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New & Untouched... (Head-Lines)


Space Station Alert as Debris Makes 250 Meter Near miss
820 feet may not feel intimately close, but when it’s just you and a few comrades (and multiple tons of floating metal) you’re going to need help, to comfort the seen and unseen turmoil that is yours to bear. Thus it is up to us, we must champion the cause; our survival.

Coffee May Ward Off Alzheimer’s
Something to stave off even worse things than some creeping subliminal death, only to then act as if it doesn’t matter yet regret the reaping of what I alone have sown…

New, Untouched Tribe Discovered in Amazon
Unscathed and upon my knees… Unhurt by the incessant flap of my lips. Unharmed by my foul use of her soil, yet, not untouched…

Gadhafi could face rape charges, international prosecutor says
Rape, murder, fraud, neglect. It’s already done my friends. What my animal wants in the flesh has begun to deliciously feast upon my soul.

© 2011 by mark prime
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sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
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Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
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