"assailants" poems
Intimidated by political thugs
Prone to insert in one's mouth
The nose of a loaded gun
Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water
On males' reproductive *****
Devoid of freedom of expression
Also denied to his right and
Deplorable condition drawing attention
Shunning his God chosen land,
What is more a bright and warm country
Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began
Fighting all odds between
The deep blue sea and the angry Satan
To migrate to a better place,
Where for democracy
Avowedly there is a better space,
Inhabited by civilized people,
Averse to discrimination based on race!
Burning his boat,
Crossing desserts,
Crammed with other refugees,
Packed with him in a boat
Some trying to reverse
Their economic lot,
Surfing uncharted waters
Seeking a paradise on earth
He headed to the country he sought
Though some their lives
At the hand of brutal traffickers lost
Beaten and thrown out of the boat,
Also at a port
Suspected of a terrorist bent
Many migrants to prisons were sent.
After a humiliating acid test
Why for a dreamland his country he left
As migrants' bane
They placed him at the foot
Of an ice-clad mountain.
“I will never see
My country again,
You are trying my patience in vain!"
He vowed
Despite the razor-sharp cold untold.
Then they took him up higher
An epitome to a cold fire!
Once more
He put his foot down
Putting on more clothes and
Changing attire.
They placed him
At the mountain's helm
As hell dark
Where the angel of death
Is seen stark.
Then in his head
Something began to bark
“*You rather choose
the better evil
If both your assailants and hosts
Are no two different devil! *"
Seeing first hand
Those with cold shoulder
Assylem seekers adore to attack
Though there are
Few not off humanity's track
At last he decided to return back
And under his country's sun bask
Mum for his rights to ask
Killing his journalistic knack!
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Motion me your mouth
See burgeoning of buds
Blooms sprouting from your lips
Honeysuckle drips
You were taught to
Keep a stiff upper one
Now you let it loose
Grown now birdie
Set free your coos and juice
Untie tongue from terror
Your assailants are long gone
Sing to me your shadow
And spilling of your dawn
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
The unscrupulous cavalry shuffled aboard narrow lanes,
Cutting in line towards Jager Bomb's tether,
Cluttered duffel bags concealing cheap champagnes,
Passing cruise ship commuter's ruffled feathers.
With their fake, "excuse me's" en route to the bar,
Coercing the conductor who's been under the weather
With smug smiles and counterfeit Cuban cigars.
Leaving the harbor three sheets to the wind
The cowards commandeered Grandparents pool chairs,
A little past midnight with no foresight of end,
An abrupt brawl broke out, fists flying through air.
A sightseeing whale trip turned into a ship from hell,
The assailants now held in a South of Wales cell.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
we got dressed up for dinner but didn’t go to the dance
it was prom night and we were wasting time in my friend’s basement
when the question was asked:
how many men in your life are you comfortable around?
‘well,’ we said, ‘what do we mean by comfortable?'
we defined it like this:
how many men in your life could hug you
without making you flinch?
none of us had more than a handful, ticking names with our fingertips.
my total was two-point-five:
because i’d trust my dad with my life in the way that
you have to question authority to know that it’s right,
so i don’t ever **** away in fear from his familial touch.
(i’m the only one of us whose father makes the cut.)
the second name on my list is a kid from AP physics.
his name is trent and i’ve had a platonic crush on him for like a year.
we’ve bonded this year over math socks and clorox and death jokes.
(a few hours after this basement conversation,
we’re going to an afterparty and he yells my name
from across the parking lot;
we meet each other, running, and he collides into me with joy.
i don’t flinch away— i meet him half-way.)
the point five is
tricky
see, half the time, my brother grabs me and it terrifies me,
begging for him to just let go because he’s hurting me,
i don’t like tickling because it leads to panic attacks—
i don’t like unsolicited men touching me let go of me let go of me.
when my brother reaches for me, i flinch—
half the time.
but when he wants to actually hug me,
he just lifts one arm from his side and lets me tuck myself
under his shoulder, loose and gentle and loving, like good siblings.
half the time, my brother is reaching, and that is terrifying.
half the time, my brother is offering, and that is comforting.
how many men in your life could hug you without making you flinch?
take
a minute to think about it, it takes a lot of reflection.
a man without boundaries,
who takes what he wants and touches you when he wants to,
a man who doesn’t care that i’m flinching—
rapists and assailants don’t have boundaries,
they don’t listen when you say stop let go of me let go—
how terrifying it is for someone you know to just
grab you whenever he wants to.
i don’t want your hyper-masculine hands touching me without asking.
not unless you’re part of my two-point-five person list.
otherwise, you're just going to make me flinch.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
The story I read, some forty years now,
Burns inside my head.
A young woman, ***** violently
By two brothers,
Hands and face mutilated,
The horror on her father's face.
Vengeance was his alone,
As he murdered her assailants,
And boiled down their bones.
His name was Titus.
The story was four hundred years old.
Re-told from a story three thousand years older.
Re-told today.
Rwanda, Bosnis, Syria, Jordan, Dahlmer et al.
Disfiguration with acid,
Limbs gone missing,
Tongues cut out, black sockets,
Missing parts of humanity
In prison camps and resistence movements.
We're still baking pies and feeding on human flesh.
Shakespeare was never so violent.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Bleeding eclipse splatters anguish, scorching frozen terrain
Reservoir transmits despair, vaporizing humid remains
Noxious fumes plague ventilation, incinerating methane mutilates
Inhumane detonations ignite smog, dismembering shrapnel decimates
Bombardments stimulate hallucinations, assailants discharge magazines
Incendiaries barrage trenches, vulnerability flourishes disease
Artilleries eject carnage, atrocious quarantine impedes retreat
Projectiles massacre infantry, heinous airstrike parries deceit
Howitzer impersonates tempest, kamikaze technique revealed
Nautical battleships converge, perilous adversaries concealed
Submarines launch torpedoes, oblivious warships sealed doom
Submersed submersibles clash, claustrophobic vessels entomb
Drowning agony crushes depths, forsaken lagoon transforms necropolis
Aquatic daemons consume decrepit, infernal torment surrenders providence
Condemned mortals cauterize compassion, genocide exterminates consciousness
Snorkeling corpses mound topside, eradicated infestation forfeited holocaust
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
im the ******* half-breed ******
go ahead and pull the trigger
you cant take my standing vigor
tell me that im just a ******
stop talking
and dig another moat
now tell me, do you need another ******* scapegoat?
yours is big but mine is bigger
if im the grave then you're the digger
so if in this life you're the rigger
then why am i the ******* ******
scarred markings
assailants i cant see
i took a look up at the sky and then it hit me
con descension ripped us off
little girl has blown her top
herbicide on life's corn crop
i can hear the brain cells pop
life looks good before the drop
wade and wander through the slop
**** yourself to make it stop
quiet, or i'll call the cops
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
In the town's square I sit as a fool
A steel mask upon my head with ears of a rabbit
Robbing my sight of whom approaches this stool
Their weapon- a stone, as is the lottery's habit
I hear not the assailants, though their strikes hit true
Eyes closed, eyes open, the view is the same
In the weakness of pain, I cry out for you
The very one who enabled this display of shame
The blows come harder, the silence grows loud
Through blood I beg for mercy, no more can I bear
Until phantom hands release me of this shroud
Dazed as I gaze upon a deserted square
No stones, no blood, no mob I see
There is not a soul but me
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
He sought to find me once
He succeeded
Thirteen years had passed since the attack
Why is it that you seek me?
Reluctantly I asked
His answer
"Because people get older and wiser and whatever you believe may have happened in the past may not truly be what happened. Were grown now and we have no need to lie *** "
Conversation over.
Did I mistake the events that took place on that sun abandoned day?
Is he implying that I spoke words of deceit...lies?
Is it wise to call a woman you attempted to intimately violate ***
But I was there
In the dark
Hands reaching for me as from the grave
From the murky depths of **********
Touching and grabbing
Hands trying to fit down my pants
Fingers crawling inside my shirt
Unidentified lips on my body
Appendage hitting me across the face...intentionally
I fought with every breath in my body
Forty minutes of struggle with multiple assailants
The blinding darkness kept me from ever knowing how many there were
Could have been ten
Like wolves they were
Trying to ravish their prey
With him leading the pack
The one I trusted
I kept hearing his voice
They tried to take my shoes off
That was the hardest part of the fight
I knew I had to keep my shoes on
I was done if they came off
My jeans would go soon after
I had to keep my shoes on
I later realized it saved me
From being pillaged
From being *****
Some days I wonder why this trouble found me
I was only fifteen
I was a child
So were they
We all lost ourselves that day
Somewhere in the darkness
I like to believe that God was floating above us
Whispering to me "Be still, I am here, there is a purpose for this"
I still await the day I realize the purpose
I stand confident that day will come
This is not a story
This is my life
It really happened
And it happened to me
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
Dissociation held my hand while walking home in the rain.
Stripped of any voice to speak I hummed to my self an unfamiliar melody. Places I don't remember led me up to its door step where I knew only a brief introduction was asleep on the couch inside. Glancing back to find the streets had turned away I held my breath and knocked politely. Nothing made a sound and I paused for quite a while. Others in the house would be more then happy to watch me go swimming from their view up high on a bridge, but hope for this one shot should have been just behind the door, while I'm out here in the rain. A curtain moved as I got a hunch that there were never any options and saw the eyes one whom Id once loved there behind the cloth. This was it, this was the end of the road. A placed it seemed I had imagined came to light for a chance to destroy me. I reached for my belt and drew a grenade beating the door with all of my might. Assailants rushed down the steps as I kicked it in. They filed out of their house with swords rushing down the street to mine as I stepped into my living room with a pin in my left hand. The assailants came up to my curb and saw an array of splinters and glass. They looked towards one another and as the streets before me, turned away. Disappearing with out a trace.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
My eyes hurt after I cry. Every time. Did you know that?
Its like my head is telling me to close them, and maybe I won't see the blood strewn across my childhood walls, my childhood hands, anymore. Their assailants were little secret cuts made each day, desperate to ask for help.
Years after they stopped, my eyes can still see them. My walls talk to my head and remind me how many times I wished I were dead. And I don't feel them, I can't fathom them, but they eat at the frays of my sanity, the few weak threads, and start tearing the life I've put together for myself apart. Who am I? I can't tell if I'm a death-lusting 15 year old or a stable and happy 20 year old woman. My eyes get so blurry here.
Its so hard with this picturing mind, to not remember how picture perfect we could be sometimes. I forget the calling and crying and cutting for those little snapshots that make me think I ruined all of it. That its my fault we're not picturesque enough to send perfect post cards for Christmas anymore. Its hard to convince myself it was never that way in the first place.
I mean, cmon, Grace, open those burning eyes of yours. You've felt like an outsider since you were young. Your father joked that with your starlight hair and sky eyes you were an alien that they adopted one day, but the odd part is you kind of understood why it could be true. Not just because of the celestial features, but you never belonged. The daughter they wanted and made you to believe you needed to be was never you. You walked on glass shards of your own shattered heart to try to reach the strange plain where your parents resided, but the more you bled the further you felt.
But they lied, you're their flesh and blood, that part can't be undone. They gave you special recessive genes to a T and made you suffer as a child for having them. To top it all off they gave you this ****** photographic memory that traumatizes you too well. Its like you can never leave the blood behind.
Yet tonight your eyes hurt, even too much to picture the blood, so maybe its time for some rest. The memories, the blood, even they can wait. For now what you need, god forbid you admit this, is some silence and rest. There has been enough clatter between your ears for one night. Who knows, some people might not even be able to withstand such clatter and chatter for a lifetime.
Guess your just a special recessive alien like that.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I meditate
to alleviate
my fear of starting gates
and arriving late;
but this way's not working.
My lurking ailments
are assailants sent
from me to me
to see the pail's spent
much time
under leaky eyes
and roofs through
blurred lines in blue skies.
My demons fly higher than I.
Truths are lies alive in the
ears of who's hearing them,
and leaders are the feeders
of the power that's fearing them.
I'm searing them tearing gems
with uncertain vapors,
burning buds put in papers.
Rainy red retinas
want to undrape her
so I scream just to shake her
from myself
before I break her
from her shelf,
with rainy retinas red,
of self certain days.
I'm yearning for shades to start churning,
red back to blue,
you'll stop burning.
I want you
to stop earning
my dreary dream't gifts.
I'm still learning.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
Granted men
Have every right under
The God given sun
To be as they wish,
Ignorant and bold,
Sarcastic and cocky,
Beautiful and ugly,
To be assailants to the kind at heart,
Those needing acceptance,
The lonely few with good souls,
And it is granted.
Where is justice
But in a verse,
Behind closed doors in your
Most private collection,
The guilded fist to air
In a drunken rage to what
You had seen earlier
And how we wish we had spoken
Up.
Granted we know it was wrong,
And as we have done nothing,
It was granted....
Oh to have punched his mouth,
Instead I bit my lips,
And they bled too.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to all poets in HP of whom I am a happy participant--a very new one--like someone just entering a kindergarten
We don't carry swords
we don't fight in battle-fields
we don't seek power or fame
we are just poets--word-warriors
who put the sword to sleep
to spread that which is noble and worthy
we see the worm festering and eating
into the heart of civilisation
and shall not turn a blind eye
we will keep vigil
as silent sentinels
never mind if we are set aside
by assailants whether open or covert
we know
the world is weeping
and in the abysm of darkness
there is not a single spark of light
quo vadis **** sapiens?
who or what will give hope
in the face of despair and disillusionment ?
because the world is weeping
we also share its tears
because hearts are broken
part of us dies
because there is loneliness and desolation
we become part of that loss and ruin
because there is poverty and deprivation
we loathe all that wealth and opulence
that seek but their own gratification
but is man born for sorrow and defeat?
where should we turn next?
is salvation and redemption in sight?
Though we are only vox clamantis in deserto
we will despair not
nor should we walk away in cowardice
we must have faith
patience
endurance
words are our bullets
compassion is our shield
will is our fortress
it might take a millenium
to bring about a brave new world
but we are the word-bearers and word-warriors
until the invisible battle is fought
and won
we will never yield
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.*
no, honestly, after reading the style magazine
with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care...
i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending...
i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey *******
around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru.
but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard...
those clouds of sunset look so much better
and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't
know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks
and purples... which i can't make out without
the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what?
i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect
of literature, immediate journalistic recycling...
they still love Shakespeare, don't know why,
don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english
education system... well... ploy...
conspiracies are welcome posthumously
and adequate intellectual material....
was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era
double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen
paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle!
desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all
remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown
of the governor of Liechtenstein: what?
i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners
is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous
with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning
the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled
the ground around them with cement...
and still the Mongol horde came!
Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed
drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their
tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours,
we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it
even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're
like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by
Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with
their brickwork, a strange arithmetic...
girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Demons on the perimeter
stalking serenity’s
unsuspecting bliss.
Is this all that's left?
Once mighty defenses
now offer little protection
against these ancient,
clawing phantoms.
Shadows lurking
in the forest of the
psyche, await nightfall's
indifferent embrace
Alas my redeemers.
Tiny painted disks
that beat back
reality's assailants
while extinguishing
the last threads
of creativity that yet
remain.
The strain on tattered
nerves almost too much
to bare
I care not what punishment
is wrought from these efforts
to remain sane in the light
of an unforgiving God.
My mind is mangled beyond
repair.
Who is there left to call 'friend'?
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 9:52 PM UTC
I look up at my assailants,
my breath stops in my lungs,
their eyes, there is something so wrong,
they are hollow, void of humanity,
they are, completely merciless,
there will be no prisoners, this time,
only a painful hacking away of my life,
I taste true fear, bitter and deadly,
I move back, I run,
I run with all my heart,
with all my soul,
with all of my terrified being,
away from those monsters,
away from my demise,
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
Sitting here, gazing out the window.
Watching the rain falling down.
The sky is dark and gray.
People outside are running here and there.
People running from here going there, or,
People running from there coming here.
People of all shapes and sizes scurrying.
Like ants at a picnic.
The rain is heavy, I'm hoping it will fill the void.
It's a gray day.
Lending its color to my mood.
Putting people in a gray mood.
Putting lives into gray moods.
Putting days in a gray mood.
We allow ourselves to be 'suaded by the weather.
Don't we see the weather is OUTSIDE?
The Human soul resides within.
Sheltered from assailants,
By the human body.
Don't allow that which is WITHOUT,
To migrate WITHIN.
For if you do,
You give your sanity over to insanity.
THAT will become your new master.
RATHER than calm serenity, your true norm.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
I had an idea
that guns should shoot in both directions when fired,
to rid the world of assailants intent on
killing
another human being.
To the public, I still think
this an effective method.
To military men and women,
this is no solution.
They fire on orders,
they fire on enemies of the state
they fire because they have to.
I think that for every shot fired on an 'enemy',
politicians should be shot.
Non-fatal, of course.
Just a warning,
so these decision makers
can truly understand the
cost
of war.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
High Esteem
Drip drip.
The shards of the smashed clock.
Lay powdered on the deck of sighs.
Tick tock vanished.
Oblivious of moments spent.
Overtly obvious.
Eyes peeled as blood oranges.
After visit from assailants hands.
And still they drip.
She dropped to her knees in terrors distress.
It's off with her head in a field of regret.
In a misery of meaningless life.
She did die.
Truly she did.
Executed by her own well written lines,
AWOL,
Her high self-esteem!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
War is brewing.
Bubbling in a melting ***
Smelling of the devil.
Sulphurous and raw.
Winged assailants chucking their bombs.
Link hands and hold on tight.
Let love move in overnight.
Warriors we have to stop.
Sisters beseeched by others take control.
As we are mother nature's soul.
They tell us only good can triumph.
But the temperature's rising.
It's going to blow.
Such hatred, such spite.
The war machine, so hateful is spoiling for a fight.
(c)Livvi
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
The cup is full.
I can no longer absorb the things that retain our attention,
their burden is too much to bear.
I'm saying goodbye to what I don't need.
Goodbye, gunned assailants
Goodbye, facebook-shared liver cleanses
Goodbye, hatred
Goodbye, self-help anything
You're not welcome here anymore. All seats are taken. Move along, I'm sure there are chairs at other tables for you.
Goodbye, current events
Goodbye, whatever new political campaign has us up in arms
Goodbye, looming darkness that lingers in our periphery
I haven't time for you.
Goodbye, road to nowhere
Goodbye, helplessness
I'm moving on from you, old friends. I'm too tired to do this anymore. It's time for life, nothing less.
Goodbye,
Good riddance.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC
quiet moonlight
slipped effortlessly
through the tent door
creeping at first
with a slow and steady motion
soon filling the space
with soft white light –
she lay sleeping
unaware of the attack
light covered her body
giving her skin a glowing hue
broken up
only by the tattered edge
of an old afghan –
slight concern
crossed her brow
shifting muscles
attempting to hide
a face plagued
sleep interrupted
rest destroyed
by the softest
and quietest
of assailants –
I lay in stillness
admiring the struggle
knowing the ease in which
I could zip up the flap
gently place the quilt
just over her eyes
but my own selfishness
prevents me
as I have never watched
her sleep disturbed
by quiet moonlight –
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC