails of blood
Many scars left behind
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Levitate
Feel Heavy
Once Felt it... Hard
Question an answer
For a thousand days
Give birth to the Earth
Then let it drift away
Open and flow
Just swinging forever
Making love to the ground
Because it just feels better
It ain't easy
Drink it in
Think a while... Spit
There's both shining and darkness
Yet they share a day
Was there a man on a cross
Or was it just a fake
Even in shame
You can't hide your growth
Though the butterfly flies
He's sinking like a stone
The killing sun
It hurts my eyes
And comes hard
Onto my skin
And as I find shade
From tree to tree
I live to learn
To dig down deep
I feel the pain
And love the hurt
I don't complain
Trancing in the grass
Suck it off the world
When you're full of it
Shrug, feel fortunate
Then go where levitation lives
Where aggravation grows
Where sleeping's too hard
On the thinking bone
Intensity is what I need
To suffer for the pleasure
Its heat, hard, life and death
Living all together
In a small room
Full of me and my friends
Trying to find the means
To justify the end
song performed by by I Mother Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mothers Recognition
as a teen of 19 sits on her bed
trying yet again to not to believe that her older lover wasn't drinking again
but the bruises and cuts that lay on her body say other wise
razor blade in one hand
while praying to God to take away the loneliness
take away the emptiness she has felt for so long
she doesn't want to end it like this but she will if it comes down to it
tears roll down her face
but she doesn't see any reason to keep caring on with this life of hers
nothing to live for
nothing important enough to stay in the miserable thing we all call life
the tears are clouding her judgment making her think that nothing matters any more
she takes another hit of the pot to take away the pain
because her bruised and broken body feels like huge stakes are being driven into it
and someone is beating around them with a club
but on the other hand she can still feel his fists shooting into her broken and bruised body
that makes her twinge at the thought of that same morning
tears fall onto her up turned wrist as she places the razor blade and starts to cut into her wrist the door opened as a young boy about the age of 3 with dark brown hair with light brown eyes comes in and says 'Mommy what are you doing? '
her eyes start to uncloud as soon as his eyes met hers
they reached into her soul and replaced a piece of her heart
at that moment something came to her
she didn't have nothing because she was looking at everything that she would ever need to live for
that little boy should be her world
only she didn’t know it right away because the things that she charished the most were the things that were too close to see
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Lovely Razor
Cut deep lovely razor
Into my tender flesh
Release the scarlet torrents
Flow free
Bright and fresh
Scar me lovely razor
Where ever you can touch
Let me lean upon you
My shiny silver crutch
I ask you lovely razor
Make my outside match the in
So the world sees what's it done
And that they might just win
Heal me lovely razor
Of the pain deep in my soul
And keep my feelings locked up tight
Now that is my end goal
Stop me lovely razor
Before I cut to deep
Or else I shall be on my owm
In the long and final sleep
Don't my lovely razor
Cross the empty void
For I want to rest in peace
Cause my life you've destroyed
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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For President, Leland Stanford
Mahomet Stanford, with covetous stare,
Gazed on a vision surpassingly fair:
Far on the desert's remote extreme
A mountain of gold with a mellow gleam
Reared its high pinnacles into the sky,
The work of _mirage_ to delude the eye.
Pixley Pasha, at the Prophet's feet
Piously licking them, swearing them sweet,
Ventured, observing his master's glance,
To beg that he order the mountain's advance.
Mahomet Stanford exerted his will,
Commanding: 'In Allah's name, hither, hill!'
Never an inch the mountain came.
Mahomet Stanford, with face aflame,
Lifted his foot and kicked, alack!
Pixley Pasha on the end of the back.
Mollified thus and smiling free,
He said: 'Since the mountain won't come to me,
I'll go to the mountain.' With infinite pains,
Camels in caravans, negroes in trains,
Warriors, workmen, women, and fools,
Food and water and mining tools
He gathered about him, a mighty array,
And the journey began at the close of day.
All night they traveled-at early dawn
Many a wearisome league had gone.
Morning broke fair with a golden sheen,
Mountain, alas, was nowhere seen!
Mahomet Stanford pounded his breast,
Pixley Pasha he thus addressed:
'Dog of mendacity, cheat and slave,
May jackasses sing o'er your grandfather's grave!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Ripples in spine
Many years have passed since then
You were insisting to join me often
It used to send me ripples in spine
But I was comfortable and feeling fine
My heart beats used to rise alarmingly
I was not in sad state but felt warmly
You had deep sense of pride and honor
I was unable to stand even on floor
Yet I was very much dreaming
She was like home coming
I never thought she may vanish all of sudden
I had no slightest idea even
I did not dare to open my mind
I could see lines on her face and find
It revealed me untold truth
It needed no words or proof
I have no regret of loosing her
She was always willing to come here
The luck would have it and she was gone
I remained cut off as things remained undone
Even today I feel she belonged to me
Even though I was not totally free
She may be seen several times nearby
I never intended to see her or try
Her close association would have made me sink
I was never out of touch and it made me think
I thought of old acquaintance but brushed aside
It was improper for me to go so much wide
I had cried several nights
I don’t know whether it was wrong or right
Yet I felt her absence as great loss
She meant to be precious jewel as she was
If ever I could disclose to her about my desire
It should not have been proved satire
I remained alone through out
I learnt it wisely what the life is all about
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Tongue
Thank you for the time.
Like a razor kiss my wound.
Cut me to open.
Im ready to use.
Bring the newer ending sense.
I need the comfort of a stranger.
Eighteen years all the wait.
Like a razor kiss my wound.
Thank you for the touch.
Like a razor kiss my wound.
Cut me to open.
song performed by by Underworld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Razor Blade Alley
Oooo I didnt talk too much, in fact not at all
But to ask for the price I was to be no fool,
Moneys no time to waste or to shoot up the wall
Yyou got the know how, the place did you take media school
She led the way from the alley back to her house
Must not be seen going in must not be seen coming out.
She said I looked mighty but thin
She told me im gonna give you a second helping
Oooo razor blade alley, Ive been there,
Razor blade alley neither of us cared
It was the prime time but the wrong place
It was my first time, I hope my last date
Im just to shy to check in, but this pain of these razors is cutting in
Oooh felt like a knight without shining armour on at the time
She thought she was in a dream, floating up on cloud nine
Now I awake,
She is nowhere,
But the razor cuts deeper everywhere.
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Remnants
Wasting your life on the sidewalk
When you can be out on the street, dodging cars
As they go by, the wind goes right through you
Life on the edge of a razor
Never knowing when youre to fall
Sure as hell beats never gambling at all
Lifes too short to just barely exist
Wide spread mediocracy
Will suck you up, resist
Another number on a list
I dont want it, you can have it
You can try, but you wont make me
Feel the things you feel
Ill take my chances, till I find a better deal
Ill take my chances, along with all the rest
The snail goes over the razor blade
The suicide squad of lemmings parade
To their kingdom, where theyve made reservations
I have no reservation
I dont think my seats been saved
Ill take my chances, here, right
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Took 74 People To Put A Smile Back On My Face (TV Advert)
Jenny's the name and that's the truth
And I was struck down in my youth
Such that my face was scarred and bruised!
Yet seeking help, was not refused!
A noble team surrounded me,
In hopes to set a new smile free,
And skills beyond the norm were found
To turn the suffering around.
Now I can smile a gentle grin
And admiration I still win
Yet all depended on my team
Who guided me throughout the dream
That once I thought would never end
Until I saw each as my friend.
The world in which we live goes on,
Man's sufferings have not all gone.
Perhaps my smile will give you faith
Enough to help you to be brave,
Enough to grant you time to heal,
Like me, when life seemed so unreal.
You'll see me on your tv sets
Acknowledging that I have debts
To those who gave their skills and time,
'I give you thanks, you're all sublime!
Your patience and your dignity,
Your humour and humility,
Your steadfast love and steadfast care,
Your hopes for me contained in prayer...
I'll not forget the love I've known
That blessed me though I felt alone...
I pray God sees my every smile
And blesses you a long, long while! '
And to the ones who watch tv,
A special smile direct from ME!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Sonnet XXII: With Fools and Children
To Folly
With fools and children, good discretion bears;
Then, honest people, bear with Love and me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by years,
Amongst the rest of fools and children be;
Love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys,
And, like a wanton, sports with every feather,
And idiots still are running after boys,
Then fools and children fitt'st to go together.
He still as young as when he first was born,
No wiser I than when as young as he;
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorn;
Give Nature thanks you are not such as we.
Yet fools and children sometimes tell in play
Some, wise in show, more fools indeed than they.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Uncle's Shave.
Uncle’s Shave.
You used to watch Uncle
shave in front of the small mirror
propped on the edge
of the kitchen sink,
his face lathered
in white soap,
his cutthroat razor
held just a short distance
from his skin
by his right hand,
as the other hand
held the skin taut
in preparation
of the razor’s slide.
You stood behind
fascinated,
your young eyes
searching the mirror’s world
of Uncle’s face
and the performers start.
Uncle watched you
in the mirror,
his lips breaking
into a small smile,
the razor held
just above his ear,
his eyes staring above
the shaving foam,
taking in
your fascinated gaze,
the open mouth,
your hands copying
Uncle’s motion
in pretend shave.
Uncle drew the razor down
his cheek in slow motion,
the face becoming visible
as the soap gave way,
the hand dipping
the razor in water
to rid of foam,
to begin again,
more soap removed,
more skin revealed.
You copied Uncle,
but not so skilled.
poem by Terry Collett
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