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Graff1980 Apr 2015
From where I sit
It sounds like
Basketballs
Dribbled unevenly

Across the field
The big brick building
Rises ominously
With tall fences and towers

I hope that I am mistaken
And those distant thuds
Are something other than
Bullets blazing

I do not step outside
I do not pull the binoculars
To my tired eyes
Because I am too afraid to know

Blue shirts brown shirts
Orange jumpsuits
What I imagine
Is not a pretty

People packed in
Like lengthy Legos
Getting stack on
Top of one another

Aggression breeds aggression
My objections are silent
Because I am afraid
That they might come for me

It sounds like thunder
Repeating
Am I better off not seeing
What horrors lay beyond the field
Graff1980 Dec 2014
Beyond the hill
That’s shaded still
By oak trees
And daffodils
By stone statues
Of a strange stature
Where children
Mature to dust
We will meet
As we must

Beyond the bay
Past yesterday’s
Rising waves
Foaming froth
And your neighborhood
Parking lot
We will meet as we
Always did

Beyond the night
Past the dawn
Where secrets
Still belong
We will die
As we always do
Some for others
But me for you
Graff1980 Jun 2015
This is a poem to the rote performers
Of the celestial bodies
Pretenders to perfection
Upon further inspection
They are not perfect spheres
More like phoenixes
Waiting to die in a billion years
And be reborn in a big bang
A trillion years later
Graff1980 May 2015
It is a sickness
That I never understood
Years of study buried under bundles of books
Availed me naught

How someone can claim
Pain equals love
That violence is righteous
Motherly dissonance

Sins I cannot forgive
Angers issues just
Barely boiling above
The surface of her stove top love

Untamed rage
Things she never mastered
I spent years in fear
Of becoming her mirror image *******

Feeling thinking dreaming
Sinking in my own stinking
Pit of mixed emotions
Such a painful conflict

Still I exist
Normally kind hearted
With a slick wit
Made to make people laugh

My rage long since subsided
Except in her presence
Her ignorance
Burns

My diligence earns
Me some leeway
And though I love much
I allow myself this hate

I am lessened by this
Not my best self
Hunted by the hungry animal
The wounded one waiting to strike

A lifetime of self-abuse
Of depression mixed in with my lessons
And now I know
That it is my birth-right
Graff1980 Aug 2015
Every good witch needs a black cat
A mischievous little creature that
Makes the stereotype more fun
The kind that mouse hunts
And meows at ghosts, goblins, and ghouls
Loyal to the point of convenience
Untamed wearing sleek gleaming fur
But loving all the same
In fact it would be a shame
If everyone didn’t get at least one
Beautiful black cat in their life
Graff1980 Mar 2017
It is a passing love affair
The black thorny rose
Thin stemmed
Bleeding nightmare
Beauty bathed in darkness
Like a black cat
Sleek feline queen of Sheba
Narcissus and Nefertiti
Persephone
Eyes open no final reflection in death
Just peace from life’s pain
Not a mistress I would pursue for a kiss
But one that one day I might not resist
Graff1980 Jan 2017
Darkest black treading dirt
Left impression for their worth
White stripes across the side
Streak into the evening sky
Like a flash when I run
Flickering becomes a dying sun
Potential of what will never come
So I run, I have to run

Old laces dusted *****
Push them through the holes
In a hurry
Rushing now because I’m worried
The sound of sneakers pounding dirt
The sound of how much it really hurts
So I run, I have to run

The soles so loose
Sound funky when they flap
Still I love those messed up shoes
Which is why I’ll never take them back
When life is hard when it starts to sting
I turn around and start jogging
I am not a prisoner, I was born to be free
Even if all I have are these old shoes
To chase away those heavy blues
I will run until I am done
I had to run, I always run
Graff1980 Nov 2014
I have heard it said
That the blank page
Is a daring but lonely journey

Some doubt lay grey clouded
Rain enshrouded
The weary words
May not yet come flooding
But I am not afraid

I will not waste the day
In a wasted haze
Instead full blushing
I keep the bile flushing

I try to put most attachments
In their proper place
Death will wait
Or come when beckoned
May even come uncalled
I know it comes for all

Skin will wrinkle
Thoughts may fail me
Inspiration may not avail me
But I do not fear
The potential of the blank page
Graff1980 Mar 2015
We breathe like we bleed
Living to plant seed
The only way to succeed
Is to pass it on

But ragged breathes
Equals bloodied chest
Coughing red phlegm
Is such a dying problem
The plague that is us
Destroys and distrusts
Mentally able
Yet we see are facilities rust
From dis and misuses
From sad bad abuses

Till we bleed more than we breathe
Ceasing to be
Less than alive
And more like a painful memory
Graff1980 May 2015
The blood vats
Stirring clotting goo
A tepid sticky stew
Crimson mess
Spilt on the floor
The hungry goblins
Gulping the pulpy gore
Plasma swimming
In spider web veins
The dripping fluid
Sticking to you
Soaking through
The stained washcloth
Swirling in the warm bath
Cloudy dispersion
Smoky mass
Dark diluting
And disappearing
Through time
And loss
So here we are
Generations of
Vampire blood
Leaching the life force
Spreading the plague
And bleeding
Life from one generation
To the next
Graff1980 Mar 2016
Blood begets blood
Wet red forgets
Where it came from
In the maelstrom
Of the war drums
That beat on from

My grandfather
Was murdered by
That group
But he didn’t die
Because of that guy

It was fifty plus years ago
And everyone here knows
Someone who was a victim
My mother, her brother
His wife and children
Your father his sister
Her daughters

Blood quickens
As rage thickens
Pools cross the streets
Faces become pulpy meat
And carnage becomes
More knives, bombs, and guns

The night swallows our sun
As it takes all of our sons
And soldiers become casualties
And school children
Become sidewalk art

And I cannot hold
Anymore horror in my heart
So I empty my vessel
Of summers and springs
To swallow more ****** dreams
All this madness becomes poetry
For you to read
Even though you will not
Graff1980 Jul 2015
Your body of work
Is quite impressive
The taste of lips
Those summer kisses
The curvaceous hips
Deep inner thighs
Soft sighs of delight
Seductive moans
Are delicious
Your hazel gaze
And flowing red locks
Soft bulging *******
And knee high socks
Your soft pink slit
In which my desire fits
You are desirable
And I desire this
Your shoulders defined
Your musculature
Your tight frame
But most of all
Your mighty brain
The fount from which
Your creativity flows
The universe
Were worlds of words
Come and go
In my mind
Yours is the hand
I would love to hold
But I only get to see you
In the poetry and pics you post
Graff1980 Oct 2015
There is no dignity in the bootstrap
The sad lack of facts that fat cats spread
The lies that said to be strong
You must pull yourself up
But the rope that they would have you use
Is the one they use to hang you with
Boot laces and straps don’t hold up to that
They will snapped withered from the labor
Tare and be shredded before the vetted
Ever get high enough to overcome
Where they come from
While the rich man’s son
Doesn’t even have to bother with one
Graff1980 Jul 2015
The clouds come
Cause there must be balance
With highs must come lows
Great joy costs great sorrow

Understanding creates empathy
Empathy leads to compassion
Compassion compounded by
Societies failures makes me cry

I question how before I get to why
I pose probable possibilities
Before I get to the revolutionary changes
Exchanges must be made
To improve the way we live

And for each failure each falling foot that stumbles
Each time another human suffers
Cause another human was indifferent
I crack exposing the back of my black and bitter heart

The void is an infinite empty expanse
Waiting to be filled with stars and solar heat
Waiting to warm the numbed shoeless feet

I see the streets I was there to
Violence, fear, aggression, intimidation, ignorance

The clouds come in again
But swimming in the cold grey thinning veil
The stark dark hearted self
Serves only to sicken my soul

It never softens the blows
Or helps me to expose
The true depths in either direction

Laughter breaks the silence
A smile interrupts the bleakness
A conversation during breakfast
A librarian or other friends
I break the balancing boards
And swim towards happier shores
Discarding my depression and
Other dreadful expectations
Graff1980 Jan 2015
He broke the lines of predictable behavior
Social situations turned on their head
Normal niceties forgotten
Hours lost to thought
Insights gained
Through introspection and pain
Reverse engineering society
Toying while destroying
Old norms and taboos
To build new ones
And destroy them to
Reading and learning
Thinking and feeling
Perceiving
The tangible
Perceiving
The abstract
Perceiving that his perceptions
Were limited
Not tools of the divine
But faulty flesh devices
Thinking and acting
Reacting and justifying
A chemical being
Of energy
Put it in poetry
Then cycled back again
Where
He broke the lines of predictable behavior
Social situations turned on their head
Normal niceties forgotten
Hours lost to thought
Insights gained
Through introspection and pain
Graff1980 May 2016
Breath in
All that you were
All past selves
That link themselves
Through each moment
To now

Breath out
Now
As it is

Breath in
All hopes
And plans
For tomorrow
with all
Future selves

Breath out
Now
As it is

Breath in
The endless
Universe
Of why not
How come
And what if

Breath out
Now
As it is
And let
All that
Other stuff go
If only for
These few
Short sweet
Breathes
Graff1980 Feb 2015
I am broken
Not love sick
Sour faced
Teeny bobber
Heartbreak

But social devastation
The kind that comes
With the human revelation
That things don’t get better

Greed rules the land
Followed by ignorance
Pacing close second
Racial issues are still
Clouding the way people feel
Cops are still brutalizing
Black people
****** is still a word
I hear regularly
In this a redneck society

Except it is never as simple
As that
The poor suffer
The words won’t come
In lieu I guess a heart ache
Will have to do

I would cry
If I had any tears left
I would try
If I had any hope left
But I am broken
Just the way
Some people like

In truth
Only the insane can remain
Standing unbroken
Graff1980 Feb 2015
Brown is the new pink
It don’t matter what you think
A pretty man can make a pretty woman
It’s all about perspective
Gender neutral
Brown hair
Thick lip smile
Brown skin
Long lashes
Brown eyes
Strong arms
Brown is beautiful
Graff1980 Apr 2017
Check them off one by one
Till my list is finally done
First item of the day
Is pick up my crap and put it away
The dusty book on my floor
The marked on notebooks behind the door
Trinkets and toys I never use
The games which no longer amuse
The old black book of names refused
I toss them out whether their old or new

Second item on my list of things I need to do
Clean out my closet filling up a bag or two
With things, and memories to give to you
C.D.s, letters, sweaters, and P.S. two
Drop them off on your front door step
Then drive away all by myself

Third thing on this very long list
Though this heartache still persists
Though I know you are still ******
And we will never get through this
Here is a letter from me on my way out

Explaining what this list is about
With one ticket and two tough suitcases
I leave this town to see the Pamplona bull races
Many men intend to run and I count as another one
This bucket list you see is a list of my fantasies

A large lump and two terrible masses
Clog my natural flow through which this refuse passes
SO before I go I had to make this trip
And finish off my bucket list
Graff1980 Dec 2014
I raise my arms, and they become wings. White, black, and brown feathers flutter in the breeze. My eyes lose their white and brown color to become coal black. Hands up; the bullets fire. I will never fly.

I play war, fighting off imaginary enemies. The airsoft gun threatens no one. It is only and extension of my imagination. Childhood, safe until I feel the bullets pierce my skin without a single warning.

I run in fear for my life. Breath ragged, time’s jagged line red with life’s energy. My blood becomes street art.

In frustration I raise my voice. Tired of getting singled out. Tired of being black while walking with my hands in my pocket. The air will not come, this time I did not, could not run. Please, I can’t breathe. Day becomes night but that is nothing new to me and mine.

I look back in time. See the strange fruit with bitter juices dripping down the tree. The wind is not strong enough to move me. My family is not allowed to take me down just yet. Weird white sheets laugh and dance protected by their anonymity. The police don’t bother seeking justice for me.

With the modern age, you’d think we could be better. Cellphones, and judges robes, internet tv shows, twenty four hours new coverage that shades and paints A hundred different stories daily. Another dead man defamed in the court of public opinion. Another victim blamed. Another crime left unnamed. Another murderer not blamed. ******* ****, things really haven’t changed.

I walk home from the library, light skinned, these are not my sins. However, I can see the sorrow and the tragedy. I feel tears falling for all those families. Not my kin but then again when I search within they are my brothers and sisters.  A dark anguish clouds my senses. Seeing other human beings in pain causes me pain and it is worsened by the lack of compassion of my peers. I hear lies like he was a ****, or dodges like he had a criminal record. But he was human flesh like my flesh and now his death is a black hole of grief and rage.

Silence is a prison of reflection, iron bars of sorrow built upon more sorrow. I cannot speak clearly enough. I question what right I have to say these things. However, they are spoken from love, hope, and a desire to see us aspire to be better. I guess that is all the permission I need to say that any injustice bleeds us all of our dignity and humanity.
Graff1980 Feb 2015
Are some things better left buried
Sandy covered secrets
Red welts masked as rashes
Flinching PSTD trauma from past ****
It’s not golden dablooms
Under the moon
It’s bruises from ill-uses
Suspicious glances
Struggling to ever trust again
Never leaving the house
Never letting new people in
Never finding a healthy balance
Blaming yourself
For the insanity of someone else
And the best thing to ever come out
Of it is the poetry you write about
You know, all that buried stuff
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Burn it to the ground
Not the block
Not the town
Not the police station
Or the nation
But the system
We have been raising
Needs razing
Needs blunt blazing
I’m raging
It was my mistake
In thinking we could be better
So start at the local level
And work your way to the top
Start with the clergy and the city council
Go ahead and hit Fox
And don’t stop
Till the bottom rises
Till the rich find their surprises is
Christmas gifts
Of coal and ****
Because they have been ruining it
Just burn it all to the ground
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Thirty four years I have waited
To burn in your arms
To feel my flesh turn to top ash
In pleasure that never ever lasts

Thirty four year seeking the safety
And dangerous passions of love
Until I find I am not strong enough
And as it turns out I am already burnout
But
Graff1980 Oct 2016
But
Signs for shopping
pollute the night
with their gaudy lights
pointing to my next
great buy.

But in my head I hear
the poor souls say
you do not want to
come this way
cause if you see my pain
you will have to change
or face your shame.

But I hide myself
inside my house
while the tv shows
our upper class,
high rise,
high life
that I can buy.
So, I work my way
into a community
of iron gates
and golden golf carts.

But in my heart
I hear the music play
songs of sorrow
free ranged runaways,
immigrants,
refugees
longing to get
just a fraction
of what I already have.

But with enough
music, and movies
I can distract myself
quite easily
so I don’t have to see
my own inhumanity.
It’s great to be me……isn’t it?
Graff1980 Dec 2015
I am certain she does not love me
the way that I love her
so full,
so poetically passionately,
so self-destructively,
so lovely,
In all her darkness.

A black sun that burns brighter
than any celestial body;
I would let myself burn
to touch it,
to see it I would let
myself go blind.

I hope she does not mind
that I love her so deeply.
I give it freely,
not expecting anything
explicit in return.

Hoping that she
will always be merely
one poem or message
away from me.
Graff1980 Aug 2015
Those flutterbies
Now called butterflies
Flutter as they fly
Dance on the wind
Beneath her skin
Pointed pen
Hard and vibrating
Ink piercing
Bare flesh
Making a monarch of
Her soft muscles
The rainbow of colors
Swirling symmetrically
As she becomes the queen
Of her fairy winged
Decorations
Graff1980 Dec 2014
They say she cuts a crude figure with her finger flying in the air
She’s been pulling punches since she got here
But now that she unleashed the heat
Now that she is firing back at that jackbooted fear rooted system
Well, she’s an uppity ***** or a snotty ****
A feminist **** on the hunt
For a masculine target
But, when she was docile she was to quiet,
She was a sheep that didn’t stand up enough
When she was bipartisan they called her indecisive and weak
Like a bad painting you say you want her over there
Then you want her over here
If she stays home to be a mother
She is a lazy
If she goes to work
She’s a bad mother
If she changes her mind
She’s to passive
If she sticks to her guns
She’s to bossy
What a bunch of bat ****
They barely managed to move the glass ceiling
And now they are lowering it again
If she wants control of her body
Than it is a sin
If she gives in to male control
Then it cycles back again
If life was a race she would never win
Cause pulsing ***** proselytizers
Keep hiding the finish line before she gets to the end
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Can’t Sleep

The heat will not let me sleep. Sweat pouring into my crevices as I move my seat back and down. Twin trickles slide down my temples. The exhaustion tickles my already fuzzy and tingly brain. Thoughts become clouds creating new forms of stormy confusion.
I need one hour to at least regain my rationality. I roll to the left slipping my black shoes off, because I sleep better barefoot. I roll to my right, shifting the keys in my side pocket so they won’t stab me. Still, I cannot sleep. I roll down my window and place a small black jacket up, to block out part of the sun. The white interior reflects some of the heat but not enough to let me sleep.
The weatherman promised rain, but I would settle for snow or sleet; anything to reduce this heat. I close my eyes to try breathing exercises. It doesn’t work. I try making a blindfold out of a shirt. It doesn’t work. I try daydreaming to relax, but it doesn’t work.
Now I have to go to work. I am sure I smell like smelly car. It is a beautiful day and I am sure the night will be quite gorgeous as well but I got a fourteen hour shift ahead of me and I am dog tired. ****, I wish I had been able to sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------

Afte­r I Finally Got Some Sleep

I awake, slightly sweaty. Eyes blurred, sleep dust crusting up. A lump of sorrow fills my gut. I recall arms around someone I loved, holding on to her. I recall love. I recall happiness.
It is all an illusion. That soft skin lay only within the realms of dreams.  Vividly she appears to me. Her smile, her long red hair, her *******, the softness of her belly held gently with interlocking arms. Her voice is only a construct of my memory as it tries to put together the specifics of that wonderful dream.
What a dream girl. Maybe she was that girl from that tv show I used to love. The last dream like that she was a girl I knew fourteen years ago. If I could I would go back to sleep, trade in the coldness of this reality for the wonderful love. But it is too hot, and I have to go to work.
Graff1980 Mar 2015
I want to ride old memories
Like broken merry go rounds
Going around and around
Carousel horses
Up and down
Like bipolar days
Happy sad
Apathetic mad
Saint to bad
And back to saint
Innocent victim
To pathetic hermit
Perpetrator
And self-inflictor
Pain inspector
Flipping happiness
Like it was a madhouse of pancakes
In a bad neighborhood
Like madness is good
In memories
Poetry follows me
Beautifully
Sleep deprivation
Exhausts me
Punch drunk driver
Crossing lane
Nodding off
The truck slips
Hits the dips
As I dip into childhood dreams
Sparkling green
Buggies
Doing endless circles
The Ferris wheel
A happy ride
Like a hamster wheel
And I never really get off
Graff1980 Oct 2016
You are a cannibal,
hungry beast
wearing human skin
tearing and trying
to rip my fleshy ship
to ****** bits,
while my heart
still beats under
my malleable chest;

Like bullets
like talons
like a vicious *******,
you eat me like an animal,
carnivore to my herbivore
affinities.

I scream as you dig into me
not metaphorically
cause you are a cannibal
feasting on my body
Graff1980 Jan 2015
It never ends, fragments of visions collapsing upon themselves painfully. Her swollen eyes opening, and bursting with orange fire. Then closing just as fast. In between those agonizing seconds she sees everything. Thousands of years cycling over and over. Visions of visions within visions.


Cassandra saw her city razed to the ground. The wall which once stood firm against the onslaught of enemies crumbling with the ravages of time. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again she saw her own grief. Her cousin had fallen in battle. She closed her eyes again, and scratched at her itchy eyelids.



Ten weeks passed without a blink, not even a fraction of an opening. She was disciplined, but the longer she fought the more her eyelids would burn. One blink to ease the agony and she was forced to see her father’s skin. A purple mass of dead flesh bubbling swelling, exploding, and rotting, with maggots squirming in out and around till flies formed and flew away. Another corpse left out in a burning city. One among many denied a peaceful death. Buildings crumbled to dust, the bodies became one with the earth. Cassandra cried without opening her eyes. Her father stroked her long soft curls, whispering reassurances. “It’s all right my child.”


Another three or four weeks passed. She had become blinder than Tiresias the blind prophet. Unable to recall if that was a story she had heard, or would hear in the future.  She sobbed spilling each and every sorrow she could. Every tragedy yet to come. Her father smiled gently placing a warm cloth upon her brow. “Shush my child these nightmares will fade soon enough.”


The young girl opened her eyes again. This time a years’ worth of history unfolded. She saw soldiers gathering arms. Battlements born of the Bronze Age burning with righteous rage. Steel blades clanging against bronze shields in preparation for war. Boats fully loaded departed.


She closed her eyes once more. It would be another two months before she opened them. In the meantime she pleaded with her father to leave the city. Day in and day out begging, sobbing, and screaming until she was sent away.


It was becoming harder and harder to keep her eyes closed. There was a burning force aching to escape. She managed five more weeks until she could bare the pain no longer. As her new sisters bathed her pale dry skin with the sweetest scented oils the young girl recited all that she saw and felt.


The first footfalls of the first soldier’s feet to touch the beach. The feel of the sand as it swirled in, out and around the soldier’s sandals. The general howling commands. The green eyes hungry for battle. The faces contorted in controlled rage. All that intensity burning under the once civilized façade. She closed her eyes again.


Cassandra sat silently in exhaustion, as the sisters slowly brushed the knots out of her long brown hair. They brought her a blindfold, which allowed only a small comfort. This time she only managed to resist for two weeks. The vision came upon her with such force that she cried out and collapsed.


Now the city was burning. Citizen screamed as they ran in terror. Brave men rushed forwards to be impaled on the spears of other brave men. Arrows swallowed the moonlight picking at the earth and scavenging for some bare flesh to devour. Blood ran like red rainwater. Streets streamed thin crimson pools diluted by warm summer showers. The stench oh, the stench, it made Cassandra ***** up chunks of soggy bread and half-digested beef mixed with red wine and stomach acid, while she tried to force her eyes to close.


Finally, she closed her eyes again. The sisters tried to sooth her sorrows, to no avail. Within a years’ time the young girl lost the ability to close her eyes. Cassandra eyeballs slowly burnt out until there was nothing left but charcoaled eye sockets. By the next year she could no longer speak. Cassandra became paralyzed by the futility of her existence.


In her mind the war had come and gone. The sieges were no longer an issue. She no longer felt the urge to cry for the dead. What was, will be, and what will be cannot be undone. What cannot be undone has already happened. Apollo had cursed her. Her beauty had enraptured him, her wit had charmed him, but her will had enraged him.


She was only thirteen with brown eyes and long hair of rare quality, soul so powerful that almost anyone who met her could feel its energy. She shamed the gods with her purity, and unwillingly ensnared their affection.


At first Apollo came with strong arms and tender words. Wooing to the point of painful pleasure. Her eyes could not handle such radiance. His skin burned as his chariot burned. Hair golden flames, skin solar yellow, eye orange as the sun. Each kiss burnt like the worse fever, taking her against her will, savaging her sanity. As if, as if being a god gave him the right to take such liberties.


Apollo viewed her early rejections with whimsy, believing them to be some cute token of her modesty. A god can afford to wait, after all eternity was on his side. After the first hundred no’s his affection gave way to anger. Until his desire could not bear rejection any longer.


At last he cried out to Cassandra. “I will have you or else.”


With a firm but fiery hand he swept her up.  Forcing his mouth against hers. Parting her pursed lip with his powerful tongue.  He shoved his tongue into her mouth, until tears streamed down her cheeks. She could not resist with words, because her mouth was occupied, so she took the only action she knew available to her.


She bit down as hard she could. Lava spewed from Apollo’s lips, roughly singing the inside of her mouth. Without realizing what was happening she swallowed. Her skin began to glow, tiny childlike limbs lengthened and tightened. From her eyes radiated the most powerful light ever seen by man or god. For a moment Apollo cowered beneath the awe of her power, stumbling backwards to the ground dumbfounded.


Regaining his composure he slapped her aside. Scowling in rage “How dare you. You. You worthless *****.”


Her lips parted now of her own volition. Her voice raged with a deep and powerful resonance. “How dare you, you whimpering fool.” The power still flowing inwards filled her with confidence. “I see you for what you are. A tool, a man made invention.” The radiance of her skin was slowly fading. “I see too much now.” She cried out in an ******* fury. A smile crossed her lips. “I see what will become of you and your ilk.”


With strength previously unimagined the young girl thrusted her small hands out throttling Apollo’s throat. He trembled in fear. “You cannot hope to contain the power of me. I am generations incarnated. Passing power from one age to the next. I will not be enslaved.” Her skin began to blink, her voice loss much of its force. “I am Cassandra, and you a merely a passing phase. I will tell the world of all I have seen.”


The last bit of godly energy faded from her skin. Cassandra collapsed. “I still see it all, and you will never touch me again.”


Apollo brushed bits of earth off his person. “See all you want, I care not.” He lunged for her. A flash of thin white light flung him back.

Confused, Apollo rose. Glaring he screamed “You may see all now. It is a gift my blood has given you, but soon it will become a curse. For no mortal wishes to believe that the fates have already written their story. They will ignore you, and in doing so you will find that this power you have gained will be for naught. Thus will be your curse to see all, with no power to stop it.”


Cassandra’s eyes opened wide, seconds split into eternity. She felt the passing of all those around her. She felts time’s stench and rot all around her. Her skin would wrinkle to a certain degree but she would be eternal. She saw cities rise and fall. Some to rise again others to be forgotten. She saw herself seeing each of these visions again and again. She lived her immortal life over and over, events unchanged be anything she said.


The only real comfort was that she saw Apollo wither away. As the old gods fell to ruins weakened by the rationality of new gods, then the rationality of structured reason. Then came the rise of something new and better. Reason with abstraction, abstraction with order, a cycle of energy which emboldened and empowered man. She chuckled.
“Go away little godling.”
And like the little thing he was, Apollo ran.
Her father shushed her, wiping the tears from her face.
The sisters bathed her; singing songs of love and adoration.
Troy fell under the onslaught.
Apollo came and went again.


Cassandra’s eyes opened wide closed and open wide once more, seconds split into eternity. She felt the passing of all those around her. She felts time’s stench and rot all around her. Her skin would wrinkle to a certain degree but she would be eternal. She saw cities rise and fall. Some to rise again others to be forgotten. She saw herself seeing each of these visions again and again. She lived her immortal life over and over, events unchanged be anything she said.


The only one real comfort was that she saw Apollo wither away. As the old gods fell to ruins weakened by the rationality of new gods, then the rationality of structured reason. Then came the rise of something new and better. Reason with abstraction, abstraction with order, a cycle of energy which emboldened and empowered man. She chuckled.
“Go away little godling.”
And like the little thing he was, Apollo ran.
Her father shushed her, wiping the tears from her face.
The sisters bathed her; singing songs of love and adoration.
Troy fell under the onslaught.
Apollo came and went again.
Graff1980 Mar 2019
Is a flower
folding in
on itself,
petals
swollen
with
the last mist
of morning
dew.

It is a lost doe
walking through
the back yard
nibbling
on tree bark
and disappearing
before I can find
the camera of my mind.

It is the one song
played on
repeat
so, you can feel
the beat
and barely hear
the heart
the music declares
as the lyrics
sing
my soft hearted
soul
to a state of peace.
Graff1980 Nov 2017
The door opens and a haggard figure drags his tired self in. He pushes play on the black five disc cd player and slumps down into an old white metal chair. His work shirt flies to the bathroom, hits the side of the shower, and rests on top of the ***** laundry pile.
There is a slightly sad song playing in the background now. Tears slowly fall, retreating in to the wrinkles of his exhausted face. “Stupid song,” cries the young man. His face wears more age then his life should have allowed. Hairs retreat awkwardly across his forehead, leaving stragglers behind in weird places.
            He imagines those lone brown hairs turning around and sighing, “Guys, oh guys where’d you go?” A small chuckle tries to surface but is rejected its freedom as the sad song continues. “Come on, come on just turn off the stupid song.” He says with a painful grin
            He puts on a clean shirt, well an only been worn once or twice kind of clean. Lyrics of love and loss play, then end, and he hits repeat. “Why did I do that?” he thinks. More tears make their presence known, crossing the neckline, and soaking his thin blue super hero shirt. “What the hell is wrong me?” The stranger stares into the cracked mirror.
            The crack seams to split and separate his face, leaving part of it just a little out of sync with the other part. He imagines attempting to shave his hair with this screwy homemade funhouse mirror. Patches of brown hair would be left in random spots, like little bushes sprouting up on a barren beige landscape. Then he imagines strange black tumbleweeds rolling through his head. Another chuckle tries to escape his lips, but is stifled by the sobs.
            “Oh this is ridiculous. I’m not even sad. At least I don’t think that I am sad. Maybe I am cause I am crying. I know I am ******* stressed,” he reflects.
            The song ends and he plays the next sappy sad song. His black work pants take the same journey as his work shirt. Then he puts on a pair of ripped shorts, the hole in the crotch threatening to expose his junk.
Ten minutes have past. While he has been crying laughter seems to want to take over. “Maybe I should see a doctor?” he muses. “Between the crying the urge to laugh, and the talking to myself in the mirror, I must be losing it.”
            The laughter finally breaks through.  A few minute pass. He slips his weary frame onto the small mattress, burying himself so tightly in the blanket that he could not move. Then he goes to sleep. The dreams come and go with a little more tears and some laughter.
            Morning burns his sour face, waking him to the real world once more. His muscles crack as he sits up and tries to stretch out. “I am too young to make those noises.” He considers. After a good long, well annoyingly long ****, he smiles at his reflection in the mirror.
            There are no more tears. Features have been restored to their proper age appearance, and the stress that had been eating him up is gone. He gazes at the clock, surprised to find it blinking twelve. Then checks his watch. “Wow it is almost one pm; good thing it is my day off.” He smiles. “ I really need to stop talking to myself.”
Graff1980 Jan 2015
Shakespeare’s Caesar
Was never noble
Dripping blade dropping blood
Brutus nailed it
To cease the invasions
To end the destabilization
To save his nation
From a warmonger
Crimson smothered blade
Slick with sic gore
The ideas of march
Antony claimed
Noble Caesar
And the masses followed suit
The mob never knew the truth
Caesar was a monster
Gutted and blooded
Life flooded from his vein
But never came close to the stains
That painted his hands
Graff1980 Oct 2017
She was beautiful, a bit small at first. There were wooden panels cutting a rabid swath from every corner. She had two rooms with the potential for more, and chance to start a future.
            Then came a room, and another. The wood was covered or replaced with grainy grey shingles. The grey shingle moistened and dried so many times that they began to rot. A generation came and went, then came back spawning another.
            There were ghosts, not spectral spasms or phantasmal energies, but memories. Walls changing color, furniture coming and going like the children. There was a beautifully brown couch and a rough static cushioned chair. Next to the couch was a misplaced metal shelf that housed endless trinkets, like old watches, batteries, photos, toenail clippers, loose change, a couple pockets knives, and any many other items that paralleled the houses history.
            A radio once adorned the center of the house, then an old box TV, and now a fat screen piece of crap with no character spews out the modern day nonsense, shallow and cold.
            The porch appeared many years after her birth. A stony or maybe metallic desk slowly filled itself with small pieces of the house’s history. There were puzzles with no box, and pieces missing so that only part of the picture could be made; a little black book of dates so far removed from the present that nothing inside was legible. Little toys and sports paraphernalia slipped and slid across the floor till they found their perfect and final resting place. Newspapers and magazine began to rise from the floor to the ceiling as if taking on a monstrous life of their own.
            The cellar went from a useful hole in the ground where jars of preserves were stored to a dusty place with dirt floors and hidden boogie men lay. The back porch, which had a cracked and uneven cement surface, held an old washing machine were the young children occasionally had their tender fingers smashed. Behind the finger smasher was an ancient magic kitchen cabinet where old battle scarred action figures with crack chests, or missing limbs would reappear after vanishing years ago.
            The yard, once full of the sound of children’s laughter and barking dogs, grew silent. Not even the old rope swing with the cracked wooden seat remained. The cement steps and small walkway lost their final battle to the shrubbery. Now the door is concealed as if it is some secret passageway to another land. Maybe it is.
            She leans lightly to the left, buckling under her own weight as she sinks slowly into the dirt and obscurity. This is her short story with more character then a Faulkner novel, and more love then most families will ever know. She was the soft cradling mother of three generations, holding their hearts and all of their memories.
            Now ghostly echoes remain. The second and the last tenant, the mother child who seeded the love and strangeness will fade. The house will rot, for that is its lot. The fireflies that once danced and blinked no longer come, the crickets now chirp their mournful songs. The mother inside loses what little dignity she has left as her mind falters and with her the strength of the house fails as well.
            But there was a time when she shone with all the glory the world had to offer. There was so much love and fun. There was so much safety. There was so much history, maybe a millennia of history that lived with in only a century of time. My other mother, a mask for the last past that I had any link to. I speak to her with the trembling voice of a child waiting for his mother to die, knowing full well that when she passes I will have to depend on this imperfect memory of mine to remember, because she will be gone.
            Somewhere a dog barks, a cat meows, the house creaks with the wind whipping harshly against its new aluminum siding; Just a temporary facelift for a dying beauty.
Graff1980 Feb 2017
We are all sycophantic suitors of death
Chasing that wasting rot and decay
In a roundabout sick sort of way
Suckling the toxic *** of excitement
Rushes and blushes demure and debasement
Faster and faster till haste becomes more than mere waste
Diligent drug users ******* up smoke laced with nicotine
Embracing and tasting various brands of caffeine
Red meat and carbs pretty woman and fast cars
Working to **** much and playing twice as hard
Climbing mountains, hunting new types of prey
Starting fights riding wild and rough waves
Too much sun or not enough UV rays
Waking up early and going to bed late
Silence and stillness is not the enemy of the state
But we are all just chasing the only thing that could be called fate
We all die to **** young but I’d like to check out late
Graff1980 Jun 2015
I chased my love
Her sleeping soul
Soft gently warmth
Her dreaming flesh
Her sighing breath
And watched her from a distance
Resting in her digital visage
Black and white photo
Absorbing and exploding
All spectrums of desire
Not only a flower
But a shattered mirror
Distorting and reporting
My own sorrows
I chased her
Miles behind
And miles ahead
But I will never reach her
Cause she is in my head
Graff1980 Jul 2015
There is mud on hands
Deep dark brown
And green stain
The pants as well
Dusty faded jeans
Smoke when smacked
Bruised belly and scraped arm
****** lip from where he slipped
And a little bit of spit
Slightly teary eyes
Slowly start to dry
And laughter
And giggles
And snortles
And running
And bumping
And falling
It is all child’s play
A very messy job indeed
Graff1980 Jan 2015
The latest issues of Tales of Horror, is perfectly positioned in my bible. My eyes gleam with satisfaction as I read how a werewolf ekes out just deserts to a mass ******. A small chuckle slips through my lips. Barely perceptible but in church my mom has eagle ears. With swiftness that would leave the wolfman in awe the comic is swiped from my bible, and I take a smack to the back of my head.


My eyes get heavy. I lose the will to stay awake. Elbow safely secured on the pew, I lean forward as if I am enraptured by what the preacher has to say. Then let go, so close to sleep, a way to get away from the doldrums. The old man drones on in a monotone. Suddenly, he raises his voice. My arms collapses causing my forehead cracks against the pews. A red mark starts to form inching its way across my face like a mutant birthmark. Now I am awake. Eyes glaring forward.

     The brown baptismal curtain reminds me of nutty buddies. My mouth waters with the fantasy of devouring the whole curtain, like some giant trucker. A swelling stomach riding over my cliché buckle, until my fat explodes into some sort of creepy communion wafers and wine. It splatters my fellow church goers in some sick form of salvation. The pale parishioners panic then succumb to some unknown hunger feasting upon the remnant of me like a bunch zombies.  Freed from the need to be rational they rage on. Dead men and women begin to leave the church ready to infect the world with their form of living death.

A hand smacks the back of my head. Mother glowers, the intensity of her gaze is meant to put the fear of god into me, ironically.  The preacher carries on. Some **** about the armor of gods and the denizens of hell oozes out of his dry voice.


My ears ***** up. The sound of mighty warriors ring through the church. Savage blows bounce off the shields of saints. Angels scream, as demons pluck their feathers, plunging them into the furnace that is hell. Smoke fills the pews with the noxious fumes of burning flesh. The **** moan for mercy. Fingers try to rise from perdition only to be chopped off by the razor sharp wings of the Archangels.

“Back to hell you vermin.” The Angels scream.

The recently and expensively redone floors now wear a masses of ****** bodies, some corpses are demons, some are angels. However, all bodies bleed the same color.

Satan’s sinister grin fills the stain glass windows. A fury of wind shatters each pane, causing shards of glass to rain down upon the parishioners. My fellow church goers scream and run away. Their flesh is marred by bleeding scratches. Beneath their feet other parishioners are trampled. Moans of agony rise from the ground, followed by the rising white ash. Puffs of dark smoke swirl around and….

and my mother smacks me in the back of the head again.
“Pay attention.” She growls.

Looking at the clock, I smile devilishly.  It is time for the last prayer. The preacher passes it on to one of the deacons. A small stout figure brushes back his black thinning and greasy hair, and begins to pray.  

“What a relief.” I think.

Fifteen minutes later the deacon is still praying. He has cycled back to the same **** over and over. I swear sometimes the deacons think it’s a contest. They are trying to see who can pray the best.

A hand slams down from the heavens smashing through the ceiling and crushing the Deacon. His obese frame is flattened causing it to explode like a popped pimple. Red juices and slippery viscera paint the aisles.  

A heavenly voice scolds, “knock it off. People have things to do.”
A laugh pierces the pew.

I get another smack to the back of my head. My mother scowls.
“That is it you’re grounded.”
“Awe ****.” I moan and take another smack to the back of my head.
Graff1980 Dec 2018
The city seems to be
a complex community
built around a series
of impoverished blocks
designed to move behind
strip malls and cracked sidewalks.

Long roads bare blaring billboards,
big shiny signs with adverts,
no cryptic intent hidden in them
just blatant contempt
for the poverty stricken
men and women
who can't afford to spend
their work week pay
on a holiday weekend.

So, the daily expenses
swallow them whole
as they drown in
a dark debt hole
and all of those
pricey baubles
make them feel
shallow and cold,
turn them bitterly old
cause the lies they were told
empty their hard-working soul,
till they get lost in the sea
of wanting the shiny new things;
Becoming devoured by
the business side
of the big city.
Graff1980 Oct 2015
Little ember floats in the wind
Tiny paper dancing in the red road
Signs that speak of intolerance
Sparking the hate filled minds

I do not know how to unburn
That broken wooden bridge
To take back the fire that
Licked and snapped
Leaving tires and other rubber trash
That never turned to ash

Leaving mad men
Stomping and demanding
More violence and less
Understanding

The rabble turning life to rubble

Gun rights meaning more
To them then civil rights
For all my friends

Trapping time in
A tiny painful moment

One friendship down
One job lost
One town burning down
Miles behind me
As I escape this mad city
Graff1980 Jul 2015
You put clichés in you get clichés out
Even I know what I am talking about
Pop stars stealing old lines
Writer forgetting to write their own minds
It is hard to break that cycle
I know, it is so hard to grow
I recycle myself and everybody else
This cliché trend is my sin to
But I am working on it
Graff1980 Dec 2019
Several seekers speak to me
across the cold canvasses
pursuing something spiritually
or something that is merely
beyond the wind-swept trees,
those frigid fingers that formerly held
the beautiful leaves that so recently fell.

Little black-eyed buggy boy,
dimpled cheek cute as can be
stares strangely back at me,
like he is some sort of three dee
anime character that is breaking
the third wall
without whispering anything at all.

Little light sprites
warming their mushrooms seats
as they prepare to rush at me
if I get too close,
scanning me with those
dark coal
eyes,

and that large eyed
voluptuous
red haired
bar maid
that is trying to escape
this frosty day
but has lost her way
in the winding wooden
labyrinth,

whilst somewhere in
the mystic evening
an abstract astral plain
elven spirit blows
those little light sprites cont.
into a new life
like they were bubbles.

Till, the harsh crescent moon
beckons my little darling
upwards towards
its skull white form.
Earth’s dreaming daughter
flies as she dies,
and with her goes
all the shades of those
old daydreams
in these October paintings.
Graff1980 Mar 2016
The city slept on me

Cold bench bed
Newspaper blankets
Stuffed inside
My ***** clothes

Hiding under
Overhanging
Balconies
Or laying on steel grates
That coughed up
A little tuffs of heat

Till the sound of feet
Kicked me
As the mad masses marched on,

March’s farm of snow
Cultivated stiffness

Rigidity
Became my dream

Death became
My warmth

Hope melted
Faster than
Those flurries

And I was buried
Under a layer of
Human coldness
Graff1980 Feb 2016
In poetry he wrote the heart of colors
without paints or a brush
but with words to direct
and shades to inspect.

Wind whipped fields of green
transitioning from darker to lighter
And lighter to darker
with wet patches here and there
punctuated by yellow, and purple flowers.

The grey gravel road
pushing out into the wild world
starting with sharp rocks,
several distinct shades of grey,
and the occasional black oil spot.
Then swerving softly and violently away
as each color loses it edge
and all shades become one.

The night sky
dark blue almost back
with light sparks
Floating in that strange expanse
chasing down the light blue day.
Then being chased away
with purple, orange, and turquoise hues
wearing cloudy covered colors as well.

In the human form
skin scarred by harsh rays
slightly red, freckled
lines of age
light pink lips.
Neck bulging from exertion.
Sweat slickened skin glistening.
Hazel eyes that explode,
spreading sparse space light
in lines outward from the iris
like a new universe.

Till the mind collapses under the pressure
of trying to see all the colors
and the poet knows he is missing
a million shades, tints, and hues.
However, there are only so many lines in this poem
And only so little time in this
finite color enriched life.
Graff1980 Jan 2015
I went back
In time to where the place was
Taking up space because
I was wrapped up in my own world

Teddy bears and a fluffy pink snake
Broken action figures
Battle damaged with no legs
Yellow rusted Tonka truck

Saturday morning cartoons
Hiding comic books in my room
Sneaking and reading while everyone slept
Stealing stealthily I quietly crept
Keeper of the secrets
I kept to myself

Shadows via the windows
Shadows in her smile
Danger in her temperament
Demons in her eyes

Snot and tears
Years of fear
But not of violence
The fear of still being here

The Trip is done
And I come back
Come back to myself
Back to the fact that I am strong
Back to the physical present
Where my presence belongs
Back to me away from the shades
Which haunts my memory
The shadows cannot touch me
But they still haunt me
Graff1980 May 2015
We exist in the revelry
The in-between
Living scenes
And agony
So won’t you come
And dance with me

Work the strings
Pull the levers
Change the sound
Clear the ground
As your feet pound
The ***** downtown streets

Close the doors
Hold me near
As I hold you dear
Forget the day
Forget the night
Together embraced
In dance we are
Intertwined

Cut the chord
Stop the beat
Even then
We will still
Move our feet
Dancing till
They close the streets
It’s you and me
Free to dance
So come dance with me
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Come hither to see
What lies lie in our humanity
What dissonance
Carries us
Dissolving into confusion
Resolving all of our angers
And rage unbecoming
Misdirected
Undirected
Unperfected
Wounding strangers
As well as loved ones
Come forth and bare the brunt
Of our burning destruction
I have known ignorance’s lashes
By those unnamed *****
Who claim control of the masses
Come here to see me
Invested with all the potential of our species
With hope well met
Even when hope failed itself
I milked the moment
And beg thee to see me
With all and none of my humility
Naked
Graff1980 Mar 2017
Come strangers we sing a hopeful song
Welcoming you as brothers in good faith we belong
Come stranger for you are new to this land
And we its native children offer you helping hand
Come stranger let us teach you how to farm
So you can learn nature’s way keeping you safe from harm
Come stranger we bare you no ill will
Offer you our friendship as sincerely as we feel
You came stranger than we thought
Kind at first with gentle exploration
But once you found your way through
Our tiny tribal nation
You came hard and fast sweeping us aside
Murdering our families chasing us down
Until we could no longer resist the onslaught
And you would pretend that you forgot
Our kind and gentle ways
Calling us savage as you acted in savage ways
Killing us with false kindness blankets laced with disease
Greedily expanding and taking what you please
Come stranger here our mournful songs
For loss of tribe, family, and home where we belonged
We used to roam the plains we where once of peace
But in a couple hundred strokes you shredded us to pieces
Graff1980 Apr 2019
Do not read a book
or watch a show
about people
you do not know.

Do not go anywhere,
or engage
with strangers
of any age.

Do not face
those in pain
or see suffering
which
you might
be able to
relate to.

Do not let
blurry stereo-types
come under scrutiny
and see the unknown
loose its fuzziness.

Do not look into
a parent’s eyes
as she watches
her child fade,
preparing herself
for an instance
in which she wishes
she could trade places.

Do not look
at a child who is hungry
when you have
more than you need.

Why would you want
an inch of
human decency?

For heaven sake
avoid empathy
at all cost.
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