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“rootless in shallows of momentary mayhem
and no matter the change in horizon,
there is always some thing to be found
that could remind me
of the worst ways I have ever been.”

from “Harlequin Days of Fecund Fervor” by Victoria


rereading these your words, upset forces me to break a recent vow,
my own writing banished, now faceless in the ranks
of just another poet, busted in rank, chose my own
decommissioning but then your momentary mayhem
plea, fecund you, your third harlequin, states construct!

stay the constriction, the recalling of our worst worsts,
for there is always something to be found, recalled,
that the horizon’s only constant is constant change,
especially the worst worsts

I am colored by your treats, your word plums ripe even
out of season, and the mayhem is mine only mine,
robbed you for it is I, rootless, given up my planting, then
the cobblestones of old new york, trip me up, saying
even old things such as you, have a prime yet to come,
stones fecund seeding, predicting I am not done, just undone,
and fetuses within this dying body, may yet be carried to term,
may yet, maybe, may be, but may be caesarean stillborn

rambling this, mostly musty unclear, so summarizations a
sensible thing, a pardon requested for clarity is a sometime thing.

rare are the days that the terracotta colored soil
darkens my fingernails,
it is dried blood from my scratching deep beneath the skin’s topsoil,
but nothing grows that’s whole, warped are the word fruits.
my soup is hot water with salt, a tasty dish apropos for one
whose growths are rootless in the shallow, infertile dirt of stones
that reside in the shallows of a garden of mine own
fecund may-hem of the grey fall sky autopsy turvy
LWZ Feb 20
But I can only see from a distance.
A thick dense fog stands in between,
I ******* wish to god I could see.

It’s so beautiful over there,
Somewhere I cannot define.
The air is fresh
The grass is green
Paradise, as If I was in a dream.

I walk through a war to get there.
A ******, butchered scene.
Still it feels like home,
And I find it hard to leave

I thrive in the mayhem
but it does not benefit me
Set me free of my memories
I want to stay where the grass is green.
          I am
Furious soul.

             with You,
I Mayhem.
Troy Aug 2018
The heart bleeds
A crimson red
Destruction and Mayhem
On the bend

Lifeless corpses
Maggots and flies
Clean the once living bodies
That now cling to the floor

Death and his horse
Have so much work
They enlist the help
Of the fates at work

Plagues rise
From hollowed graves
Killing everything in sight
Leaving nothing but decay

Souls arise
The sorrow of mankind
Death follows swiftly
As a helping guide

Pointing to their once warm home
Now but a cold and lifeless feast
Acknowledging self pity
The soul does weep

Crying out for salvation
Of their once beautiful temple
Leaving so suddenly
They take flight

Life seems pointless
In the aftermath of plague
Souls scream out
In hopes of something safe
Nicky Aug 2018
Passion in her heart and mayhem in her mind, a dangerous combination, the two combined....
trolls have a lot of idle time
on their aggravating hands
and it has been noticed that
they move in trolling bands

were these individuals to
find a more useful pastime
others wouldn't be sensing
their provocative lime

oh yes the trolls are well
and truly on the loose
causing much mayhem like
an uninhibited moose

they patrol both by day
and by night
dispensing their plaguing
sort of blight

if you've ever felt a troll
breathing down your neck
it'll make you cry out get
the abhor off my deck
K Balachandran Jun 2018
daunting nonstop rains,
such mayhem landslides and pains;
rain: boon if not bane!
Igorgoldkind Feb 2018
A boy goes to school

And tears his schoolmates apart

With metal piercing bullets

This is normal now.

Igor Goldkind
Igorgoldkind Feb 2018
Today was every other day.

My boss says
"Hey Joe, where you going with that staple gun in your hand?"
I draw a blank on my face and turn to face his
"You don't really know, do you, Joe? 

You don't know where you're going.

You don't really know who you are.

You don't know much of anything anymore,

Do you now, Joe?"

Then he laughs at me 
In front of everybody
He laughs and points at

What everybody but me can see.

And everybody laughs and they laugh and they laugh

But nobody talks to me anymore.
My boss don’t talk to me anymore.
My neighbors don’t talk to me anymore.

My girlfriend don’t talk to me anymore.

My doctor don’t talk to me anymore.

My mother don’t talk to me anymore.
My father don’t talk to me because 

He's long since gone

Flown far away from the words to this song.

I call my girlfriend up on the telephone

She says,  "Joe, I'm not your girlfriend anymore"

And hangs up the phone.

Nobody talks to me anymore.

I call my doctor on the telephone

He says, "hello, is there anybody there"?
I say, "it's me, Joe, doctor help me, nobody talks to me anymore!"
My doctor coughs and hangs up the phone.

Nobody talks to me anymore.

I call on my priest in the church down the road

I say "Hello, Father? my Father, is that really you?"
"Please tell me, dear Father, what should I do?"

My priest says "Joe, God don't love you anymore"

And throws me out through God's front door.

Even God don't talk to me anymore.

So, I go down to a bar to have a little swim.

There's a bar stool there where the Cross should have been

The bartender looks at me,
But he doesn't say a word.

I hold up *******  pointing up at the sky
So he pours me a double, ten-year-old rye.
Which I toss down and motion for another
All the while calling him "my brother".
The bartender stares at my face
As silent as the stone sleeping inside of that wall.
Nobody talks to me anymore.

On the street, the headlights blind my blinking eyes.

Strangers push past me, some I know, most I despise.

A cop car pulls up and flashes his bright light on me

The cop points his flashlight in my eyes so that I can't see.
But we already know, there's nothing he or I need to say.

He won't arrest me.
It just ain't worth it to talk to me anymore.

A ghost walks up and stares into my face.
He doesn't say a word; 
just hangs there in space
And  spins ribbons of colored lights

Inside my head.

There's no knowing with ghosts no more
The dead don't talk to me anymore.

Suddenly I see an explosion of lights

There's trumpets and harps and angels in sight
A liquor store, neon vision of light
Promises me the spirits of salvation
 and delight,
If I just step inside.

While next door, a gun store slowly cracks open its door . . .

I am my father and my mother's son and

I’ve never before bought me a gun,
But nobody, nobody talks to me anymore.

Igor Goldkind © 2018
Written in January;  predictive enough but sadly not amazingly so.
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