"archduke" poems
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.
Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.
Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -
Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.
Your voice,
Which I long to hear.
Which I have forgotten -
Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints
Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so
We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into
By a meandering
Mao, or ******
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -
Your voice
Is a whisper,
It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,
You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.
A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.
Hear his dates blur
Into yours -
History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.
I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.
Like mine.
Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -
Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
If you want to be a true influencer
you should put in some actual work
****** the Archduke of Austria and his wife
The Duchess of Hohenberg
Gavrilo Princip did not have many followers
He did not have any discount codes for his online store
He had a simple dream to break off Austria-Hungary's South Slav provinces so they could be combined into a Yugoslavia, and instead he started a world war
If you want to influence society
for centuries to come
Stop being a coward posting vacation pics online
Go out and get yourself a gun
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
Remember that one time when I asked you if you remembered what happened way back when?
I forget what your answer was then,
but I remember how much it meant to me to be reminiscing with the Queen of Forgetting.
Remember when you used to care about memories?
And we went careening down streets while screaming in a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.
Each day blending with the next; driving past every chance we had to turn back,
living as if we were on a never-ending vacation.
Remember when you used to have fun? When fun was number one and everything else was boring?
How to Keep Running After Falling Flat on Your Face
And when the Duchess of puking tried to kiss the Archduke of Douches.
Our toes a familiar sight while seeing double.
How we used to recite unrecyclable verses while climbing into the back seats of hearses.
Remember when we used to actually talk about things? No, not like this. I mean, passionately. Remember when we used to get so heated about a topic that we'd practically be screaming at each other?
How To Keep a Straight Face After Scraping What's Left of It off the Pavement
And swinging through trees that we'd climbed against better judgement;
passing under streetlights that painted haloes around our dark heads.
Remember when you used to laugh in a way that didn't sound frantic? When your grin didn't look so much like a grimace?
And going to public places in broad daylight just to read the faces of those who couldn't see beyond their own noses?
How to Focus on Obtaining Goals That You Don't Believe To Be Worth It
And looking at our toes and hitting pavement but then bouncing up again to get caught in the hurricane of everyones' perceptions of what was happening
How to Board Up Your Windows After They're Already Broken
Remember when you used to make genuine human connections with other people?
just to find ourselves in the Eye of the Storm, staring at each other, grinning in a way that isn't frightened or frightening;
Laughing in the way that isn't desperate or forced, but hearing it get warped by the howl of wind surrounding us.
Remember
How to
Wind that's closing in.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
a velveteen grey cat
crossed to Las Palmas
and chose a corner table
basking in a tsunami of
Sunlight
while piccolo birds and
winter water gardens
sent morse code warnings
through the air
reporting on the
bombing of Wilmington
sinking of the Titanic
assassination of the Archduke
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
devouring, always,
thirsting for words,
jonesing for dramatics,
yearning for redemption.
the keyboard pounds,
some inglorious Beethoven
composing some dilapidated
Archduke Trio, just for the hipsters
the action repeats. now. now again.
in spite of its supposed purpose
a mere reflex?
or the essence of self.
more more more, i say
why should not the skies erupt
with rivers of euphoria
and other useless miracles?
the city, overrun with ugly serpents, makes
the whole gambit crystalline:
permanent, frozen, and most of all,
clear, as a may afternoon, laid out on the Front Lawn.
so, always, never does it come.
the chalice spills forever,
and i must lap it off the ***** floor,
because why cry over spilt milk?
nothing grieves me heartily indeed
but that i cannot do much at all,
that i can do everything and don't,
that i need everything evil and beautiful.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
I want to stop breaking people like glass, and I'm tired of hearing my own bones shatter because I allow others to crush them as they walk all over me. I want the world to stop changing for a moment so I can catch up with the times, but I'll never catch up, I'll never see the light of day if I keep hiding myself under the blanket of night where the stars seem to shine brighter than any future I could ever hold on this Earth. I am alone and the ground is shaking and time stops for no one and I believe it wouldn't be wrong to say that I love you because I do, but it is wrong because here I am, trying to pick up the pieces of my ever breaking heart and I can't remember a time when I could breathe because my lungs are failing and my blood is under oxygenated and I feel an emptiness somewhere in between my ribs or my less than whole and aching heart. Everything is dark, everything leaves a foul taste in the back of my throat and the leaves my be green, but I am dead and I am a walking, rotting corpse and I am surely a shame to this world because all I have to contribute to this earth are the sad stories I tell and the random facts I know about Archduke Franz Ferdinand and horrible words that sort of sometimes turn into poems, so what is the point of living when you're just full of nothing of importance? if I died, no, when I die, I will be either put into the ground or burned, which is not what I want (I would love to either be sent into space or made into a tree) but that will most likely never happen, so at least I will live long enough to know that people **** and anything can break your heart and that you don't care, no you don't care one bit and neither should I, but I care too much about everything and everyone and that is where I'm going wrong. that is why I am dying, I have given every good part of me away and all that is left are the feelings of misery, depression, and disconnectedness inside of my burning soul. if my body were a galaxy, my heart would be the black hole in the middle, for it surely knows how to grab onto the surrounding planets and stars and make them fall in till they are ripped apart piece by piece until they are nothing.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Just six inches long and not hard to conceal,
I examine the pistol that began the Great War.
It’s been put on display in the British Museum
And it must be regarding with awe.
“The Archduke must die!” Mister Princip declared,
as he emptied this gun at close range.
“Sophie, live for our children.” The dying Duke begged,
But sadly his pleas were in vain.
Great armies mobilized, by August, guns roared
For Four years the slaughter went on
Till all the King’s horses and all the King’s men
and even the Kings, too ,were gone.
Now news comes from Turkey of a murderous deed;
a Russian Ambassador slain.
Once more a pistol was used for the deed.
How much can this poor Globe sustain?
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
*i guess after seeing a ********** i couldn't be fed jealousy by a free woman... what the ********** taught was how to objectify in such times of crisis, when a woman does a Mantis chop with her heart to make you feel jealous on purpose, the: how lucky you are to have me, so many men would be jealous in your place! i guess so... but then i would't be walking up Arthur's Seat, sitting down on a cliff's edge thinking out the mantra: god, i wish i were dead, god, i wish i were dead. i could be blamed for spreading macho propaganda, but i read a little, and seen a little bit of the world to see things play out as they have - a woman's use of jealousy is her ultimate snare... see a ********** and you become equipped with a veil you can put on her when she instigates this tactic - you won't feel jealous, you'll then become to objectify her, no i don't mean objectifying her exterior, that's just shallow **** i mean her inside... call me Genius Frankenstein Monster for all i care, i sensed there was a missing datum when they started censoring words in western society as if they might have censored it adequately to agreed to standards of education in algebraic mathematics.*
today? pork burgers, Slavic style.
pork mince, two slices of bread soaked in water
and later squeezed (to get the water out),
salt, pepper, one egg,
self-raising flour to make the mixture less
watery, spices, garlic paste, onions,
later coated with breadcrumbs.
side dishes? ćwikła / цвіклі (ts vikli) -
beetroots with horseradish and a bit of
crème fraîche -
fried baby potatoes with parsley, onions,
garlic, paprika and turmeric.
WE'RE RESURRECTED! WE'RE
RESURRECTED WITH ISRAEL!
FREE FROM THE LAW OF THE TSAR,
THE ARCHDUKE AND THE PRIME MINISTER...
ah **** we're being inspected for anti-democratic
tendencies by the E.U. these days...
make our culinary skills outlive western media's
meddling with concerns - about
what is and what isn't democracy.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC