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Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
WOMAN BUTCHERED



Ayad Gharbawi


Child that gathered knowledge
Knowledge frightening to human nature
Girl-child was awakened
Herself she awakened
Saw the glow of eyes buttery
Glow of hatred molten
Glow of **** howling
Child, pretended innocence pretty
Child smiled all along the paths unknown
Yet, her body recognized colours unimaginable in their serenity sublime
Figures in her sleep strange, yet beautiful
Songs of sweet sleep, yet alerting in their soothing abilities
Little girl, who are you?
Why won’t you let us
Define you?
Little girl
Honourable lady woman
Did you grow up at all?
Or did you just die in your infancy?
As so many before you have
Did you come
To feel and understand
Your sensitive dimensions?
We would have made sure that you would be mature
If you were submissive enough for us!
Child girl, laughs uneasily and seriously
Child girl, sees lofty, exalted visions possessive
Visions of history’s episodes are expressed pointedly in your compulsive embraces
The foolish martyred are reading holy sermons for their self remembrance
Soldier unknown unmasking his face mangled to the surprised horror and utter disgust
Of his family, friends and other serious clowns
Singing an anthem of Fate’s real truth and nature and essence
Heroine unnumbered, chained to deformity
And becoming a mirror of what they did chain you to
Child girl scarred and petrified by disturbed scenes committed lovingly and lavishly by Man
Child girl curls, yet anticipates
Listen! The foot-steps frighten you once more
The shrieking manic clown has arrived again, red eyed and even more
Laughing dreary, spitting words jumbled and aloud
Figure of shame stands in front of you
Intents pre-arranged by his late father
Little girl!
Are you a woman yet?
Hearing swirls of delirious, sickening
Madness, uncontrollable panic and deathly angst
Hearing painter’s brush strokes that scream their gasps of breathlessness out
Loudly and chaotically
Hears the anguish of colours’ contrasts and contradict each other to the point of
Serious suicide
Little child! Sees the begging deaf pleading for choirs heavenly to sing seriously
Sees the miserable, emaciated crumbles crumbling,
Yet foolishly searching for a non-existent tenderness in darkness painted by drunken Satans
With the foulest, blackest oil colours in their leprous fingers
They try to paint you; define you
Analyze you; dissect you
Categorize you; classify you
Little girl; woman; ******?
Alone and sincerely and deceptively guided by complicated, intertwining hatreds
That severely despised the existence of each other’s truths and falsities
Feeling sovereignty abused by casual, bored
Unconcerned sub-humans in powerful positions on earth
Pierced in pain
My sweet girl, you are now
Pierced in deathly, unforgiving
Pains and hatreds never forgotten
Sweet Humanity
Sweet Man
Sweet human beings
How sweet you all truly are!
CharlesC  Jun 2013
Unmasking
CharlesC Jun 2013
Of success
masks of deeds
degrees well earned
ladders ascended
heroism one time..
all of these
each one's own..
masks of success
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..

Of failure
in mirror image
with extra power
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..

Unmasking
throws questions..
venerate success..?
castigate failure..?
Success
masks itself..?
and failure too..?
now breathing:
ego unmasking
as we go...
Dougie Simps Oct 2016
Dear insecure, emotional, overthinking young man

you've come a long way from way back then

you've lost a lot - but had to realize "who hasn't?"

your strong will seemed to be mistaken a lot from your passion

you've missed out on a lot of love by second guessing & never unmasking

why weren't you truly ever satisfied... nah, that's the question that I'm asking...

your abandonment issues pushed away the potential of something ever lasting

constantly fighting the man in the mirror

hopefully with your new life - you see things clearer

no one ever knew, with you...who they were gonna get

you've missed out on a lot of good times wanting to talk

instead of just letting it go and enjoying the time you had left.

Your favorite pills were self pity, self indulgence, ignorance and regret

you never stopped to listen - stopped talking - hopefully now you allow others words to be said

no woman stood a chance... you purposely acted a certain way to avoid the possibility of true love

discretely pushing them away until they saw nothing and had enough.

don't get me started on your lack of living

missed out on a lot of trips, chances and opportunities

I hope now you've filled that void that is missing

you swore happiness was wealth... power...a line of respect

little did you know it was the little things; the calm, the moments
the people and things in life worth it and willing to invest.

you gave up on a few dreams... figured why fight?

countless times your mind would just run... keep you up all night

you were so afraid of success... honestly, I never knew why

you never freed that little boy trapped - stuck in his father's grasp

he was begging for freedom, you left him struck inside

everyday was another day you thought was your time.

I hope you live now

I hope you see the beauty life truly is

I hope you found love

I hope you found this


I needed to write this letter to you - so you can see how far you have come

you can see that change is real

you can see all that you have become

Bland Douglas Simpkins,

that's the man you should be proud to be

no matter what challenges you were faced with

those obstacles were needed, needed to make it to this me

thank those who've came into your life - not all were meant to last

some forced you left - others showed you right

no matter what, some were needed in your past.

So...

Dear future self,

please understand - I'm sorry. For all that I put you through

the truth remains - that without me - just know...

there would be no you.
to the future
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.
Listening to Hicks Explaing Post Modernism after watching Tenant's Voltage Within spark a fire. This reality is storyteller heaven.
Kelly O'Toole Jun 2018
Like a thorn in the side twists, turns, shifts, thugs at my pride, who am I and why?
Forget to be, forget to try. Sigh, deny and try, oh try, to find out who am I?

Struggle to reach. Struggle to come to grip with reality. You see all these expectations get laid on me, I cant seem to find my feet.

Even in finding my feet, defeat. Defeating my mind and steeped and bleeding, I'm blind and beat.
I'm beating the blinds, the street, it limits the finds and eats, it eats at my mind.

But rise to my feet, I will. Beat my way through, I do. The passing days, they may get all hazy. But I got a vision, I do.

Clear as unmuddied water, that vision peaks and from the merky pool hope leaks. Not made that of odour which reeks, rather perfume which speaks to those bold, brave, not weak.
Who on top of a mountain sits and seeks and stands on the ocean before they may sink and know their song well before they dare speak.

Hope keeps us hooked. Pain gives us drive. For that, I will swallow my pride. My dignity beat, battered and bruised. But my reputation in tact.
My strenght unmatched. Unmask myself I will. Through this treacherous journey, I shall grace salvation, to find my inner will.

And with journey abound to destination unknown leaving that hope, strenght and will for events which have thrown light into the tunnel. Illuminating the stone which sits on the temple of freedom and soul, spirit, freewill, autonomy, suddenly realisation that still ...
Still I am me.
A poem wrote in collaboration with my good friend about the journey to one finding their true identity.
Bathsheba Jan 2011
Does part of your confusion?
Arise from the contusion?

Of that kiss so lovingly wrapped inside a fist?

Why hold back?
What’s pain?
Just black
A void
In which to switch!

We both know that you can’t touch me
In the fortress of my mind
For only I control the drawbridge
Vermin’s
More than often blind

squeak
squeak
squeak
              
“Please let me in.
I have some wares to sell.
I’ll cross your palm with silver.
No secrets will I tell”


Little mouse
Go away
Go back where you belong

We all know the germs you carry
We all know that they are wrong

YOU

Tout yourself as honest

YOU

Tout yourself as pure

But just beneath the surface
In the sewers

YOU

DO LURE


Lure the unsuspecting
Lure the barely formed
Punting pretence of perfection
Salivating salacious scorn

“But … please Miss.
Hear me out.
You have me oh so wrong.
I'm just like all the other Joes.
Lost and all alone.
The mistake that I made was in telling you.
Thoughts inside my head.
On reflection.
Now.
I realise.
They were better off not said”


Little louse
It is too late
For your motives are plain to see
Time to move on
Time to move out

**Time to live out your sick fantasies ...
Dedicated to Helen .... no apologies this time ... lol -;)
RCraig David Oct 2016
Part 1
When profound things leave us because serendipity seizes control and teases our soul,

few actually see it and believe in us....it takes its toll.

Our walls grow high...

Wise to all those sly predators that shared our space but ultimately never bettered us.

Likened to a wild bunch of criminals and nuns you sometimes share fun or lunch with,
then again spin adrift.

So we stay put...only peeling away the day-to-day’s fraying gray.

Though we have heightened steeliness to infernal charms,

We sometimes ignore internal alarms,

Oft' ending up-in-arms instead of in the arms of another.

Battling each curse from crib to hearse,
We continue to play anyway, but hold our cards close..
Somehow coasting on borrowed form and verse.

Still too afraid to lead with enormity.

Still too proud to follow in conformity.

We become shells and ghosts to project “normality”.

Still hoping for more,

Still revealing our core,

Still practicing what we’d say with one more chance to settle the score.

Refusing to sink, either our genius always on the brink of changing the world and more...

Or burning down and gutting out our current hideout and surrounding small town or place of clout.

Still reeling from the lingering devastation of past lackluster unreciprocated non-appreciation knockdowns.

To keep from being corrupt,

We fold our coldest stories up,

And box them up under a "never the right 'write' " pens and pencils cup long filled up.

Smiling a little, we continue through this long season's harsh climate.

Subconsciously buying "Dried" sage because "Rubbed" still seems to intimate.

Tragically tied down by the tiny tech gadgets flooding our data stream with faster updates;

All just to dazzle and daze us into a lazy malaise on our busiest of days.

PART2
More and more we wait.

The "what-if's" we contemplate.

The more we try to create something great, then hesitate, none too late

The more this inundating system of “Likes” rates you,

The less your gated fate or guiding faith makes you "you".

The less your justification or inspiration moves you.

Yet uncompromising and alone, you continue and make it through.

No one could ever guess from your crisp pants' fresh press. I digress.

Oddly, all it likely would take is one ego caress from soft smiling muse in sandals and a summer dress.

If you could only get this distress off your chest, fall hard for a new muse, give your defenses a rest

endure the re-birthing process and all the possible hot mess...then...

Never again would you have to guess or obsess.

The sheer potential magnitude of you at your best.

An open floodgate of uncanny, uncaddy personal success.

You would never again feel idleness or unrest.

But "who" you ask, would be caring, tough & daring enough,

willing to share all that stuff through such an arduous process, off the cuff?

Who has such pure heart intent, without the fluff?

A Muse who speaks out loud for you, never a mumble...

Is strong and humble, but not rough and tumble...

Who heeds the needs of your soul's rumble...

Who pulls the "new you" close while your old limits crumble...

Is fair and daring when you're sharing how bizarrely you sometimes raise the bar...

Joins your rare ****** to close down the bars while thoughtfully considering how fragile your scars are...

Who encourages you to shoot for the stars...

Sees the truth of who you were, hope to be and the screams in-between.

And by her sheer presence, becomes all these things for that new man and him alone.

Cause of she, he will achieve and be more than he could on his own.

Whoever that girl may be and until then,

I mend a tightly woven,

slightly broken,

rarely spoken,

unawoken caged soul for one more shinny token to spend on this world alone.

By R.Craig David-Copyrighted 2012
ukown Oct 2015
You scarf by your face ,and i scarf by my face far of you
And my eyes rebellion on me , and seen on you
Your walk bearing your calmness,silence,shyness,tenderness
Like evening details , Oh how much better i like evening details
I'll write about your smile
And about your charm eyes
About Rotate planets in your chest
And the sun graduation from your mouth
About rivers seems with your Tufts of hair
And waves of sea breaks up on your waist
I'll expose your love
I'll write about your hiding love that overwork you
I'll flirt all my lovers and my sweethearts
And all them is you
I'll tell the world ,you are the **** Andromeda
And that me the coast of Jaffa haunted by you
This poem it's for the poet Hamouda ismaili ,and i'm so honored to  translate it to english
Jenna Johnston Nov 2011
Waiting…
Waiting…
Waiting…
How could you?

Trust is lost
Faith is lost
I stayed

Ended for us
Not by us

Best decision I couldn’t make
This is an original by Jenna Johnston. If you like it, by all means write it down, but give credit where credit is due, please
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?

I am an addict, not a poet.
Ireland Gundy  Mar 2015
Batman
Ireland Gundy Mar 2015
Gotham the city of flight,
Where the moral and wicked fight,
Laughter rings throughout the dark
As the deranged leaves his mark.
He speaks for the mad,
and fails to recall what it is he had.
He see it as a amusement views me as a toys,
what he does he some how enjoys.
I've beat him time and time again,
though he still remains the most mysterious of men.
I once went to see him no mask, no cape,
Batman had returned him from another escape.
I walk to his cell "Bruce Wayne. Hi"
he wouldn't turn around, nor look me in the eye.
He didn't care who was behind the mask,
but there I stood "Dear Ol' Bats"
I knew then.
I was nothing to him.
But every plot so clever. So canny,
He's had so many chances,
but never glances.
Maybe it frightens him, the idea that I am just a man.
Unmasking me might bring back thoughts of how he began.
Maybe it helps him with his blind recollection.
Almost like the clown wouldn't feel succession,
The man with a ruby red grin.
He would come back to reality,
but what then?
haley Oct 2017
with her
the sun rises
at midnight

sets when she leaves in the morning

clouds curl at the tips
their edges unmasking freckles of stars
but still the sun rises
at midnight

she is the sun on weekends
coaxing children's toes to bounce along
cement streets
and elderly women to pass lemonade stands
and order
"just a cup for the road"

she is my favorite chair to sit in
with a good book
and a blanket
missing a patch of leather
that i run my hands across
while i read

and when i sit outside with her
at midnight
the sun peaks its blonde hair
from behind the mountains.

— The End —