Cancer that murderous thing
can happen to all and kin
and the suffer and fear
will make you pray on the tier
Don't think God is easy
as he kills all over the world
he did not slaughter millions
not with his might almighty
Oh yes he did not want children to die
but oh dear he is a child killer
and what in Cambodia
and the rest oh these wicked wars
More then I can really believe
you have done to yourselves
none here have sanity in heaven
for you lead the Earth to hell
For you are Cancer
a wound on earth
you died long before
at the day of your birth
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
My lips wither, to slugs with salt upon their backs
Hands into the sadness of dark oceans of bile melt
I'm the ice heart
Of the gates
What I did does nothing.
When you walked from my life to mechanisms I crumbled
I creeped and creaked into you again
Through your ears and out your tongue twisted
You vined me down your veins then kidneys then bladder and I infect you
Through your pelvis I came again.
You leaned lurched your back flexed your stomach stretched your abs
I flew back fluxing to your stale heart of an excuse
Me crying in the floor holding my dignity in my dick spitting.
Collapsing my chest for a grasp full of your breast
Fling yourself upon ever stake you see vampire girl
Killer of dreams
Now sitting with your head in a toilet.
It was better in my toilet.
I could try every possible way to justify my sadness to you.
But it still wouldn't make sense because the only way anyone who doesn't already feel this way can see it is, as
No combination of 26 letters is gonna be able to encompass it.
And I could tell you how I'm feeling
but sad is really mild.
You have no idea how it feels to simply be walking home then suddenly start hating yourself and knowing that
this is it
this is how it is
is gonna change that.
You won't be able to comprehend how much misdirected hate there is everywhere when in actuality it's an individual causing it.
And I know you believe that I'm driving myself into this state because you believe I feel unloved or unappreciated... but it runs so much deeper. So so much deeper.
not feeling safe and comfortable within yourself
looking out of a tiny hole in a box because you're not like the other kids
You see things differently but you try.
You try to fit in.
You try to smile
and be happy
and find joy in the littlest things.
And yet, it isn't real.
It's all forced because you have to try, to feel that way.
For most people it comes naturally.
Trying to explain to you why I feel the way I feel, could end up to be a string of gibberish lined up to sound nice but
at the end of the day it's really simple:
I hate myself
I know I shouldn't and I know
I'm not a killer or a rapist or a
thief... but I hate myself.
And that is it.
You're imperious, brusque, pugnacious and seemly ominous.
You're nothing but trouble.
I hate you.
You're just a drug wrapped into the shell of a human being without a care in the world
A pill killer wrapped into a shell that's secretly dejected.
A butterfly who's inside wing is morosely designed to hide everything inside.
I hate you
Heroin there's nothing I could ever sing to you.
Your like that ghostly lost line in a song
that slowly fades to blue.
And you who hides your face so well.
A phantom in the night.
A killer with a lovers touch.
That makes it feel alright.
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken breasts may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
Two smiles and a trigger pull,
momma fell down to her knees.
I got twelve dollars and the gas tanks full.
momma, be at ease.
I took the wind at my back for far too long
with you hanging from my hair,
and now all I know is all but gone,
and the bass in my veins is dragging me back
to that murder song.
Was there life in those eyes,
could you see through the flies,
in the light of the fire ,
the breath of the liar,
can you tell the naughty
Two smiles and a trigger squeeze,
momma is on her knees.
She has a killer son, but a loving one,
her baby is all she sees.
he's headed for hell
with a bullet to sell,
momma, be at ease.
Fay can see Baruch
from the window
of the living room
down on the area
of grass below
he is alone
sitting on one
of the bomb shelters
from the war
she peers down at him
the cowboy hat
the silver looking
6 shooter toy gun
to be cleaning
she was there
but her father
says she is to stay in
and learn about the saints
and said he will
quiz her later
when he gets home
about them to see
what she has learnt
is on the chair
of St Benedict
lies on top
is in the kitchen
she knows her mother
would turn a blind eye
if she wanted
to go out
but they both know
that her father
would punish her
if he caught her out
the Jew Boy
as her father calls him
the killer of Our Lord
he often says
denies being involved
in any way
she hopes Baruch
will look up
at her window
and see her
he has put his gun
in the holster hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
and holds a rifle
bought for him
for his birthday
he aims at the sky
and twirls around
pretending to shoot
she watches him
as he aims
at the coal wharf
where the coal carts
are being loaded
from chutes above
her father doesn't like
Baruch even though
Baruch always smiles
and says shalom
to him if he passing
her father on the stairs
of the flats
her father is a schmuck
but she doesn't know
what that means
but if Baruch said it
it must be a nice term
she thinks wiping away
the steamed up glass
where she has
breathed on it
she blows him a kiss
from the palm
of her thin hand
he doesn't know
but he'll get it
any how she knows
he aims at
the steam train
by the Duke of Wellington pub
she smiles as he does
from his rifle
the train passes
the driver unaware
he has been fired upon
by a cowboy
from the grass
she eyes him
wants him to look up
at her window
he lifts the rifle
to the sky again
then he pauses
lowers his rifle
and stares at her window
she waves frantically
he looks away
she bites a lip
he stares up
at her window
and beckons her down
with a wave
of his hand
crossing her hands
as if to say
and then waves
and blows a kiss
from his hand
then he climbs down
from the bomb shelter
the grass is empty
he has gone
the book of saints
lies on the chair
from the window
and picks it up
and begins to read
a good portion
of her 11 year old
Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flees their minds,
As selfish life fulfills these swines.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Do take a look at what they see,
And what they see is “A bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion, foresee what befalls
Upon them, too, as they soon explore,
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid,
Whose sex and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of irrelevance and mystery:
Their wisdom calls most urgently.
As this kid sees a life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with the fuss and mess,
Which most adults do not confess
To what they cause and what they bring,
Most taken in by their offspring;
And as one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss,
Dear vengeful killer, Oedipus,
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
And leave one there to squirm and rot,
Like a lobster boiling in a pot,
And free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die,
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But, the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, who feels must reign;
Nor the obliged one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl,
That turns, and turns, and turns, and turns
While greedy capitalists more they yearn.
Within this cycle is little choice,
Hetero-normatively sans a screaming voice,
For a true language for some not made;
Virile chest-pounds place a shade
Upon the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be,
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one
Who mostly governs with a gun;
And how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting sex the kid can't choose,
As in every win, each sex does lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see,
That to just one sex they must belong,
As 'genitalia proves feelings wrong.'
This funny theory most credits Freud.
By collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done',
For those who are all, but yet are none.
Great gender points makes Butler de Judith,
While her female likes are out to proveth
That she is wrong within her stance
‘Only female unity will give rise to chance'
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First, not Second or Third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other sex does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all the foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.
A flower is a flower, this holds true.
I don't really understand the big deal.
I mean fuck, even that thing will die too.
Despite the color, be it green or blue,
There's only so much that a person can feel.
I think flowers are a waste of space, do you?
True the birds sing, and your flowers do bloom.
But does the widow care about your rose?
What about the killer? Or long lost groom?
Go ahead, sing to it; ignore your doom.
Hell, this life is so plastic; strike a pose.
But don't forget, a dead man has no room.
Maybe it's true, you're so petty; petite.
They call him a dork, a nerd, and a geek.
That he managed to live was quite a feat.
Run from the flower, think you did not meet.
Go to your future, it's the truth you seek.
Not now, don't you dare pretend to be meek.
You are one of millions, to them I greet.