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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
The fairies of the mound
hide under ground
when the light of the day reveals


But as the sun
makes it's final run
the fairies
come out to play


Then there are
those picked by stars
to be the forebearers
of burden and woe


They fly the skies
as night time byes
warning of death to come


Beware my friend
someone comes to an end
when the banshees
starts to wail


It's heard through wood or stone
in every home
no one escapes
the throes


And in the end
the wailing sends
another poor soul
to Hell


Banshees are a special breed
they come from the seed
of a star


In the mounds of folk
does their life evoke
a love afair of magic
from a man made out of a star


Sometimes the banshees will wail
when they think of the love
that parted so many years ago
and
so many light years away
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The jungle makes its calls, welling up from hollows beyond.
Monkeys and wild things make their way through the spaces in between,
rapping from unseen places on long barriers
and marking their territory.

Sounds of birdsong fill the air calling out to all too few.
Others prowl the paths looking for prey in caves and behind walls.
Packs of banshees laugh as the chorus grows until the final call.
The last bell rings all are free run for home.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Trevor Gates May 2013
Welcome to tonight’s show

Allow me to introduce myself.

I go by many names


Some of which, you may know
But those do not need to be mentioned
a howl, a moan, a scream, a summoning
Let’s keep this interesting.


This is the midnight calling
This is the raven cawing

This is the shadow lurking
And the jackals slurping

The demons wailing
While Charon is sailing,

The Acheron
The river
The first

The Eternal song
Of dripping livers
and Thirst

Stop

This is all confusing
And amusing
To some
And many
But to me it is painful

Demeaning
Putrid
Repugnant
Detrimental
Disturbing

And

­A subjective simmer of passivity
A pious dose of sheer calamity

Once upon a time

In a land past the desert
Was a neon capped city
Devoid of hope

And shaped by
Casual nihilism

And too much money

A powerful portrait in all its brevity
The display of sweltering people melting against the asphalt
The mucous sunscreen and coarse sand between the toes

And crooked nails
And bleached hair
And coffee stained teeth
And pink nails
And Gucci purses
And Versace dresses
Shutter Shades
Corvettes
$5 lap dances

And promiscuous preteen slaves
To MTV
VH1
Pop sensations
Internet ****
Social networks
Smart phones
Model rock stars
Models
Interviews
Auditions
Mundane seductively
For him
Or she
The nepotistic aficionado

of  

Delicious, robust, superb, disdain  
*******: Nose Candy
******: Snake venom
After Parties: ******* adrenaline
***** Film tryouts: Garage studio
LSD: Acid
Plastic: Lips, skins, *******.
24/7
Hits of E
X-T-C

and

Do you have change for a hundred?
Or a change for a life?

Cites in Dust
Thank Siouxsie and the Banshees; A carnival.

Shout
Tears for Fears, they’re Head over Heels

Love will Tear Us apart
From Joy Division, who claims she’s lost control

Los Angeles
“X”
Exene and Billy Zoom’s Wild Gift.

The perpetual rise of sunset rockers and Neon knights.
Teens crawling through the muck of socialites and incubator nightmares
Civil borders wired by racial slurs and salivating bigotry
Water replaced by blood
Spit interchanged for souls
And fire traded for icy methamphetamine

Warriors and survivors

Poets and dreamers

Shooters and inhalers

Geeks and groupies

Burnouts and Dropouts

Sweet dreams are made of this



Such a show, such a show! Bravo Bravo! Thank you, thanks to all I have time to thank: Martin Sheen, Julius Ceasar, Fender Guitars, Randy Marsh, elbow pads, Chuck Berry, Al Green, X, Joy Division, Tears for Fears, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Less than Zero, Alucard, Humphrey Bogart, Grace Kelly, Daryl Dixon, George Harrison, Brad Pitt, Rooney Mara (Love you), Belstaff, Emma Watson (Love you too), Laure Heriard Dubreuil, Manolo Blahnik, Hannah Murray and Michele Abeles.

So many to mention, so little time. We’ll be back.
This is one of my favorites I've done so far in this series. I had just finished reading Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis and watch Gregg Araki's films, The Doom Generation and Nowhere, which all three sum up the existentialism and merging rampancy of living in Los Angeles, California. An experience I will never forget.
nivek Dec 2015
I dwell in a land blown by the constant searching of the winters wind
- to find a hearth called home,
where all windows and doors are barred shut
and the winds are condemned to ever roam about
- like wailing Banshees cursing and casting spells
- while they throw around anything that's not tied down.
And who shall care for that o'er which you weep
Or share the burden of this world's foredoom
Seen starkly? Behold, a haunting specter creeps
Among the binding fates spun on life's loom.
You’ll wake them not to that great misery
Which emptiness of pride has reckless wove
But pluck the web for loss and trembling
Of idols in the soul for which they strove.
Put off your glossy youth and early oaths
Devout nativity; raise up your cup
To ***** Lethe and thunder with the strokes
Of fury, treading out the ripened sup!
They will not bear to flay their sacred cows
But shades of death endure and prostrate bow.

Ages in their veins, more raging, whirl
As titanic potentials’ dreadful might
Turns girl to boy, conversely boy to girl
Unlimbing reason for unreason's fright.
That once gone right, here deftly ventures left
As self-conception staggers to its doom
Bursting the bonds of day and night, distressed
With desperate grasping measures, late and soon.
So set on generation's awesome curve
Of ageless heart and mind, how shall they bear
The die they cast at first when madly swerved
Into contesting congresses of care?
Dividing parts, dissolving in the same
The common wealth, no part the whole maintains.

Boast of the times and gilded privilege
Are these pretended guardians of State
Whose politics of power have sought to bank
Their future 'gainst dissenting arguments.
With rhetoric to foist a brave new age
They come as chaos mages on the brink
Of all disposing will, all ends betrayed
To serve their corporations’ nod and wink.
Auctioning the world, their goods are sold
Commercially with avaricious might
That sanctions lust, in quest of pyrite gold
And pirate earnings, staked upon deceit.
At last, the men of mock integrity
Luring the world to covert slavery!

Hurrah, the master men and lords of time-
From time brought forth, they are the world's latest
Whose overweening strut is in the best
Of culminating age, the mind refined!
Now to and fro they go, their lists increased
With every tally; line for line computes
Their beads of enterprise, the while relieved
Of tribulation, fate of hapless dupes.
Learning is theirs, precepts are theirs to bend;
Lawyers, clerics, politicians rest
Upon this pillar; they can split or mend
The finest lines; no guile their thoughts distress.
Step by step they round the universe
And finite lies to infinite converse!

What pride of theirs that strains for fleeting fame
Seeking to wrest from time the wasting plaque
Of recognition, host to every hack
That postures on the stage of the obscene!
Pretending worth, their practiced scripts dispose
In mocking light an empty dignity
While darkening intents; witless disclosed
On lips and brow their self-important glee.
As if full-wrought by truth's heroic wing
Their pride aspires; on vain conceits they soar
Up through the mist while private songs they sing
In self-made praise for deeds of phantom lore.
From belfries of the schools, in broken flight
They shriek away, hell's banshees of the night!

These timely wise, entranced of mind, decree-
Hear all you simple what we shall disclose
Which craft of our discernment is repose
Of wealth in understanding mastery.
A gift to all, these rich-invested beings
Pretending to resolve profundities
Decoct the world with learned fluency
Of torture ways, all gnostic knots untied.
A flair for comedy, their gelded self
Mounts every snorting bore of certainty
Then armchair resting, pants to yet indulge
Another ******* idol’s reckless scheme.
Some stowaways upon the open seas
And polished sextants of academe!

Here is their derogation, born from creeds
Of judgment in self-righteous confidence
That proves for nothing to the innocent
But swamps life's refugees with cruel conceit.
With ages they have built the edifice
Of dogma; every pit and lion’s maw
Is their contraption, set in consciousness
Of the condemning letter of their laws.
Cunning serpents, masquerading doves
They fashion argument, more vicious wrought
With rationales to blacklist those who strove
To flee their institutions’ heinous plot.
Enamored with a fascist benefit
The systems of the world they implement!

Fanatic men, how bold they tempt the fates
That meet to each the fruits of brutish will
Redoubled, which they’ve spent in kind to date
Upon their brothers, sisters…other self.
They make an estimation, rule the span
Between men; lord over equity
With zero tolerance and brazen hand
To smash upon their consanguinity.
Such is the wicked priesthood’s confidence
In its own judgment, ever owning not
The wrong condemned in others, deep dispensed
To every heart, from roots of life begot.
More wretched they, and haunted with the shame
Of hypocrites, bedeviled by the same!

O law of learning, sum of thinkers' best
Now magnified, ensconced upon the power
Of natal worth and privileged social dower;
Once ruled by you, the Earth pleads for redress.
No scruple sought, no reservation found
To staunch against your certifying will
Which point of iron stylus now furrows
The world at large as object for the ****.
So cart away your pleading victim, mired
In ****** wallows of concupiscence
And grace deny, self-dubbed the doubtless squire-
Errant usurper of the human quest.
How dignified, the rake of your ambition
That promises continual division!
RL Smith Jan 2014
Like a meme of activism
This women's coalition
Mothers
Sister
Friends
Pioneers and heroines
There's courage in their convictions
A guild of collectivism
They hold luncheons in their kitchens
Talk of abolition
Mysticism
Feminism
Of heroes and magnetism
Seduction
Love
Eroticism
They scream like banshees at a crucifixion
About injustice
Dereliction
Terrorism
A tradition underwritten
With symbolism
Drums
Violins
Musicians
They may be sitting
They may be knitting
Baking muffins
Folding linen
Running errands
Stuffing chickens
A juxtaposition to their ambition
Of inspiring the unwilling
Turning derision to optimism
Their fire and brimstone
Will have history rewritten
Freedom of reproduction
Liberalism
Animism
They have wisdom
Intuition
Rhythm
They are fearsome
This women's coalition
Austin Heath Jun 2014
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big *******
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's ****-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Zach Lee Apr 2014
Dear Nike,

No better felling then when I get that new shoe smell
Fresher than a spring breeze
Like a wizard making a new spell
I reach out and grab my Nikes
Pull them on my feet
They are
Comfy as a the softest cloud
Smooth as the purest silk
Magnificent as a majestic eagle spreading its wings to fly off into a deep red sunset
They make me feel relaxed as  sitting in the shade on a warm summer day

When I wear you
I feel as strong as the Rock lifting a thousand pounds
faster than Usain Bolt shattering a world record and hearing fans cream his name
All the pressure off
It's just my Nikes and I

I'm a blur with my nikes
Fast as a cheetah sprinting after a desperately bounding antelope
Can't even see me

People try to keep up
All they do is trip up
When they glance up from the cold hard ground thick mud covering their face
All they see are my beautiful piercing green Nikes

Running down the court
Legs pumping
Muscles flexing
So much sweat pouring off my face its like a raging river
I taste the sourness of salt in my mouth
Next thing you know
It's all over
The buzzer roars
Everyones jumps on their feet
All eyes locked on the ball flying through the air
Fans screaming like angry banshees so loud it could make you deaf
Swoosh
And it's all over

There's a reason Nike means victory
It's because no one can even compete
Before the battle is started they've already been beat

People who don't wear them
Just haven't realized
that the shoes they wear are inferior
Do their shoes give them the power to jump one thousand feet
Sprint at the speed of light
Make exery shot they take
No

On the torn up field
On the scuffed up court
It doesn't matter

When I wear my Nikes
They make me fly
Around the world
Through white wispy clouds surrounded by beautiful baby blue sky
Across the endless oceans full of green and turquoise churning water and silver jumping fish
Through fields full of long dark green grass
Feeling the wind blow through my face like an angry hurricane
Its like I'm in the flashing streets Hong kong
Nike shoe game is just too strong

Love, Zach
Mariya Timkovsky Jun 2012
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.

Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and loneliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.

Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.

These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees, those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.

So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.

The water-trough falls to where the electric line banishes, connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
This poem is a collaboration between Russian-American poet Mariya Timkovsky and Irish poet Westley Barnes, reflecting their respective cultural landscapes and cultural antagonisms. Each writer contributed lines in response to each other's work using their own individual style. The result is a collage of both approaches to their subject matter.
PJ Poesy Jan 2016
Worm eats through to penetrate.
Trespasses, what ***** deeds?
What ichor is this to venerate?
How dare eat, how dare have needs?

Godly viral load unbeatable,
no t-cell left to count.
Wriggling in puddle inconceivable,
**** upon this crucified mount.

Lazarus, risen from the dead,
no dog now licks your wounds.
Lepers now banshees are instead
social workers which we swoon.

And the Roman laws and judges
continue blame, hand down sentence,
as degenerative generation smudges
out from existence, ***+ penance.

Dissected and pinned against wall,
this writhing experiment oozes.
Whilst priests and politicians naw,
compassion and AIDS funding loses.
We writhe. Yet, AIDS survives. Will any of us?
reflectionzero Jan 2016
word travels & *** sells
             /stomping gravel lest I dwell/
fires burn & hearts ache
           /a dream yearned and willed awake/
a ponds ripple & a banshees scream
           /it looked simple, reality is obscene/
flesh twists & seasons change
          /a list of reasons to rearrange/    

flowers wilt & the sun sets
         /baby lullabies and cold sweats/
wood knocks & doors close
        /deadbolts lock and war grows/
secrets whisper & snow falls
        /dark drifters and phone calls/
chapters start & stories end
        /laughter, death and grow again/
just ******* around with the beat of writing, nothing serious.
kaija eighty Feb 2010
winter cuts skeletal fingers from black bark
we float beneath the blue vitriol of early february

the corpse of my sunglasses lay
between the door and the passenger seat,
grave half forgottenlike an earth folded indian of old

in a tin can on an electric line of string i
admire each stretch mark on the stomach of heaven
Westley Barnes Jun 2012
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.

Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.

Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.

These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.

So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.

The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
This poem is a collaboration between Russian-American poet Mariya Timovskey and Irish poet Westley Barnes,reflecting their respective cultural landsacpes and cultural antagonisms.Each writer contributed lies in response to each other's work using their own individual style.The result is a collage of both appraoches to their subject matter.
black shadows spread
congregated  silhouettes
torn from their sleep
anguish etched on their faces
where nightmares have been dumped
create an avenging rage
of systematic hysteria
beyond all human bonds
become blind
to the anticipated
repressions of reality
entities whose powers
are not fully grasped
grey noise a menacing presence
anthracitic, their blackest tasks
so horrible
creating night in the middle of the day
mischievous  and malicious
they are no more
than an eternity away
where a box has no mother
black shapes beg
in their furtive
ballet once again
pure with night
sees the scene
i hear them again - persistent and near, the echo fills my ear (again and again and again) it's sharp, piercing, and booming within a single second - now begins the blaring whir of the banshee (she screams, wails on a mission of violent peace)

the ghosts fervently float away - the banshee gets nearer and nearer and nearer, her screams snatched by the buildings around her, kicked like a soccer ball, building to building (vertical hopscotch, the whirring wail of the banshee)

the banshee silenced, her wailing replaced with deafening flashes - the ghosts have gone, graciously escaping the fervent frequency of the banshees hi-fi to a sanctuary beneath the clamoring scape of black jacks and yellow hacks

emanating exhaustion and trepidation, the ghastly ghosts gather to regain their ecto - the banshees betrayed by their blasted blaring wail - the ghosts are gone.
Another environment based poem, this may become a series (the ghost and the banshee, that is).
RebelJohnny Jun 2014
Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.
Paul Butters Oct 2015
Wondrous whirling worlds of words
Wander away.
Smooth musical tunes from the Muses melt my mind
And make my heart go boom.

Sunny sylvan scenes ****** my soul.
In a simmering silence
Broken only
By birdsong.

It starts with simple wordplay,
Toying with those letters
Until some magic kicks in.

Visions of versified viewscapes
Mess with my head.
Eureka moments marching across the mountains
Of my brain like screaming Banshees.

So thus a poem is born
From seemingly idle play.
Those words are worked again
And posted here
To brighten the reader’s day.

Paul Butters
I lay in bed and think......... (New 2nd stanza added 21\10\2017).
Some of my
earliest
memories
are of you.

I can hear
your soft
Irish lilt
humming
into my
drowsy ear,
waking me
to a morning
filled with
sunshine.

Half a
century later
I still see us
sitting at your
kitchen table,
I’m a six year old,
spooning warm
tea, dribbling
a soft boiled
egg onto a
piece of
buttered toast.

I remember
smiling at
the laughter
you and grandpa
enjoyed at my
proclamation
that I ate
three breakfasts
every morning.

You were my
connection
to the wisdom
and ways
of the old world;
extolling the luck
of the shamrock,
the lore of
the shillelagh,
recounting
the haunting
mysteries of
the banshees,
the mischief
of leprechauns
and the magic
of nymphs.

You were my
passport  to
a gathering
of the proud
O'Brien and
Cook clans.

You opened
my ears
to the thrill
of distant
Philadelphia
cousins
crooning
folk tunes to
happy bagpipes
while my
widening eyes
watched young
Colleen's
ecstatically jig
the night away
in full regalia
with stiff armed
step dances.

You are
my maternal
cartographer,
your DNA
etched the
map of
Dublin onto
my face.

You are the
wellspring
of the Liffe
that courses
through my
veins.

You were the
cook who
conjured the
nourishing
aromas of
a Sunday’s
sustenance
from a boiling
***; simmering
ham, cabbage
and potato to
succulent
perfection.

It is a
meal
that still
sustains
me.

The warmth
of your apartment,
the dainty doilies
and light filled
lace curtains, the
spoken hopes for a
sweepstakes ticket
and the hushed
murmurs of deep
sadness the
devastating toll
alcoholism
extracts from
a troubled family
steeps deeply
within me.

I see you
kneeling in
prayer;
the muse
of your brogue
whispers endless
strings of Rosary
incantations.

Angelic fingers
anoint each
blessed
alabaster bead
with the piety
of an honest
soul.

You
endlessly
cycled
through
the family’s
litany of
sorrow and
hope.

With a
matrons
fortitude and
an inner strength
women possess
to bear the
weightiest of
burdens; you
sought the
resolution
of release
from the
crush
of worry
and woe,
by diligently
lifting these
delicate
hosannas
to the
Mother
of Sorrows
compassionate ear.

Your petitions to
the Blessed ******
as intercessor,
allays all fears that
your light prayers
will not be lost in
the incomprehensible
clatter resounding
amongst the
heavenly spheres.

You knew
The Mother of
Perpetual Help
understands
and will
ask her
Son
to whisk all
burdens away
with the flick
of his feather
of absolution.

When your
daughter
became
ill you came
to mother us.

You fed us
Thanksgiving
Soup for breakfast,
lunch and dinner
till the last drop
of gratitude was
consumed.

You made sure
homework
assignments
were completed.

You drilled me
with spelling quizzes
made difficult by
my inability
to decipher the letter
H through your Gaelic
Haayche.  

Your exclamations
to “Jesus, Mary and
Joseph” was fair warning
to give Grandma Tippy
extra sway.

You were fond of
cats and took pity
on our mangy
Tom sympathetically
imploring us to
“look at the face of it”
before laying down
another fresh
saucer of milk.

It took me
years to understand
why you would
commence to
polish my
mothers tarnished
silver plated tea service
as the first thing you would
undertake upon
entering the house.

As a house keeper
for the wealthy,
the sparkle
of your daughters
silver plated tea service
was confirmation
that class mobility
and your enduring belief
in America’s economic
democracy was real.

Your daughters tea service
was just as worthy and
on equal footing with
any tea service adorning
Englewood’s finest homes.

At bedtime your
silhouette would
would fill the
doorway of
my bedroom.

The lullaby of
your blessings
filled the room.

From that
safe distance
you would
dip a brush
into a jar
and sprinkle
holy water
onto your
grandchildren.

When you passed
away I beheld
your magnificent
presence in a
state of eternal
repose.  You wore
a blue flowered dress.  
Your clasped hands
held a Rosary.  

I surmised
your closed eyes
were filled with
the visions
of rest and the
soft light of a
glowing glory.

Your lips gently
smiled.  I knew
you were in the
tender arms
of your loving Lord.

The Blessed Mother
now tended you,
coddling a newly
arrived saint
in the loving embrace
of a mother’s
unconditional love.

I thank you and
bless you my beloved
Grandma Tippy.  I am
caring for your
Rosary Beads.
I consider them
a precious gift
and most
valued treasure.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day
Margaret "Grandma Tippy" Minehan
Love Jimmy

Music Selection:
Bill Evans, Danny Boy

Oakland
3/17/12
jbm
David Proffitt Oct 2016
Twist ye not the tendrils of time
frame dragging by any other name
black holes ergosphere sublimes
pulls spacetime to its slow down game

Those clocks and our clocks not the same
Time's vector smeared along its timeline
speeds along its X axis game
Remains longer on its own line rhyme

Then around and around she goes
For this clock so smitten runs so slow
And where the hands stop nobody knows
Spacetime's drill bit twisted so

This black silken dress of spacetime
Wrapped around this gravity vortex
Twisted infinity sublimes
on the singularities’ cortex

Redshifts starlight to infinity
Photons below values of C
Their orange trails of light I see
These curved, stretched, these twisted banshees

Frozen in space these tendrils of time
My heart beats on ever so slow
This time signature of space aligns
reality to its queer clocks of woe

In front of me coasting along
a singular photon it’s brilliance
flitting like a firefly’s lonely song
wave-like in its own resilience

This photonic duplicity
particle now and a wave the next
surrenders its reciprocity
to this block of spacetime so vexed

Such are the tendrils of time here
to the black holes seductive embrace
These time signatures skewed so queer
From the Dark Mother’s fingers trace

As she smiles at me saying:
“Oh my beautiful child of wonder”
“Blessed be your love and curiosity”
“Of all my spells that you fall under”
“To you all of my precocity”

“So I bless thee and thy lady “Star”
“Your undaunting love of Michele
“Shines on in O Class from thee so far”
“I release thee from this spacetime spell”

These tendrils of time wound round
These whirlpools in space
These wonders of space found
In Michele’s beautiful face.

Dave Proffitt
9/10/2016
3:01 PM
how frame dragging from a black hole affects spacetime and time itself.
Ryan Holden May 2017
Whilst you screech,
Through ships sails,
Like a thousand banshees,
Your icy, scarce warm touch,
Gives me shivers and sweats,
as you howl into spaces,
Destroying bark,
And concrete structures,
Underreckening,
Of her tactual sensation,
and power.
Just a quick poem about wind
Christine Ueri Aug 2012
I look at You
and I succumb,
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You

Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --

The daemons of centuries
sprawl out the hairs on their legs,
crawl into our skulls
through ears that hear
and bob their lobes
to the twang of sinew
threading together
the tongues of banshees
howling at the moon:

Leeches and ticks
crawl up our spine
when night mares gallop
through the swamp of maggots
crawling in the rye.

Eight and eight
still make one
when the knots are untied
and the gut is done:
All the unknowns,
the variable gales,
the possible parallels
and the impossible
imposters, two:
Fuel to the face of these fears

I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender
to the daemons of centuries,
let them wash over in hues . . .

And I hold on,
because letting go,
this time,
is far more dangerous
than loving You

Is it not the death of eye
meeting death to eye
that ushers
Sacred offspring
out of the light
into the glowing arms of the womb?

Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --

I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
it seems
the blue lights
drift ghostly
past the windows
more often
these days
each occasion
bringing with it
a momentary
fleeting interest
in where
the drama is
currently residing
at who's pillow
might be
tear-stained
through the night
at who's door
fear and anxiety
are being permitted
to step inside
at who's house
has become
a closed film set
waiting to be
stripped of content
until only
walls doors windows
and memories
remain
but
as commercials end
attention returns
once more
to a stronger
more constant
source of
blue light
and all present
are thankful that
at least
the banshees
that wailing of sirens
has been silenced
in time
Death-throws Mar 2015
steel is what controls me,
steel emotions wrapped in spikes,
steel skin holding you back
steel eye hiding my vision
but  I'm growing tired of steel
I'm angry at its coldness, the grey flesh and cold heart
the agony of never being warm,
my friends are the same,
we draw our time from the fix,
lets melt ourselves down

I'm braking free
me and my barbed wire birds

I'm done sitting on the fence of angst but not being sure
if I can climb over
I'm done being a nothing following the crowd between rows
of steel and barbed wire
I'm done dancing between laser beams
and nightmare filled dreams
I'm taking my heart in my hands and running ,
Ill treat it like water slipping through my fingers and the only way to survive is by running faster.
so much faster.
Ill not let my heart slip through my fingers as my wings begin to spread me and my pack
of barbed wire birds,
our wings are made of corrugated iron folded to points
and the motion of flying stings my soul
but ill fly
you'll watch me glide
we will dive of the edge our hearts in hands
god
you'll see me fly, broken bleats from broken wings
bound together with the lust for more then to feel steel against my skin
because I'm flying northbound for warmer skies
lets glide past the the equator and through the tropics
I want to feel the heat that would melt a man

we are the hearts
we are the gods
the deity's of my minds
ill build shrines to myself just to scream
WE ARE THE HEARTS
my soul beats free as my barbed wire wings
no longer am i wrapped  in steel
Ill take you with me, swap your heart for mine
scream like banshees
a technicolor passion drives me forwards
we will lay down ourselves to show you
as you sit waltzing through your strip wire fences
Ill turn them to wings ill float so high above you..
Ill scream at the 5 am light and bring up the sun
the world is yours
I am no longer a sheep
guided by lack of sleep
we are a pack
guided by our hearts
by our love
powered by our bleeding
battered
damaged
broken
barbed wire wings

                 *L.G
massive rant...appreciate it if you told me what you thought :)
Gwar'th, a scranny peasent boy
from Deastbhillow
Frequented the tavern to hear the local bard play
Enthralled by stories of shipwrecks, cataclysms, Corpses rising from their graves.
He begged the bard over and over.
"Please! take me on your next adventure?"
Gwar'th locked eyes with the bard
Gave him every bit of attention.
The bard always declined,
"it's too dangerous for a child." He said,
"But I'll sing you a song.
The tale of the Red Metal Lute."
~~~
The sky was black
pouring buckets.
You couldn't see but walls of rain
you couldn't hear a ****** thing.
Not even each other speak
Until A loud wail rose from the sea
shattered every window and bottle on board.
In the distance, a figure
unwaivered by the storm.
A ghostly figure,
with a red metal lute
Seemed to fly,
Loom on the rain.
the figure plucked a single string
wailing screams from years of forgotten dead
some sailors on board went mad
The woman and children ran inside.
The captain headed out the cabin.
Grabbed his lute from off the wall
Walked right up to the ghostly demon
Challenged him to a duel.
"I win, you lure me the biggest fish
inside this ghostly sea
Once we haul it back to shore,
you let my sailers leave."
The ghostly demon preached back in wail
"My spoils claim each drop of blood
left upon your ship,
you'll join all the eternal tongues
wailing from my instrument."
They played their lutes so hard that storms whipped bruised wailed and brown
Lighting struck, fire popped and squeltched under the heavy rain.
Not a soul on board could hear the music, for they all deaf from the banshees wail.
But one small float snuck cloaked in shadows from the duel above the sails.
It had a mother and a brother
a baby in the mothers arms.
They made mostly to shore.
The oceans trials took all the family, but I, the baby,
A boy.
I don't know who won, the Captain, the Demon.
But I know one thing is true.
The power that lies within' an instrument
is more then anybody knew.
~~~
One foggy night in Deastbhillow
Long after the tavern closed
The bard was packing for a 'venture
loading up the partys caravan to head out of town
Gwar'th snuck on behind the treasure chests.
It stopped in front of a cavern
Five adventurers stepped off
A knight, a priest, a bard, a Clairvoyant
And In the shadows,
Gwar'th.

Down in the belly of the cave
Past the bones and the torches
there was a red glowing from the end
THE RED METAL LUTE
Gwar'th, excited, lunged from the shadows
Alerting the party.
The knight drew his weapon
The bard struck a chord
The priest prayed
And The Clairvoyant read the boys mind.
Together They killed the boy in cold blood.

"What did it look like to you?" Said the Preist
to the knight who slaughtered the boy.
"A beautiful woman.
What did it look like to you?" The knight asked the priest.
"My god."
"What did it look like to the boy?" The bard asked.
"An instrument," said the Clairvoyant, "A powerful instrument.
What did it look like to you?"

The bard looked down.
"The boy."
Vicious collector, violent specter.
Woven and tethered with the leftovers
or a kindergarten nap time rug.
Her motherly instincts overpower
her wit, as the banshees within her shriek
their born again, worn again verse.

Do you want to tie her to a leash?
Do you want to put her in a cage?
Do you want to let her roam the dark,
and forever nightly free her rage?

She's threatened by the markings
of a first-born tortoise shell.
The sounds of rabid children roars
and whipping flagellant tails
marks the arena where the pride lord
got her first taste of sour fear.

Do you want to hold her down?
Do you want to make her stay?
Do you want to lock her in her room,
and never let her run and play?
Venusoul7 Dec 2014
Clouds roll by overhead
Like giant rays coast a dried up ocean bed
Dancing winds blow a parody
Of swirling currents in a long forgotten sea

Shimmer glimmer shimmer on me
Oh the sparkling souls of dreaming children call
Shimmer glimmer shimmer on me
Oh in streets that shine like silver waterfalls

In your eyes in the skies
In the blood burning Indian sunrise
Shimmer on me

We were here long ago
And now we roam like ghostly buffalo
First two lies then two tears
Subtle curves, now glistening souvenirs

Shimmer glimmer shimmer on me
Oh the sparkling souls of dreaming children call
Shimmer glimmer shimmer on me
Oh in streets that shine like silver waterfalls

In your eyes in the skies
In the blood burning Indian sunrise
In sleep we grow

In your eyes in the skies
In the blood burning Indian sunrise
Awake and glow

Shivering in silver waterfalls
Anoint me in silver waterfalls

Siouxsie And The Banshees - Silver Waterfalls Lyrics
hear this !!!!  
http://youtu.be/u5UO0dpVD0s
Candles once burnt in the night
But a cold wind took their light
I was cast down into damnation
With no hope of finding salvation

No one listened to be heard
A voice speaking without a word
Who could rescue a fallen soul
That could find no place to go

A gothic ghost screaming out
Like some demented Banshees shout
Crawling through the filth of disgrace
Ice cold tears falling on my face

An endless night without stories to tell
Countless doors leading to Hell
Nightmares daring to be my end
Gashing wounds try to offend

I fight back and yell "no more"
Bandage up this festering sore
Stop cutting my soul with this knife
Time to fight in the war of life

Copyright Chris Smith 2013
Emilia B Nov 2018
Ill go to sleep, close my eyes
Dream of broken fireflies
I cant see in this field of black
Ive gone too far now, I cant go back.

Watching where I stand
I cant be still
Or I sink into the sand
My shoes they start to fill.

My feet become heavy,
Its becoming harder to walk
Id shout and scream if I could even talk.

Long grass im grasping
Lifting up my knee
if only the fireflies weren’t broken
id be able to see

without their fire theyre just flies
they are my guidance and my eyes
without my heart im as useless
as Pinocchio’s nose without his lies

I feel the wind brush again my cheek
The whisper of the banshee feels quite weak
But when she screams
I hope to wake up from this dream
as dreams are more real as they seem.



Though I only see black
I picture in my head
The banshees mouth opening wide
Off my fears she fed.

Her scream was as loud
As a close truck horn
The cry from a baby, as soon as its born

My ear drums thumping
My skin feels torn
I was faced with her violence
There I stand, in the deafening silence.
A nightmare you can’t wake from
Sal Lake Mar 2013
We felt as if we’d been born in the desert
Passing shoelace factory prostitutes
Veering memories of Crab Nebula up-skirts
& Slowly obtained convoluted attitudes

“(In our sleep) We let the lizards lick our teeth”:
The grackle chatter from Four Hand Weaver
Met the ears of Guest, who’d arrived in Portsmeth
Riding on deep banjo drones from within the ether

What else can words be but propellants?
They are TLC to mad minds of the 90’s
Coaxing the Guest out of hell with mad chants
& we, the kids, following blindly

“He tried to get me to turn off the electricity
Chanting Southeast Asian Countries with Four Hands
Somehow part of an insane Sun/Moon allegory”
Cries Morgie Saturday morning &

We saw a vision: the Guest up in a crescent
Cast down from the sky and into the sea
Cascading over into a flooding depressant
& cut open the fat man who whispered of banshees

As his steaming intestines float down by the riverside
The boys were passing jolly jokes & joints
“They’ll never figure out how to catch a bride
When they’ve forgotten how to find the celestial point!”

Screeched the Guest with his candle strap
Attached to his banjofrigerator filled with Game Fuel
“It’s in my veins, it’s in my blood like a death cap!”
No longer just a Kentucky Gentleman covered in drool

All in all, a teacher, a preacher, a joke
A gravel eater, unlike the lizards underground
“I don’t eat dirt!  That’s a lie I’d never invoke
Lizards eat dirt & I ain’t like that crowd!”

Men are lizards & lizards are men
“& I ain’t a lizard no way, no how!
That’s the truest fact there ever has been
Aside from something being seriously wrong with me"
http://www.zackkouns.com/
rsc Aug 2014
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.

So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.

So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?

So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.

So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.

So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Jordan Alexandra May 2014
Ouija is a darken term
Painted by humans
Who thought that
Little girls without faces,
Translusent bodies,
And banshees
Only existed in a blank.
Ethyl Mar 2019
To wish upon a raven
One must first grow its wings

To wish upon a raven
Waste not time on petty things

To wish upon a raven
One must know how it feels

To soar above the heavens
To feel freedom and know fear

To wish upon a raven
Knowing suffering is key

To wish upon a raven
Knowing tragedy of banshees

How they wail, how they groan
The very song, the very tone

Setting loose the sorrow
Sending warnings to the free

To wish upon a raven
You have to understand

That sometimes you’re the omen
Of bad luck and stories planned

To wish upon a raven
Ignorance you overcome

And if you wish upon a raven
The raven you become
Relating to a story of mine
Geno Cattouse Jul 2013
I licked my finger and raised it to the air.

And set sail.
due North. Tacked a bit east. sea spray lashing
me down to the mast.

I saw Ahab in the distance aboard a white monstrosity.He seemed quite happy.
The years had been kind. A Fulfilled destiny.
I envy him so to surrender.

I tacked south.
some strange feat but a mighty ****** am I. The wind at my beck the stars at call.
sextant be dammed. I will rise where I fall. or sink.
Brinkmanship my stock in trade.

The wind remained  at my back for a score and one.
my shirt in tatters. Still tied to the mast.
Howling banshees beckon me shore.

Nevermore.
Steve Madden Aug 2013
Lying on my bed
In the dark
I have no fear
For I welcome
The dark
The black velvet
Envelopes me
Cocoons me
Soothes me
No ghosts, demons
Nor banshees’
In the still of the night
Permeate my darkness
For I’m not religious
I came from the dark
And I will leave
In the dark.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
I believe
In the shameless love of this life;
Not in a previous or afterlife.
I don't believe
In reincarnation, transmigration
Ascension or decesnsion.
And all the sepulchres concur.

I believe in Christ,
Not Christianity or Protestantism.

I believe in Muhammad,
Not Islam
(And this list goes on).

I don't believe in banshees,
Astral projection or any OBE.
I don't believe in gnomes or trolls,
Elves, sprites and witches,
Nirvana, Valhalla, Heaven or Hell.
And I believe
I won't be disappointed.

I believe in politics,
Not politicians.

I believe in the Arts
(All of them),
And humanity,
And You,
The healers and teachers.

Oh Spirit,
Where is it?
I don't believe hovering souls
Listen to eulogies.
I don't believe in death-bed conversions
Just because...

I believe in a living consciousness,
For
I Am That I Am,
And that's what I am.

I will not go gently,
For I know,
There's nothing
To worry about.
Tip of the cap to Dylan Thomas for the line.

— The End —