"adversary" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.
again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.
but regret This.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
We were boys, once.
Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes.
Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11.
We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall.
After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip.
Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone.
*** and sin.
Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns.
He didn't always look like that.
Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine.
He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop.
In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name.
Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest?
Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood.
Maybe he was better off without him.
He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love:
That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity.
The holy adversary.
The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations.
He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite?
He loved his father.
Did he deserve it?
I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday.
What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other?
Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames?
Even as a child, I knew.
Through every slap, scold and bruise.
I would never bow.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
The mirrior is my adversary.
My eyes variance, what others don't see.
To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled
Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac
Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many,
but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets.
Humorous isn't it?
Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments
Fears, self-doubt, imperfection.
Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall..
Who's the thinnest of them all...
The sound of battle rumbles
Conscious at wrists ends
Bawling in me
Fat,
Fat,
Fat,
Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind
Vision is blurred from reality,
Oh mind how you love to frolic
Your sheer joys leave me unpieced,
The snickering of my mirror,
Damages my frame.
Sorrowing fades my red lipstick
Pigments revealed,
Vulnerable,
Unworthy,
Marred to the bone
Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con
Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat.
Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Standing outside the coliseum
He wipes his tattered brow
As he waits in chains
And what remains
Of a worn and used nightgown
The oak doors creak as they slowly bow
He walks the axis road
The dogs at his heels, he knows, he feels
Pains that have been bestowed
A table is set upon which blades rest
The choice of which he makes
He reaches forward, picks up the sword
No room here for mistakes
The helmet is hot, he feels his breath
As he walks upon the field
He is a trapped snake inside a crate
He raises up his shield
His adversary stood there watching
With a shaking fretful eye
They prepared to fight until deaths bite
Took and run them dry
With one fell swing of the sword
He brings his foe down
The steel glistens in the sunlight
Enhanced with the smell of blood
The crowd cheers and roars
What do they know of it?
The life he has taken
It cannot be replaced
He is trapped inside
He cries for freedom inside
Slowly he dies inside
Inside himself.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
I cared for you since day 1
You never knew me
Yet I gave everything I got
Just for you to be happy.
I am just waiting here
Ready to support you
Anytime you need me
But then you love someone else
An adversary that I'm helpless with
Time to give up
For the first time and the last time
I just want you to know
The only reminder I can give to you
"Usted siempre sera mi siempre"
"You will forever be my always"
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 6:48 AM UTC
They call her Violent Violet
for the purple bruises that bloom
dangerously deep and disturbingly dark
along the tops of her knuckles.
To her it’s decorative floral.
In fights she clutches violets
offering their vicious beauty
to any contending adversary.
She’s a volatile force of nature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
The cold grey clasp of Sunday
Skies blocked by an eternal ****** of crows
Fingers engrossed upon the neck
Asphyxiate existence from seamless seams
Decant the ocean obscene
Where once we were gone in a reverie
...Now only Monday is a day away
Waiting like a shadowed adversary
We obstruct our eyes
And wish the days away
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:12 AM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I had to disassemble it
Our world
Take it apart
Bit by bit
Word by word
Those words
Letters
Full of meaning
Could no longer exist
Anywhere
My friend, my lover
And my refuge
Suddenly turned
Traitor
Turned foul
Deceptive
Dangerous
My friend, my lover
My language
So I began the demolition
Of clandestine concepts
Tearing apart nouns
And adversary adjectives
violently, I separated verbs
And adverbs
Thus impairing indecent interjections
Until our grammar
Finally collapsed
Now there is only silence
Safety in signs like
Minuscule monuments
All bereft of meaning
And I am in mourning
For I have no words
To throw into the void
Only memories
Of distant dialogues
Dreams
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Am I among those they write
deep in the threads of contempt?
For no one truly can be
a hero to all.
We all imagine the songs
powerful and triumphant
will someday be our own.
But what is desire?
What is the facade we wear
day in and day out
to power the most illusive masquerade?
What if the turn from my childhood
was never a turn at all?
Is it so strange, is it too far
of a line to draw
that I may be the villain?
Perhaps we're all simply searching
in desire for an adversary.
The call to arise, the call to spur us forth
from the pit too many have found as solace.
Now what if I am
not even a pawn
and barely a sheep
in life's great puzzle,
or is it a mystery
never to be solved?
I long for the moment
I'm desperate for change
I've bit the blind eye
And now I wish my own would remain shut.
So who or what is to say
that I won't snap like the thinning rope
caught in a chokehold?
My dear is the victim
and the fall is too far
to survive.
Where shall I be when
my final spin has spun?
Will I drag to a halt or
careen face-forward?
A gradual decay
or a shot to crack the wall,
either way I may merely be
the villain.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
nothing's instantaneous
temperance a requirement
change forever targeted
til self becomes fragmented
heart an aqueous soluble
erstwhile deliquescent
puddled into pulp
taken out like trash
fitting for an adversary
malicious and malevolent
destructive to the starling
plucked and plunged to sea
so drown to suffocation
laudable attempts at termination
inundate your consciousness
using barrages of indifference
convinced affection's unattainable
death deserted and companionless
auspicious in my loneliness
asphyxiate to expiration
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
*Italic drumroll...
imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised*;
♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪
ALL HAIL !
Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters:
attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP !
(Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—)
And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary *HILLARY ("H-Rod")*
(Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute)
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I wonder if my late night plays
Will ever be relayed
To a generation that is slayed
In my play every black home
Has two stories, a fence
and a dad that won’t roam
Their cars ain’t all chrome
No bars on the windows
No grandmas saying lord knows
When cops shows
There are more colors than grey
No dope boys on the corner cliche
Or dogs on chains barking to get away
The colors blue and red stand for a flag
The black youth aren’t in a body bag
And pants never sag
Black men aren’t scary and mean
The system isn’t their adversary or
The silver screen
They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase
The color green
Black women have a name
Not ***** or **** used as shame
No fakes buts for their fame
The son has more hope
Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope
He aspires to use a stethoscope
The daughter is strong and free
She can either write a song or get a PhD
Her future is whatever she wants it to be
Their ain’t thugs on tv our color
Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother
Or get drunk and fight one another
Gun violence is a joke
the police don’t chock our folk
Our music don’t promote drug use
And Gucci don’t ******
Drivebys are now hi’s
Every family is woke and wise
It’s sad to know
That this world won’t ever exist
Because the world outside
Is to nightmarish
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
A yellow belly cardinal launches itself at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or should I make him the subject of my next poem
He became my inspiration, and I his adversary
It slurred whistled phrases calm my inner soul
After a while the pecking annoys my daughter’ cat
So, here I am compromising myself and not caring
Because I am about to compose a piece:
About war and peace: title
Fluffy and the **** bird
I took out my camera and zoom in on its beady eyes,
and realize that it was as blind as a bat
Teeth-chattering, tail going from side to side,
doing the war dance this **** cat,
A blind cardinal with a sweet melody
what more can I asked for, but to watch and learn
from the intruder, the spoil feline and the observer,
A yellow belly cardinal launch at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or let my daughters’ cat razz it?
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
I poured my heart out
Soaked to my soul with sincerity
Wasting words on deaf ears
Connected to a heart devoid of pity
With incredible fortune
I looked at my hands;
Armed I was with golden bravery.
Enough to conquer lands!
And my adversary was but a man.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
I am not disposable.
That's a fact, it's non-negotiable.
A fact, which right now you smirk at-
but I am not a servant, and
you're certainly not an aristocrat.
I am not expendable.
I wish proper etiquette was injectable,
because that's a vaccine you desperately need.
Caring and truly caring-
you need to learn the difference between those two things.
I am not nonessential.
You think you know me inside and out,
but you don't have the right credentials.
I try to understand your motives,
but your thoughts are cryptic and confidential.
I am not unnecessary.
You make yourself into two faces-
the object of all my affection, and my greatest adversary.
This situation is just a coal mine-
your treating me like I am these things is the canary.
These things are what I am not.
I should be paramount in your life.
Through your own actions you've proven these are all I am to you,
You've unsheathed a backstabbing knife.
I am here to stay.
Though you've nonchalantly tried to toss me away,
you will learn someday,
that I am not disposable.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
With every breath that escapes your lips
Another soul collapses to its knees in shock
With every touch you attempt to place upon purity
Leaves the tears that fall to freeze into loveless icicles
In the wake of your presence Mother Nature asks for peace
Roses beg abundantly for forgiveness in gentle tones of suffering
Though being the criminal you are you don't possess a heart
And if you do it remains covered in shadows of narcissism
It must get extremely lonely living in vain memory of your existence
Without hesitation you impose your chokehold of tasteless agony
Around the delicate throats of the angels that attempt to help you
A cold, grim grin spreads across the surface of your wounded cheeks
Entertained by witnessing humans be stripped bare
Their bodies serving as the canvas to your steel blade
In the air you wave your hands just like a magician
Sliding the blade back and forth across their skins
Carving death upon their foreheads
The echo of your laughter being the pistol
That pierces their skulls with fierce pressure
As they drop dead with cowering fear
Fuming from their lifeless corpses
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
genuine anger, that implodes?
kinda makes
you sleepy.
been listening to too much
lindsay ellis: drinking...
in vino veritas verbatim...
ghost writers?!
you have to be kidding me...
kovalski!
- yes sir!
inquire about
the *bookovski
method*!
- the hyphen is
counter to the concept
of a prose narrative
in paragraph form,
translated into poetry:
fwee! fwee!
jittering away,
like a sparrow might!
**** me, does anger
make you sleepy...
if anger implodes...
that's like...
the... ultimate
sleeping pill;
it's a friday? some *****
taking
place in central london?
thank god i'm not thinking
about picking up and marrying
the scrap-heap of counter incels.
all i seriously wanted
was to become a bus driver,
the route 5...
**** anger is so exhausting
when it implodes and
does, but "doesn't" have
an outlet...
you don't teach kids
martial arts by kicking
one of them in the *****
and watch them curl up
like an oyster exposed to electricity
asking, or rather, demanding:
is there a kojak, a liver, a brain,
and an altogether in there?!
like an echo into a cave...
imploding anger:
makes you sleepy...
like the adversary of adrenaline...
or the emperor's throne room scene
music...
oh look...
yet another yawn
attempting to lodge itself
into the gob of a chimpanzee -
caught on camera,
"supposedly" laughing;
then again...
it would refer to the:
bankrupt broadcasting corporation,
given: sheeee shaville;
well... a sort of... oops?!
don't worry, you have ********
it's like the new niqab...
seems a bit... pointless to **********
if you've been circumcised.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
So it's us against ourselves.
The mind is the adversary.
And what is that?
A mere dream within a dream.
What does forever mean?
Some hazy lines...
A blur of self,
A little talk,
Between you and me?
*A heart lost in translation is in me, while forever is to be free of wonder.
Humans hungry for home and hopeful for hunger.
Life is one long plunder
For the lost ones of
Silent thunder.*
Are these lost ones so lost?
Or will these sons of thunder
Flash like lightning?
How far do you have to go
Before no one understands at all?
*As far as the fog found clouding the light that sits quiet in the souls of the stormborn.
The light that breaks the beaten barriers of sound and gives life to the lifeless.*
That distant light called Hope by some;
A hope that may only protract disharmony.
A skillful prolongation
To the battered.
It is said that hurt is proof of love,
But what's left to prove
When the uncalmed storm
Engulfs us?
*By light I live, but by love I die.
Pray to every god that we are left in the eye.
The only proof we need is meaning, something bold to live by.
But we crave happiness, and there can only be one,
So what could anyone do but try and cry?*
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC