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Archive for January, 2012

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

The harshness of winter has not tamed my animal spirit for I am The Black Orchid, immortal and Bitch Extraordinaire. Cherish the memory of a red bird perched on a snowy branch of a tree or the quality of light filtering through icicles, or the brutal cold which makes you eyes tear. Worship all life brings you for you are impermanent.

Comes the rain, comes the thunder, comes the snow or hell and high waters, I shall survive, and so shall you. One does not always solve problems: sometimes one perseveres. Be stout of heart and no graceless, wilting flower, you. “Do not go gentle into that good night” said the poet, Dylan Thomas. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

I can never die and so many lives have flashed across my mind’s eye. Caligula, all drunk and sweating like a hog, drinking the gushing blood of a baby lamb. I so hated that man and was a slave girl, anonymous and forlorn, forced to satisfy his morbid lusts. Sometimes, I imagine I still have his vulgar stench on my flesh. I was not as powerful then as I am now. I loved the boy king of ancient Egypt, Tut Than Kamen, so creative and a lover of beauty. Neferititi rivaled me in beauty yet it was doomed to fade like dew on a rose Carpe Diem, Darlings, Seize the Moment. And I knew the greatest man of all, Jesus Christ. His limpid brown eyes radiated a power and goodness I had never seen before then or now. I gave Him water as he hung on the cross and proffered food which he refused. The blood was sluicing down his face in the hot summer air and I felt a sense of loss so profound I thought my heart would leap out of my chest.

Time flies and that is the only constant in living. I remember the ancient Sphinx, the pyramids, Stone Hinge, all the marvels of the ancient world as if it were yesterday. Carpe Diem, time flies like a gentle, moon drenched maiden tip toeing across a clover laden meadow. It is not the destination, Darlings: it’s the journey. Thousands of sunsets have I basked in like a happy lioness. Yet it is not only the quality of light: It is the secrets lurking in the soft, misty darkness that matter.

I am genetically related to the cat family, as my mother, a tribal shaman, mated with a male lion and begat me, dying in child birth. My early years were spent with the pride of lions and I still have the taste for a fresh kill. Thus I emerged from her womb in rage and beauty, glutinous for life. In my eleventh year, Ibrahim, a wise old man, and a wizard, enticed me away from the pride of lions, and he taught me, Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin and all the ancient languages, and the wisdom of the ages.

I so enjoy the things of this world. The taste of a fresh banana to me is a form of happiness and I love the grapes burst forth in such sweetness on my tongue. I no longer eat meat though I do crave it. But I never eat to the full for I cherish the raw feeling of hunger. I cherish my lustfulness and engage often in sexual congress. I relish my acolytes in the act a of love, their jutting cocks, honeyed kisses and their tears after coming. I take about five a night. It’s not that they are deficient: strong, muscular and able bodied are they all. It’s just that my orgasm is like Krakatoa, too hot for mortals, like a wash of lava and ash. And I growl when I come and this sometimes frightens them. So, I disengage as I climax so as not to injure them with the violence of my sainted loins.

I am here to tell you to worship the gift of life. Sadness is merely an unrhymed cadence: free verse if you will. Drain not your friends with tears and woe for unhappiness is contagious. Keep a stout, heart, Ye Mortals, and relish every moment for the grave awaits, an old man with a sickle, and yellow eyes. Cheat him with your happiness. Life is Lush, my friends.

htto://youtube.com/user/carolbond007
CAROL ANN author of Poems of Thunder @ Amazon.com &BN.com

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AUTHOR OF 2 BOOKS. CAROL ANN

CATFISH JOE & DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL & TROUBLE – a comedic character study of a black street preacher, a tough & tender man given to philosophizing about life

POEMS OF THUNDER (NOIR & WHIMSY) – Noir Poems of Tainted Love

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THE CURIOUS CASE OF MR. ADZHOLE SILLYPEDER

Y’al, this be Ol’ Wanda Lust, crack ‘ho. You aint heard from me in long a time. I been trickin’ and do’in my thang wid’ the mens. I done dressed up like a Nazi Commando and beat this guy’s ass wid’ a cat o’ nine tails. It were a tad bit ironic in the fact that Hitler aint have no real love fo’ blacks. Whatevah. Then I go wid this other freak name oF Roy, a big fat red neck and he got the Henry VIII thang where he cook food like roast beef, peas, and mashed taters and eat it off my body, and I got to act real mean and I sez, “You aint no king, You aint no king,” and he bawl his eyes out and say, “I am, too, bitch.” People be strange I tell ya. I be glad my hubby, Ol’ Fat Harold, aint no weirder than he is.

So Auntie Carol and Lady Lynda Got this Peppermint Love Agency and they helps all the po’ unfortunates and they wants me to help raise money fo’ the po’ people whut aint got no roof over they heads, food to eat, families evicted from they homes and crippled shut ins. They gets they clients from welfare. Some be mentally or physically handicapped sometimes. You know people whut think they got God and his holy angels singin’ in they left sneaker. They even got a full fancy kitchen where they feeds three meals to anyone who come in. They go glad handing all over the city and they got this one weirdo they ‘fraid to see but he Howard Hughes Kind of rich. They heard he was half spider or some shit. Gurl, I seen stranger thangs b’lieve me. Supposedly this guy got some kind of serious defect but he rich as Croesus.

So I goes to his high rise townhouse on Rittenhouse Square, and I be all dressed in my black leather jump suit to look professional. This Voo Doo type bitch answer the do’ and she act like I trash and I pushes past her like Dame Astor, thank ya very much. I don’t have no truck wid’ uppity bitches whut look like they got out of a open grave. Fuckit, I aint take no dissing from the help. Then I see him all dressed in a black three peace suit like some damn old black beetle. And he got six arms and they all do’in somethin’ different, Lord Mercy! And he said in this real scratchy voice, “No, I am not Vishnu,” and he crack hisself up. He git’ in a real fit of cackles. Now, I knows Vishnu is an Indian God and this man kind of a Capucchino color like an Indian. I knowed he wasn’t no white man and got an accent like Peter Sellers when he did his Indian comedy. I notice he got sharp pointy teeth covered with spider web and I looks around and sees he got spider web all over and books piled on top of books. And his fingernails all long and black as outer space and it were’nt painted on. He git’ up and push some books on the flo’ so’s I can sit down. I see one book which say “Arachnaphobia.” Phobia mean fear, I know that.

Sit here, Miss, You may call me Adzhole: As you already know my last name is Sillypeder. I understand you want me to help you with your charity. One of this hands was drumming on the couch while another while another tried to straighten his long tangled black hair. With a third he offered me some chocolate bon bons. “Take only two as I may have occasion to offer them again as I get a lot of visitors.”

I got real bold and asked if he was expectin’ someone else. He raised all his hands in the air and waved “No, no”. Shit, aint nobody come to see this man. I knowed it.

“No, but you can never tell, can you. After all you’re here aren’t you?” he queried giving me the most goofy smile I ever seen. He look like one of those yellow smiley faces or that Koolaid character, “goofy grape”.

I cuts sto the chase, “Given your vast fortune, we were thinking about one mil? What you say Mistah Adzhol?”

“I was thinking on $500,” he said handing me a wedge of tangerine and not the full fruit.”It’s always best to take less, for a balanced life. I live very simply, my Dear. And here’s a half bran muffin. We wouldn’t want to spoil that luscious figure, would we?”

I said, “You mean half a mil? We can work with that.”

“No” he replied, “ I was thinking maybe five hundred dollars. Money doesn’t grow on trees, young lady.”

“Mistah Adshol, “ That wouldn’t run the center for even one day. You sho’ could give a bit more, Pretty please wid’ cherries on it. Folks is sufferin’”

“Well, I think that is fair and sufficient. I live life very simply as you can see and one should conserve one’s resources as one can never predict when one may fall on hard times. Money is the root of all evil,” he retorted.

“ We know your estate is worth several billion. We know people in a real bad fix these days. Some aint even got a roof ovah they heads.”

“It’s because they didn’t manage their expenditures wisely. They lived over their means and I do not approve of dunderheads. Their life styles were too extravagant. I live life very simply.”

“Evah heah, the Auntie Mame quote, “Life is a banquet and most poor bastards are starving,” I said.

At that moment a tarantula alight on his shoulder and he proceed actin’ all normal like it aint no thang. I just had to tell him to git it off befo’ he git bit.

He smile and say it okay as it was jes’ “Ron”, a distant relative of his and he give me this dang ol’ creepy smile and I reminded of flies trapped in a spider web and I goes to check in my bag that I still got the straight edge. Then I perceives his eyes is glimmering with delight and he aint gone harm me none. He jes’ real lonely and starvin’ for attention.

Then I says, Lissen’ Mistah Adzhole, how bout’ we jes’ agree on 300,000 dollars and I come three times and git’ one hunnert thousand each time. It gone be a big tax break for you givin’ to charity. I spec’ I come back mo’ often jes’ to chew the fat wid’ ya. How ya like that?”

All his arms flews up in the air and he cackled. It was creepy really but in some weird way kinda charmin’ in a Peter Lorre kinda way. Wanda Lust, social worker. I do like that.
CAROL ANN writer of Poems of Thunder @ amazon.com & BN.com

see video http://youtube.com/user/carolbond007

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