"apoplectic" poems
Jesus runs in Everglades, Mohammed climbs the roof
The Angels stamp in anger as the Devil stands aloof,
A wandering Pope in la-la land while Jewish hands do writhe
Those apoplectic Muslims glare while Catholics pay the tithe.
Religion, girls, has hit the skids…the game is up on God
With rosaries rotating hard, theologians do nod,
While Mormons rant moronically with frankincense and myrrh
The irreligious bark and howl in Rastafarian fur.
Sectarian’s recant Sanctum’s Shrine the rite of soul is lost
As neophytes are dancing… the High Priest counts the cost,
Theocracy unbalances as Voodoo’s stamp the floor
And the Prophets throw their hands up, fast retreating for the door.
It’s transcendental disbelief that’s nailed it to the Cross
With the Priesthood chasing little boys all credence here is lost.
With sanctity’s monastic plunge the pagans roar and shout
As Shamans scream their incantations…God declares a route!
There is silence in the Temple now, stillness in the pews
As dust lies thick on altars, a nervous clergy holds reviews,
What, once, was good and vibrant here, is now as dead as dust
As the Blood Red Wine evaporates and Holy Bread…to crust.
Marshalg
Feeding the pigeons by the dusty, open door of the very, empty Chapel.
30 November 2013
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
My dictation program has an accent
It types out the most unreadable things,
When I say something like " my bunion stings",
It types back to me about onion rings.
There have been embarrassing moments
When I was chatting along quite normally.
I found myself feeling very thankful
That I hadn't been chatting formally.
The conversation needn't be special,
Nor use any esoteric phrases.
But some of the crap this program prints
Astounds, stultifies and amazes.
It can't be brushed off as an accent thing;
My speech is quite non-dialectic.
Sometimes it seems that Apple, Inc
Wants to render me apoplectic.
But, the way it is I have no human beings
That I can focus my frustration on
When something that company sells at a store
Turns me into an unwitting pawn.
As it is it's an iPhone and I can't pity it
When I hit "send" too fast and seem an idiot.
It’s possible I am asking far too much
Of the current reach of technology.
Even though our phones seem part of us
They aren’t really part of our anatomy.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
I stare in the mirror and what stares back?
An apoplectic apparition wishin' he could concentrate,
But wishin's only fishin' with a shoe string and a roll of tape.
Paranoia resonates, the social pressures shower down,
Gleaming rays of expectation force a smile upon my frown.
The neverending battle wages on between myself and I,
Then there's me and him and her and them and us~
*So what's the fuss? You paid a hefty fee to ride with us
Upon the crazy bus.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
What's the matter, too much pride?
Untie your demons, let us fly.*
****
The knot has come undone.
Next time I'll have to use the gun.
But without us you'll be no fun!
That might be true...
Here's what I'll do.
I'll take these drugs to silence you
When I'm within the public view.
Then at night I'll let you out,
This rhyme scheme is getting kind of boring.
Yeah....
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:16 AM UTC
If, whenever out, maybe driving about,
On encountering road-rage, never worry,
Claim that you are, Ronnie Pickering,
They should drive off, as if in a hurry.
Although, if they ask, Ronnie Pickering?
Looking bewildered, unsure who you are,
Do a convincing, Pickering impression,
An apoplectic beetroot escaping its jar.
Start ranting and raving, making threats,
No need to reveal, considered, justification,
Rage like a gargantuan, ignorant, imbecile,
Before storming off, in bitter frustration.
Remember, while out, always take care,
If encountering, squabbling or bickering,
If the people resemble blustering bullies,
One, could possibly be, Ronnie Pickering.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
I did not go out to see it
the winds were too cruel
as April’s cocky currents often are
though the sky was a clean black palette
on which it painted perfect its orange face
inside, in the incandescent haze
you were restless, reaching up from the bed
at ghosts I could not see
you were seven and eighty,
and there were many
who haunted your nights,
especially now, when the doctor had said
nothing was left to be done,
but the watching and waiting
he had given you little
of Morpheus’ sweet sap, as per your request
and I left the light on, as you demanded
what about the dark did you not like
save what we all fear, as the end grows near?
for whom were you grasping?
