"airspace" poems
Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
Custom made world
All made of plastic
Counting twist or turns
Everything is spastic
High definition views
Playing with our eyes
In a different place
Reality is a crime
Trapped in our electronics
We can not walk a line
Children with no manners
Living is a lie
Spoiling our ambitions
Charging everyday
Respect is really lost
Pictures are to say
Transmissions cross the airspace
Signaling the cost
Humanity is all but broken
Everything is lost
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.
Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.
Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.
There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.
The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.
Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.
Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.
Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,
a ghost.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
The book encouraged me to
*‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’*
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.*
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
Little is known and less is appreciated about the geographic, strategic and political significance of the Spratley and Paracel Islands situated midway across the South China Sea.
Disputed historically for ownership by Malaysia, Vietnam the Phillipines and China, amongst others, the islands are situated strategically across the major commercial sea lanes of the region and atop an ocean of vast, submarine deposits of untapped fossil oil.
China has used her muscle to occupy and claim these islands, together with unspecified, adjacent sea way area. She has claimed them as sovereign territory of the People’s Republic of China. Until this occupation the islands have been largely unpopulated and have had little or no military significance. Recently, however, Chinese constructors have been ruthlessly dredging the surrounding coral reef and building a 3000m long concrete runway for military purposes on the hugely expanded artificial island area created.
Chinese troops, in divisional strength, occupy and defend the new territory.
It is significant that all parties in the region are watching China and gauging her intentions. None less so than the United States Navy who have an aircraft carrier and supporting military vessels, stationed permanently nearby and conduct over flights of the island airspace testing sovereignty and Chinese reaction.
To date reaction has been muted….but this will definitely change.
China is frantically building to be the world’s next superpower, economically, industrially, politically and militarily.
...And, as this development comes to fruition in the very near future, it is inevitable that this distant, remote set of South China Sea islands shall become the next global hot point of international confrontation.
China and the United States of America will go eyeball to eyeball, bristling with hostility, resolute and immovable, each waiting for the other to blink!
…..and we, the rest of the world, shall, again, tremble in our boots, breathlessly awaiting the outcome.
Marshalg
22 May 2015
AUCKLAND.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
Fly in my airspace!
Not a chance
One Europe for all?
Not here in France
It will save fuel and time
NO NO NO
We are control freaks
More cheese or wine?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
“Poetry’s for poofters, innit?”
A square jaw
thrustwobbling out of sagging jowls
to menace my airspace.
The first assault,
olfactory.
Saliva hops into my bitter dominion.
Draw breath, draw back
as knuckles whiten
and eyes glaze with a lust
for ****** architecture.
“Excuse me, I think I left my car headlights on.”
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
I've lent myself to self
parody. I am yellow grass
in summer. So easy to see
in daylight, split-rays.
Again I stumble through the
door too closely, nose grazing
siding too rough, not fit for
suburban living.
I am outside now, cigarette in lungs
almost empty of airspace. Tight
breath, silt sinew of exhale and
burning, eyes painted in panic.
Four smokes in, cherry blossom
cheeks, a rosary of liquor, perhaps
lending myself to sanity,
a bright morning in autumn.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Intoxicants when overused break families as waves break on the shore//
Their drug now becomes their love//
And you are equivalent to nothing in their perceived reality//
It either makes the users surrounding guests mature profound strong souls
As strong as the Pedi army stood against the British and Boer to protect their land//
Or it causes them to transfer to their own twisted but illusionistic universe where all they see is darkness and despondency//
And then one day//
The money begins to run out
and so do the people//
But rarely, oh so rarely some humans make the decision to stay and continue the journey//
Where the road may potentially split into two//
recovery or relapse//
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
The money has begun to exhale into the earths atmosphere
just as a stoner exhales his poisonous vapour into our airspace//
Some stay behind to help the corrupt mortal//
No money equals no substances//
No ******* or cat or cannabis or crack or codeine//
No drugs//
Then//
Two beings begin to ignite each other's fires
they learn the things they didn't know for the what felt like a million and seventy years//
They begin to discover how the one mispronounces words
and how certain songs cause ones soul to sway as the bass drops
or how ones hair whirls as the wind rushes through it
or how he can see the depths of the her soul through the eyes
and when she stares at the moon
her beauty is illuminated by the magical glow//
And then one day//
The money starts returning//
Creepily and discretely
the evil money
the tragedious money//
Like an evil monster emerging from hell
Where its dark and *****
The money blows out the fire they have ignited
and slowly lures the user back//
The bond is now broken//
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
The people on the t.v.
Pay a lot of money
To take up airspace
To try and sell their products
And to try and grab our attention
And grab our minds
Convincing us
That we need to buy that extra ginsu knife
Or Chia pet
Or else your life surely couldn't be complete
Telling us that we have to live a certain way
Eat a certain way
Love a certain way
Look a certain way
Even feel a certain way
Or else somehow we just aren't good citizens
We just aren't being patriotic enough
If we don't buy into their political slander
And buying into the America dream
That is based on artificial hopes
And artificial dreams
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
I don't know.
I linger proficiently such as dandelion 's seeds worship the skies
and move through its airspace until it falls back into the soil.
Though the soil nourishes as a mother she,
the dandelion,
still misses the sky it once roamed
so it will send out its children far up high
and watch the cycle repeat again and again.
I've lived a thousand lives with people i cherished
but only left a part of me to few
so somedays when the weather gets colder
and sky get blue i think about the parts of me and i think about you
as to me humans,
animals,
things and Ai
do not differ as i humanise and empathise with everything and they all got a part of me.
Even you.
So as a dandelion i once again
Sprout my seeds to horizon
And flicker through environments again and again
Till i find home in every one of them
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC
You dim-witted, half-assed ****
Every moment that I think about you my gut turns
as my very organs reject the fact that you exist.
You disgust me on a cellular level. The fact that
you breathe the same airspace as me is an insult
to society.
You worthless, two-timing son of a *****
You think I give a **** about your
self-flagellating
self-hating
self-pitying
piece of **** philosophy that you carry on your sleeve?
You are a sentient pile of slime dirtying the floors
that people have worked so hard in cleaning.
Effort has gone into you,
that could have gone to someone else.
Love has gone into you,
best appreciated by others.
Your friendships mean nothing.
You are a friendless non-entity.
You mouth-breathing ************
I hope you come to realize how much you've wasted your life.
How much you've wasted your hopes and dreams.
How much you were your own obstacle.
How much you could have been
if you had overcome yourself.
I hope I never have to see, your hideous
repugnant
disgusting
smug
little face
ever again.
I could comfortably burn in hell knowing that you're furthest away from me
******* on the Lord's **** while shamefully knowing
you did nothing to deserve it.
Go **** yourself.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 1:04 AM UTC
However I wasted my younger days
Wherever I wiled away precious hours
Whenever I gazed at the moon and stars
Whatever games that we played and pondered
Whichever adventure we went on then
Is exactly where my mind still wanders
Whoever I kissed and then held hands with
Whatever the spell from the sounds and smells
Whenever my heart was soundly broken
However I try silencing this hell
Wherever that loss is newly spoken
Whichever place causes the freshest pain
Whenever I think of the time in flight
By mistake flew into forbidden space
When 2 jets flanking me motioned us down
How they saw us as Eco-Terrorists
Flying to LosAlamos Power Plant
Where it is strictly restricted airspace
Whenever dad left-once on Christmas eve
However it unfolded felt tragic
Whatever Christmas comes around again
Whoever toasts to the joy of the day
Whatever the chance, gone was the magic
Whichever way we celebrate today
Whichever day Mother's Day comes around
Whoever I'm with matters not a bit
However I remember that morning
While feeding our son, “I love you”, you said
Then later, “I don't want to be married...
Anymore.” That pain floods like tsunamis
However I try to stay in the now
Whenever the calendar reminds me
How my favorite youngest brother died
Whatever the details I sorely pine
Thinking of Sam this 4th of July
When he would have been turning 59
However my days have been wiled away
How often revealing one simple truth
*Where your treasure is, will your heart be, too (Matthew 6:21)
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
I live in a vacuum.
I exist in a fundamentally
misunderstood airspace
inhabited only by a
lonely soul
who is
shouting and stammering
senseless pleas,
thinking,
"Who can this awful,
lonesome creature be?"
Never realizing,
"Oh,
it's me."
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
According to the stomach. Circle 100 liters; Finally, when the stomach is filled with bread. Circle 101 liters; Ultimately, after all the food of life ........... ................. .. "obstacles in Macedonia India." .. PTA, the rest of the world, and other family members, most sports are played in full knowledge of compliance laws, but also real and clean and safe with animal education (the Roman Museum of Students in December). Yemen and Jordan, Google, Yahoo ... and the Moon and PhD, Nigeria, Russia and the first 20, 80 and 8, living outside the Church? In October 2008, Giorgio grew up in South Africa, Saudi PSK David White Division Two, Jordan, Iran, Belgium, or 481.8> EPS / S DRI / USA Akselvivi 32XX Fargo, Visa PFD stakeholders % 10) Ralph 400 37 - 10 40 -552 45.19 41.37 GMT 40 41 33 31 90 Note 4 = 9.8% 14.4 Symphony Wall, Wallin GPS, Banana America, South America, United Mass Egg Tim 4 Dontap July 26 41.42 40.9%, United States 14 expected in United States, Ussur, United States; 14 Sssisi, Moscow; Austria is very dense. Romania-N-Ball project to surf 502 - 2 GPS [route] US Beedimdi not break, and software women's spreadsheet wholesale / hot feet. . . P (4 December HSH -0,048 40,9 41,37 41,5 5,73% Commercial last European airspace Kia as low as 10 hours a day, and in Greece Greece Greece and poorly terrorist Jihad 52, said all over Asia and Africa, Asia and other women's vinegar lovers of the Russian female's food, friend of Ardblusiwaian; Russia continues to recover from the wounds. DTAA judges teams are the largest cultural 2 think tanks in the audience of the BI 19 year old girl, accompanied by US plastic, Australia and Ontario, 0.05 0.00 Used factory Part 2 embroidered and blew the elements of the truffles into the girls 0 0,0 0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0? 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0.0: 0.0 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 0 0, 0 0 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 1,000,000,000.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 , 0 0. 0 0.0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0; 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0. 0,0,0, 0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0 0,0,0 0,0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0, 0.0, 0.0, 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0 0 0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0? 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 1.0 1.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 , 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0. 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0.0.0, 0.0.0.0.0, 0.0.0.0.0.0 0.0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0; 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 1.0.0.0, 0.0. 0.0.0.0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 ? 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0? 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0.0 0.0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0; 00,0 0 00 00 0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0. 0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 0.0 2.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0 , 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0,0 0, 0 2,0 0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0, 0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 0, 0 0, 0 0, 0 0, 0 0, 0 0, 0 0, 0
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC
when i heard that you were going to die, my mother told me "baby, these bodies are only as strong as the next car crash". invincible until two metal birds try to occupy the same airspace and then hollow bones suddenly are no good for flying anymore. i watched the same thing happen to you, without the screeching brakes. when your blood tried to occupy the same space as your lungs, your heart suddenly didn't know what to do so it didn't do anything. i'm writing this poem without any line breaks because i'm scared that if i give you any empty space, you'll take it and run and i can't let you die like birds flying south for winter. this isn't that natural. i can't justify you dying with a stupid euphemism like "if you love something, let it go". this isn't how it's supposed to be. god created the word "goodbye" to try to make up for the fact that we ever needed to use it in the first place. i'm supposed to be able to use it but you couldn't hear me even if i could. i'd tell you goodbye but it's clear neither of us are good at letting go.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Cutting the airspace
Between what's left of it all
Denies my life song
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
The Saudies clear their airspace, Kim Jong prepares for war
Poroshenko buys new weapons...have you seen this all before?
-
What is going to happen? Not too hard to figure out
The world will be at WAR, this without a doubt
-
But take heart I have good news, it will only last an hour [1]
Just half the world gets blown to **** so no need to cry and cower
-
The other half will see, the unveiling of "the Man"
Of "that Wicked" [2] Man of Sin [3], for you he has a plan
-
His plan is going to be, to give everyone a Mark [4]
In your forehead or right hand, to him you must now hark
-
Seven years will follow, seven years of pain and woe
It's called the Tribulation, through this you're going to go
-
It's all been written down, in the last Book it's contained
Contained in the Holy Bible, your demise is there explained
[1] Rev 18:10
[2] 2nd Thess 2:8
[3] 2nd Thess 2:3
[4] Rev 13:16
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Here they come to be healed
some can hardly fly
get the screamers out
protect their airspace
I have to tell them
all will be alright
knowing some of them
some of them are dying tonight
Our banners fly proud
in these red and black skies
I fly with the next squadron
wing leader again as another fallen
Oh in the realms of wisdom
this should not be happening
all our lost comrades
as we commit to this fast war
Making more machines for this holy war
working till we have exceeded
giving our life's
to the fight that never will end
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
I hope you know
That i gave up my world
To give you the freedom that you want
So that you can fly
Without me tied around your neck,
Or me weighing you down with all of my luggages
To let you soar in the new airspace
I really, really hope that you do now
Because i really am not
And all in all
You were really all i had
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
I despise how abuse is always
littering my airspace,
always tainting
the water I drink,
and always rupturing what's left of me.
I had this preconceived notion,
unfortunately,
that once you've been abused,
you'd be wise enough to escape
another abuser,
but boy, how he showed me,
how they all showed me,
how stupid I am
to have believed that.
I want to imagine,
though how useless it would be to do so,
what it would have been like
to love someone
and to be loved by someone
genuine, for once.
I must confess,
I don't think I would know
how to accept a love
that isn't corrupted,
or perhaps,
nonexistent,
and that pains me more
than my delusion that
I could stop them from hurting me.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 1:36 AM UTC
*my mother said i was a tyrant,
my father just said: you'll scare their children...*
and i guess that's true,
given the fact that poetry became
a joke, cute pompous readied
for seasons and such damnable events
as speaking at funerals...
i guess i am a joke, my output is a joke,
poetry per se is a joke ergo...
i guess they will fear me because
i expressed a love of poetry like
a salvation army band member...
i sang to the highest peak and
ebbed towards the lowest valley
where at last i met the shadow of death;
that's the point of fear, they think
you've a steady job going for you,
that you expect that the only art these days
is only worth a part-time status and
not the pope's patronage...
then you realise i'm not earning... then what?
ha ha... you do jack ****
oh my tyrant, me Napster... me ball-less in
Chinook covering Cairo's airspace for a radio
broadcast of no bankrupt ****** mega-store;
poetry the cheapest art,
hence so many poets and hence so few risk-takers,
1000 poets and about 100 poems among them to share
a credible signature to.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC