love is the answer
to a question
that should never be asked
should ever have to say
do you love me
do you like me
why don’t you like me
what is wrong with me
why must i be banished from the tribe
why must i be hanged
why must i be burned at the stake
why must i be stoned
what are you all laughing at
by nicholas nelson
i woke up this morning with a feeling of despair
and cried because i wasn’t getting my share
everybody was mean to me
but all i wanted was too be free
the day will dawn and the sun will shine
but i won’t get what is rightfully mine
my fellow humans will pass me by
and not give a darn if i laugh or cry
the wheels will roll and the markets climb
but no one will throw me a lousy dime
and no matter how much i shout and insist
they will just keep on like i don’t exist
if everybody would treat me nice
i wouldn’t have to pay this price
the sun would shine and the ice would melt
and i would be just like everybody else
by charles leary
fuck all you motherfucking assholes, you motherfucking pieces of shit
you raped and murdered us for a million years, but we have had enough of it
now is the time for payback, to make you assholes pay
now is the time for truth, listen to what i say
the world is a bucket of blood, coming to a boil
because all you care about is the price of oil
the world is going up in flames
because of your patriarchal games
the world is going up in smoke
you think it is all a joke
you light your cigars as oceans die
laugh as your profits multiply
once humans walked the earth in peace
sharing the earth with the other beasts
in mother earth’s enfolding gaze
time flowed on as one blue day
tigers, dinosaurs, monkeys, elephants
united in one cosmic dance
creatures too numerous to name
all treating each other the same
and then against a darkening sky
a strange figure drew nigh
a long shadow in the setting sun
a white man - with a gun
the rest of course, is history
a cavalcade of misery
an endless dick up an endless ass
bringing us to our present pass
so fuck all you motherfucking assholes, you motherfucking pieces of shit
you have raped and murdered for a million years, but we have had enough of it
now is the time for revolution, to make you bastards pay
now is the time for truth - time for the final new day
by arthur dylan sternwall
war was bad
but it was ail we had
in rain and wind and snow
around the campfire’s glow
passing time in song and story
of battle's immortal glory
what tales we told
as we shivered in the cold
the winners got to eat
and those who knew defeat
were immortalized in tales
handed down through winter’s gales
and when the sun burned bright
after yet another night
we put away our fears
and gathered up our spears
with our weapons on our shoulders
let the earth grown warm or colder
each day another test
until our final heroes rest
by regina stapledon
would be nice
don’t you think?
instead of blowing people to bits
and cutting heads off
and dropping bombs
and shooting drones
all over the world
why can’t everybody
just get along?
what is there to fight about?
one holy book instead of another?
come on, people
let’s try it!
you might like it
by corinne delmonico
adolf hitler was famous
so was marilyn monroe
and elvis’s name will live forever
as long as time does flow
mao with his smile, stalin with his laugh
winston churchill, alexander the great
cleopatra floating down the nile
defy the sneering ravages of fate
salome, little david, leonardo
michaelangelo ,and joan of arc
their names and faces in twenty billion brains
and not just statues in your local park
jane austen, einstein, queen victoria
look down on us from olympus and smile
they will live forever
you and i will be gone in a little while
franks sinatra, jack the ripper, andy warhol
you say they only had their fifteen minutes
at least their names are written in the book
but you and i will never even be in it
why does this make us sad?
why do we care?
some day the earth will finally freeze over
and even they will vanish into air
jeanette had left the window open, the breeze gently moved the lace curtains, and the rain fell softly on the persian rug.
when clement came home for lunch, he was furious to find that the lace curtains were billowing in the breeze, and that the rain was falling on the persian rug.
he became doubly enraged when, placing his keys on the teak table inside the oak door, he heard the sounds of henriette, the maid , making love with her boy friend upstairs in the master bedroom.
where was jeanette? clement decided he would deal with her later.
controlling his fury, he crossed the kitchen floor, almost slipping on some water which had leaked in from the drawing room where the window had been left open, and descended the cellar stairs in search of his riding crop, with which he was determined to give the saucy baggage and her fancy man a sound thrashing.
clement realized only too well that things had changed since his grandfather the duke’s time, but there were still amenities to be observed.
reaching the foot of the cellar stairs, clement was surprised by a gigantic purple python, which promptly devoured him.
the rain continued to fall through the window of the drawing room on to the persian rug, gradually flowing into the kitchen, and into the hallway under the teak table on which clement had placed his keys, as the python digested clement.
upstairs in the master bedroom, henriette and the boy friend, a worthless fellow who lived off women and had never done an honest day’s work in his life, paused in their lovemaking to light cigarettes.
“i had better open a window,” mused henriette. “or madame will notice the smell of smoke when she returns.”
“suit yourself,“ the boy friend replied languidly.
“listen!” henriette exclaimed , as she wrapped herself in a shawl and headed toward the window, “do you hear something?”
“only the sound of the rain, cheri.”
“i am not so sure,” henriette replied. she opened a window and a sudden gust of wind and rain burst into the room, overturning a framed photograph on the mantel of the fireplace.
the photograph was an old black and white one, of clement’s grandfather, the duke, standing on a pier with a pipe in his mouth, smiling determinedly but with his habitual furrowed brow, into the camera.
behind the duke a yacht rode gently at anchor in the mediterranean sunlight.
“listen!” henriette cried again, after picking up the photograph - which fortunately had not been cracked or damaged - from the bedroom floor and placing it back on the mantel, “there is the sound again!”
“it is only the wind, which you have so foolishly let in.”
“no, it is something else! something coming up the stairs!”
it was the python, which had finished digesting clement and had come up the stairs and entered the ground floor through the open kitchen door.
finding nothing in the kitchen, the drawing room, the library, or the dining room, the python was making its way up the stairs to the bedrooms.
henriette opened the bedroom door a crack and peered down the stairs.
“a python!” she exclaimed.
the boy friend did not wait to hear more. quickly gathering his shoes and clothes, he was out the window and down the old sycamore tree outside the window, not pausing to listen to henriette’s anguished cries as the python wrapped itself around her pale slender body.
“what a pretty fellow” thought madame duquesne, the nearest neighbor, as she happened to look out her window and saw the boy friend running past in the rain with his clothes in his arms.
later that afternoon, the python was seen making its leisurely way across the village square by madame claudette martin, who was driving her two daughters to their dancing class, and she promptly notified the authorities.
when jeanette arrived home she found the house in a shambles, for besides devouring clement and henriette, the large python had overturned and damaged many of the oldest and most valuable chairs and tables and bookcases, a number of which had been in clement’s family for centuries.
jeanette was well nigh inconsolable. “this is all my fault,” she kept repeating to her friend celeste, with whom she had been gossiping all afternoon in the coffee shop at the mall.
“these things happen,” celeste assured her. “they are fate. they are written in the stars.”
they were seated at the kitchen table, holding hands. police were tramping through the house with their cameras and notebooks attempting to determine the details of the tragedy.
flashbulbs kept going off, each new one causing jeanette to jump in her chair.
my old friend f————— was, to put it perhaps a bit uncharitably, the most ostentatiously cultured man i ever knew. though largely an autodidact, and having no official connection to any university or other cultural institution, he had strong views, which he was not loath to share, on a wide variety of subjects, but particularly architecture and literature. i have to confess i have forgotten exactly what his views on the former were , not having any strong opinions on the subject myself. in literature he was partial to the poets of the renaissance. he seemed unaware that few people - at least in the english speaking world - nowadays read or have the slightest interest in petrarch, boiardo, tasso, and ariosto , and i would on occasion gently twit him about this.
he also had an encyclopedic acquaintance with the nineteenth century novel, not just the acknowledged masters like balzac and dickens but forgotten authors like nodier, paul de kock, mrs braddon, and mrs trollope.
as you might have suspected, he held the tastes and manners of the modern age in the most severe contempt. in this, he found little opposition at the club we both frequented.
he was reticent as to his personal life, if any , and though no foe to food and drink, could not be styled a gourmet, an oenophile, a glutton, or a drunkard.
it was therefore with some surprise that i listened to his statement late one night when we were alone at the club - with the fire burning low and a couple of emptied bottles between us - that his fondest dream had always been to be - a lumberjack.
not because he particularly enjoyed the thought of felling trees or because he relished the company of other lumberjacks, but because it would afford him the opportunity to indulge in huge hearty meals of ham, bacon, eggs, potatoes, and flapjacks, which he would then work the bulk of off in a long day of vigorously swinging his axe, followed by a sound night’s sleep, and awake to a new morning of more hearty meals of ham, bacon, eggs, etc…
such was his vision of true felicity.
my rejoinder to this confidence, if any, i have quite forgotten.
although f———— continued to frequent the club until his sad demise, neither he nor i ever alluded to this conversation again.