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M Solav Jun 24
There is a curse in every name.
Shoot me in the back of the head and I’ll be dead,
But my name shall carry on
In the depth of my killer
If he was a friend
Or in the wallet that he stole from the corpse
Now lying dead on the floor.

"But the curse", I explained
"Is neither in the ****** nor in the theft,
Nor is it retribution for a life shamelessly taken.
It’s in the neatly shaped boxes
In which the mind must be bent
To fit the guilty and the innocent alike
And each and all of their names."

That is the real ******;
And that is retribution.
Written on May 18th, 2023.

— Copyright © M. Solav —

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
SøułSurvivør Mar 2022
"Though the mills
Of God grind slowly;
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience
He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The Mill

The grueling weight
of happenstance,
A millstone for to grind,
It deflates the ego
And shows us
Where we're blind,
It renders flesh a ruin
Obliterates the mind,
We leave our idols desolate
Leave the ties that bind.

Under painful hardship
We release the very things
Which put us in the circumstance
And caused the suffering
We leave behind our craving
For wealth and diamond rings
Everything exalted
All exalted above God...


Whatever you adore
On this temporal earth
Whatever gives you pleasure
In which you find worth

These very things will shackle you!
You'll find out they're not free.
They are just the Golden Calf
Of base idolatry.

But the millstone slowly purges
Turning hour by hour
Turning the wheat kernels
Into useful flour.

And so I am refined
As I surely must
Put to naught my flesh
Make powder all my lusts
For I am as ashes

for I am as dust.

Write of Passage aka
Nigdaw Oct 2021
I think you're gone
but there is inside me
that voice
disapproving, judging
I had celebrated my freedom
with a Budweiser
and some tears
not realising like
Steven King's
Lawnmower Man
you had been released
into my every nerve ending
my very being
part of my matrix
in life you had the strength
of an ark angel
and as I stumble
over these words
I am afraid retribution
is at hand
I am still scared of secrets
to let too much show
you once asked if I still
write poetry after dissing it
well I'd hardly call it that
this is my fear factory
maraccini Apr 2013
Repulsive is vile that trickles down the liar's forked tongue,
in this terrible time of perplexing desperation,
I struggle to be humble.
I am engulfed inside this devastation,
wicked are those who hurt the innocent one.
I am tormented by the voices that mock each tear,
the turmoil they unleashed overshadows the sun.
I sit and stare at a loaded gun⁠—be warned evil enemies,
no matter the time, or the day we all shall be judged.
Thy kingdom come, but I will not fall,
thy kingdom falls, but I will not succumb
to the assault brought forth by the deceitful opposition.
But time is breaking my will, my momentum, and my motivation.
We all shall be judged, but those with forked tongues
shall cower under the wake of my glorious retribution.
Rescel Aug 2020
You searched the world for a lullaby
and found it in their screams and cry.
Your greatest art was death itself
and your melody was their beg for help.

But let's go back to your story's start,
when you still didn't have a monster's heart.
Let us go back to your innocence,
when your world was confined behind your backyard fence.

You once had been a young good boy
but with a family like those broken toys.
Your parents' fights were your fairytales
and your bedtime story was your mother's wails.

You'll go to school with hidden cuts--
black-blue bruises from your father's bat.
And though they tried to be friends with you,
their happiness was your source of blue.

Until one day, you found a cure;
her name's Emily, a bliss so pure.
Her smile, your happiness; her eyes, your stars;
her hugs, your haven; her tears your scars.

You learned to find the sweet from the bitter,
hoped that maybe there's a happy ever after.
You've buried your heart in darkness' grave,
not knowing that soon enough, you will be saved.

Yet fate won't let you get away;
peace and joy will never stay.
Your precious one, they took and ****--
Emily's dead, lying cold and still.

The pain you've buried for many years,
the darkest past, your endless tears
the rage you've buried brave
came crawling back out of its grave.

"Evil is good, retribution is fair!"
Goodness became something you don't want to care
Justice you'll bring with bloods on your hands
Farewell to the angels, by the devil you stand.
Killer's Tale
IntoTheGale Jul 2020
“Poets never ****.”
            -V. Nabakov

Oh, but don’t we?
Our methodology might
Differ, our craft more subtle-
And yet the end result,
Escorting some poor soul
To the gates of whatever end
Awaits them beyond this frame,
Is abhorrently familiar,
Our motives no more pure-

We move in different mediums
Some artists in oils,
Others in brute force-
Working in time signatures
Of days and weeks, years-
not Mere seconds-
This is not impulse-
But words weaponized?
That is artistry refined.
We work in palettes of grays.

We need to know them
For the poison to take hold.
To work it’s way through
The bloodstream, through
Every muscle until it is absorbed
Into who they believe themselves
To be, something they can never
Change about themselves
That they are sure is visible
To every passerby,
Some fracture in the facade.

The planting of a seed,
A word, a phrase-
Insidious in its design
A dark spot on the mind
So small, seemingly
Insignificant, but the foundation
Upon which we build our
Scaffold, buried in some
Line of text, in some metaphor
That draws an indelible line
Between some worldly beauty
And a deep buried flaw
They try to hide from the eyes of the world.
It’s delicate business after all,
Planting self doubt and loathing
So ingrained that one is unsure
Whether they ever existed before
The thought that now destroys them.
As  John put it
The incarnated word,
Saint Mary was entitled
To feed Her *******
And Hold, but whom
Juda the culprit
For 30 birr sold
Is almighty God.(John 1:1John 1:12.John 8:58)

Here it should pop up
To your attention
"God is with you!"
Saint Gabriel's to
The Immaculate felicitation.

So God,
Christ is a presiding judge
An inch do not budge
Hearing shallow teachings
Quite strange
Christ killers-turned
-Christ-peddlers on many
A religious forum stage.
As Canaan, awaits
Them a curse
For trying to belittle Christ
Intent to line up their purse.

On the cross
It was the incarnated word
That allowed the repentant
Shieftan on his right
The first greenlight
To heaven of course.

His sons'
Polar opposite deeds
Noah better felt
The visitation of  God
In Shem's tent.(Genesis 9:18-27)

Hence God's incarnation
That still reflect
Are entitled
Membership to the tent,
Which personifies
Saint Mary
The immaculate.

Thus, as the
Chosen generation
True to
Saint Mary's prophesy
Let us echo "The Graceful
And the immaculate!"
Evading Satan's
Yet another bait.
For one who reads the unabridged bible from A to Z Jesus is the presiding judge not a semi God
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
911 Carousel
by Michael R. Burch

“And what rough beast ... slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats

They laugh and do not comprehend, nor ask
which way the wind is blowing, no, nor why
the reeling azure fixture of the sky
grows pale with ash, and whispers “Holocaust.”

They think to seize the ring, life’s tinfoil prize,
and, breathless with endeavor, shriek aloud.
The voice of terror thunders from a cloud
that darkens over children adult-wise,

far less inclined to error, when a step
in any wrong direction is to fall
a JDAM short of heaven. Decoys call,
their voices plangent, honking to be shot ...

Here, childish dreams and nightmares whirl, collide,
as East and West, on slouching beasts, they ride.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Mindful of Poetry, Gostinaya and Scholasticus/Fullosia Press. Keywords/Tags: 911, war, violence, retribution, twin towers, terror, terrorism, east, west, dreams, nightmares, error
Catherine Bailey Mar 2020

Torture, the infliction of severe physical or mental pain
or suffering for a purpose, such as
coercing a confession, or inflicting punishment.


Making me pay everyday,
By loving someone else that treats you well
For hurting you and breaking you
The way I did
Paul OConnor Mar 2020
Shivering in a cold car
Hours crawling by
What an effing miserable day it is
No whisky in the jar

Yeah tmes were hard back home
Sure we never had an easy ride
Yet laugh we did for we were one
But for me it was time to roam.

Three months back I reached South London
Squatting in rooms on borrowed time
Not good enough to work for uber
Just an unlicensed dodgy one

Burner on lap, awaiting a ring
Maybe it will, but probably not
Hours go by, but it is what it is
I kinda don't care what the day will bring

Ring, I jolt and say "It's Joe"
A collection awaits a few miles away
Foot on the gas, I can't be late
A hard looking man and his young looking **

An address shouted without a greeting
A terrified face in the mirror
Far to young to be doing tricks
Those eyes drill with their pleading

I remember Mary and what's right
Sneaky call to the 999
Give them the details including the scar
Can't sit back and watch this *****

One  week past and no change in life
Sitting in my old coat in a cold car
Pick up two lads to Quinlan's bar
"Grass" the last word before I feel the knife.
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