I suspect I knew, from the old days,
when I would sit on your knee,
the other big people there with you
swapping stories in the gray Lucky Strike air
you thought I was too young to understand
(and I probably was)
you thought my mystic memories
of that slur of beer buzzed words
would trail into the city night,
like your smoke
(but they did not)
sooner or later, mostly later,
you and your buddies
would get around to the ships
I would see sails and pirates
but your tongues would paint thunder and steel
(which I somehow could taste)
Eddie the **** and David the Jew,
those were the two, the ones
you let slip through your hands
the ones the salted sea took too soon
your eyes were not bleary
when you told the tale,
every sentence punctuated
by a swig of Schlitz, a drag off a ***
your buddies told their own stories
of those who slipped through their paws
or were blown “all to hell and back”
or drowned, without a simple sound
those were the spirits
for whom you reached,
anemic apoplectic apparitions
in the indifferent air, but still there
for only you to see, waiting for you
while I wondered when you would join them
and if I would yet brave the wailing wind
under the blood moon
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Left me in the lobby
of your apartment building
for hours,
drunk--
spitting insults
at the doorman--
till you salvaged
enough pity to
let me in.
You were
getting ready for bed,
I was on the couch,
while you shook
your head
in the sink.
"The worst
relationship with a man
I've ever had,"
you said,
"you don't even
listen to me."
Oh, sweetheart, I do,
I hear every word.
Especially the ones
carved out of that
insurmountable anger
and regret.
I hear them.
I see them etched
into your features,
dipping between
your dimples,
and pouring out
of the tears that
slipped so fiercely
down the drain.
That anger was so
volatile
I thought you'd **** me
then and there.
However, you merely
turned your head
and slammed the door.
And we may make it
through this, but that
anger is still down there
somewhere, waiting.
I never knew how
violent someone
could be just
brushing their teeth.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
THAT WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS MOMENT
An apoplectic God
furiously reads note
attached to branch
in place of apple.
“This is just to say
we have eaten of the fruit
that was in
the middle of the garden
and which you told us
not to.
Forgive us
it was so sweet
and deliciously
Knowledgeable.”
So much depended upon
that rain glazed red apple.
They stand wailing
and gnashing their teeth
beside the bitten
red apple
with the white teeth marks.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
The walls are thin, too anorexic,
Trembles like an epileptic.
In my echo chamber,
I can hear them stutter.
Inner voices apoplectic.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
Many things go unsaid,
Windy autumn leaves fallen,
. . . Naked branch and crow.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Flesh of a lonely man
Needs make up
Wreaths on this list coming
Crossing out and ticking the boxes
We’re still holding the dust of souls
And ashen glances look like desultory glances
****** on the nursed streets
The streetlit howling winds can fly out of educated lives
We are only left educated minds changing their ways and stealing cigarettes
Feigining for the father figure
I hope we have had a good time
The night’s brighter with the vivid growth of the undernelly
Knell bells tolling, killing the bleeding
Sojourn the dress, and adjourn th court
Red crimson tresses sense the mallet of sentences marking forever
Those worst worshipping travelers of trafficking
Altruist, my forefathers are looking at us like it’s now or never
The darkeness is inevitable, but, the tunnel runs out with indomitable spirit stealing glances from the Gods of religions so decrepit
I had my luck in my pocket from these corrupt politicians, and reiterated that I’d run and reign and then run
Like the apoplectic season of the monsoons, teaming up either way
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
Here’s my thinking:
Sir Kevan probably gave a decent plan
with solid foundations and associated cost
not loss
and all the Ricardians could see
was that it wasn’t all me, me, me
and so slashed away and thought:
those dumb enough to teach
can eat the **** sandwich
it’s not like they do anything that matters,
****** chattering classes,
now, how do we get them to do childcare
for the next six weeks
to stop the knived dead
and angry, apoplectic kids
and make sure their drone folks are on the lines
to feed our fat, fatcat selves?
I’m sure that Portia works for Ofsted...
Jun 3, 2021
Jun 3, 2021 at 12:40 PM UTC
A wizard from Tunbridge Wells
made matzoh with his spells
but instead of water
he added his daughter
and couldn't get rid of the smells
so this wicked 'un from Tunbridge
Decided to take umbrage
at his lack of sense
at his daughter's expense
'N fell into an apoplectic rage
He ranted and raved with such yells
the snails took refuge in their shells
till he jumped in the bray
of his daughter's fray
the old wizard from Tunbridge Wells
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 2:56 PM UTC
I must say that I prefer
The dark and brooding
So it is with apprehension
That I accept this intruding
Line of thought in which I'm caught
After all the times
I said it's what I've sought
But I'm not built for sweet and sappy
Then again that may.be the result
Of living a life where I was never happy
Sure..I could laugh and joke around
Having given up long ago..on..you know
What it seems I've finally found
But the whole **** thing has me apoplectic
From a way of life that was all stasis
To one that is now absolutely kinetic
To try and explain to those who hover
I see they look at me as if I'm pathetic
They are probably right
As I am a soul without control
While my eyes were closed someone stole
The cloak I wore of tin foil armor
So now I'm as naked a newborn babe
And I feel as innocent as the same
Will it last......
........I carry no illusions
It's absolute......
...... even if it's just an intrusion
A mundane life needs illusion
If for nothing else...... but the reminder
That magic isn't just a stage show
Not just a fancy trick to cause confusion
Sometimes it's childlike Joy
That shows us how to believe in
A storybook tale ....without conclusion
And how inspiring that can be
So for that reason I will never ....ever
Allow myself.....
To turn...... that last page
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
It was immaterial who had fired the first proverbial shot in the great Schenectady logomachy.
What was immediately clear, however, after the proverbial dust had proverbially settled
was that the battle had left no survivors.
Proverbially.
And what had begun as a simple ballot measure to rebrand the municipal mascot
had ended in the annihilation of every intellect in Schenectady County.
And much of the East, West, and No Coast regions of the United States.
The grass roots campaign to replace the Schenectady Patriot with the Schenectady Concientious Objector
(a figure no less devoted to country, but more "free thinking," its proponents would argue)
had gathered unexpected steam when introduced to the public at large
in a tweet by the nation's commander in chief.
The inevitable result being a relentless and fast paced evolution of the story
by all-day-all-night-all-the-time news producers.
All using the same words with different tone and inflection.
And the relitigation of every detail
by 37% of American households.
Including 6% that didn't actually give a **** but enjoyed participating.
So what had been good natured
and modestly ambitioned
civic badinage
progressed through all the stages of twenty-first century newspeak
familiar to the politically observant of the time.
With any nuanced or genuine debate
relegated to micro-audienced podcasts
and IRC channels scattered about the internet.
And when the measure passed.
As part of a pendulum swing greater than itself.
The victors
taken by surprise
and frayed at all edges
by the death threats and vitriol visited upon them in the preceding weeks
felt sure
that everything would be better off simply left alone.
While their detractors
apoplectic
foretold the end of civilization.
And prepared accordingly.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
I want her look of unholy deliverance
that moment
Suspension In A Centrifuge:::
That perfect tunnel vision:::
My Dress rehearsal for Idolatry
bind me, a dolt, adult
Call me perpetual adolescence
deoxygenated default, setting in blue
so set me as the center of your universe
***** my temple, ego ******** edification
a dullards magnum opus, an apoplectic deity
when the script become predictive,
post or pre-mortem
predicated upon Walmart storylines
and nine live felines...
but we are bound by blue light specials to be
***** plain, vanquished vanilla
in a box store store morality, box store love, box store exsanguination
a new metric of mortality
the new math for the bloodless
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 8:17 PM UTC
She said writers are soft
I told her that ain’t quite the whole truth
Emotional invulnerability can be a soul-noose
And when you do explore into the corridors and floors
of your expression
you’ve accepted that you’ll turn a couple stones loose
“It’s old news. I don’t wanna hear about your feelings,
or what you didn’t feel back, it’s really too revealing.”
I guess that all depends what you expect from what you’re reading
I mean artistry’s a part of our impression that’s appealing
No really – the world’s a crazy place and if you let it
it will crash into your spirit and rattle you apoplectic
I get it
she said and
grabbed her earrings from the bedstand
I watched her check her phone
she called me Romeo
and left then
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
So full of apoplectic rage..
Deaden the noise so that i cant even speak.
Throw my heart and tongue in a cage, So i no longer speak.
Choleric natured, but you never help.
Resentment for vindication, You're shouting at me for feeling what you felt.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Something is rotten,
but not in the state of Denmark
the body politic is sickening from the spread
as the virus flows and ebbs around us
but that’s not the biggest threat
to our collective, collected health
the insidious radiation that emanates
when certain men step out
from their lead-lined bunkers
is weakening our sinews,
loosening our hair and teeth
and mocking and braying at our grief
backed up as it is
by mustard gas clouds of lies
built on the bones of xenophobes and the afraid
some with excuses, or, whatever,
but most with puce, spittle-flecked faces
apoplectic at the creep-dawning realisation
of their impotent, way it’s always been ways
and like the Cnuts they clearly are
rather than retreat from the waves
and figure out more sensible ways to behave
as centuries progress
they will ‘make a stand’
thick, bitter filled pint-mug in hand
‘til the tide will see them drown
meanwhile on dry, rich land
the tin-pot Machiavellis
rub their hands and drive long away
to have their eyes tested,
divest themselves of kids,
or check on their second homes
as the bloated bodies bob out to sea
all too slowly
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC
THAT WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAM MOMENT
Apoplectic God
furiously reads note
Attached to branch
in place of apple
“This is just to say
we have eaten of the fruit
that was in
the middle of the garden
and which you told us
not to.
Forgive us
it was so sweet
and deliciously
Knowledgeable.”
So much depended upon
that rain glazed red apple.
They stand wailing
and gnashing their teeth
beside the bitten
red apple
with the white teeth marks.
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC