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I could never put into words until now
the warm sensation of menstrual blood trickling down my hand
or the smell of dried blood stuck to public hair
and how every time I walked passed the butchers or deli department at the local grocery store
I could recognize the smell of blood dripping from tissue left on white sheets displaying the cuts of meat
sheets the same color as the toilet paper I use every month
to examine the clumps of the ****** that flow downwards
to be born life-less much like a flank stake behind the glass case
****** stuff
our your clothes back on
wanna die

Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
Mao’s on the wall.
Mao’s on the cat,
Mao’s the cat,
And Mao’s on the truck.
Mao’s tucked text.
Mao’s still the cat
Mao’s on the hat;
And Mao’s rendered stencil.
Mao draped in red,
Mao embalmed vacuum,
Mao smiling dirt
And Mao in slaughter;
The good, the bad,
The, “godly,” great
The ’89 slaughtered, ugly,
And as putrid as the scholars
Being spat upon.
So Mao’s tempered glass
And Mao’s tempered solemn,
Surrounded a spectacle,
When I, Mao and I,
Author and other, other and
Away, gaze eye-to-eye with,
His are closed,
Mine, unblinking.
I think of heroes,
I, “tinker,” butchers,
And ponder,
“Just,” and to the right of,
Right,” what is, “right?”
Would he have been?
Would she have been?
Would I have been?
Just what the hell is,” right?”
I get it, the 1989 Tienanmen Square Massacre occurred under Deng Xiaoping, but Mao's policies laid the seeds for said devastation. The point is, some have asked me to post some more, "China," poetry, so here it is - 2007 and a visit to his mausoleum; as creepy as any corpse'd be. Oddly enough, I've studied him quite a bit, he had good intentions, but the road to hell is paved with the best intentions. Oddly enough again, most of the young here can't stand him. Either way - Dictators at home, dictators abroad, they tell us what's "right," but what really is?
JM McCann Apr 2015
The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.

The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.  
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.

The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.

The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.

A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.

The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****)
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
out of him.

Yes this is all football.
I make fun of things because its fun, I may or may not know this poem to be a factual recitation. Yes I have been in the mood to bash football a bit

— The End —