"attrition" poems
Sundays, too, she got up early and let her feet lead her through the dusty alleys of that small town
It was a luxury to have this kind of time alone, silence was vital food for her soul
Enduring the weekday demands to relish a few hours of nothingness, rare meditation,
An escape from a world of momentary necessity
The sweet morning air that kissed one’s skin now turned heavy and stagnant
Back down again through the same storied streets that,
Had become unbearably hot by the noon-day sun, the pace of life slowed accordingly
A weight came over her, the sort of fatigue where every exhaustible cell in your body yearns for rest
She would wander all day if she could, meandering over ground hallowed by history
By now the shadows of the afternoon had casted their long, lanky bodies behind the old chalk buildings
The pulse of life reached a complete pause, as if away on vacation in a more hospitable place
Everything bent, decaying, surrendering to the heat, and everything marked in contrast by the sun’s glare
Here, she stands straight and strong, gazing into the burning face of the oppressor and giver of life
And deny it the desire to win this vague war of attrition
When rung out on the floor she’d smell of autumn and satisfaction
Speaking to me she’ll tell of the faith in self, strength in solitude, and love of something greater than we dare to know.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.
Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.
Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.
Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.
The policy of attenuation.
Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.
© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
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
Death I see, that ugly spectre,
Coarsely overshadows youth.
Lame, they look for interaction
With the bondman. Shame, forsooth!
Drowning in the dams of liars
When they could be shining lights!
They believe what e’er is told them,
****** in by the TV sights.
Culture told them there’s no future,
There’s no healing for despair.
Bet they never read the Bible –
Words of LIFE spelt loud and clear.
There’s no need for this attrition
Of our children. Give them truth.
Let them listen to the old ones –
Hard they learned the facts of life.
By the power of scripture they have
Overcome the skull and bones.
Into joy and peace they’re marching.
Youth could follow in those zones.
Up to them to stop and listen.
Perhaps the media got it wrong.
Find a person in their nineties,
Who survived the wars and so on.
They are old because their attitude
Enabled them to plunge right in,
Boots and all in right perspective,
Shake and move, the truth to win.
They’ve believed in right and beauty,
Principles and sacrifice.
Not for them the great self pity
Serving death – man-trap device.
Rather they’ve bent over backwards
To embrace another’s need,
And serving, felt the great dynamic
LIFE FORCE. Yes. They were a breed!
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Let me to the Incarnate Mother must
The Eldest of Sudden Truth understand
One Day, which shaky Candles will delust
The Object's Manner of a Blackened Hand
I deliver Forceps to which Heart grows
What Heart's own Attrition dares to admit
The Mum of Three Promised Knights beknows
The Receipt of such Devotion permits
Verily, Age is a Factorless Sum,
Easily enclayed by a Donkey's Foot
And when the Festival lays down its Lump
It locked the Door to keep the Sorrowful.
Now, Elder-Mum, try to lift your Wise Head
This Extended Son, wishes your Love be fed.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
Recall when you feel
of course you don't
don't mean to interrupt
it sometimes makes me forget
when the nights have been so numb
you don't even remember routine
a vicious cycle of not remembering
when even vicious is not visceral.
Person per person
Have told me their ruts
It takes time to get out
For me, fruitless yells of 'get out.'
Instead of ruminating, you stew
Instead of contemplation, you fester
Instead of crescendo, you ******
Through hoops of negative feedback loops.
You sink until beyond your point of bearing
Every cell in your body becomes saturated
with pale thoughts that make the water dry
so dry, you become breathless of a different kind.
Except it is known well, and only you know
you hide it, because these thoughts crave isolation
don't show among people so they won't be affected
but its because these thoughts know you're far worse
You can't function during nights
yet it still knows how to engineer
the perfect circumstance to keep descending
to that nadir which has no bottom.
People make you sick
Things once enjoyed, tire and bore you
Ideologies are far away on a plane
You could never catch
Because the fever you caught
Makes you see the ends
Don't justify the means
It all seems so pointless.
bombardment, attrition, unrelenting.
And for once, you are granted a small reprieve.
The morning hungover from intense thoughts
Happy that for once
I don't despair to just be.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
I lived,
to write
my story of
survival for people
who are suffering victims.
"I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest."
A Dialogue of Self And Soul - W B Yeats
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
Dwelling where the tears cry blood
echoed nightmares ghost my tortured shell
In streets not paved in gold
but misery mountains that I scale everyday
wearily sauntering around their slippy slopes
As I die a little bit more everyday
Sitting on my concrete throne
chained to the only thing I know
an abyss of loniless
my friend
my foe
As I die a little bit more everyday
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
2.8k
Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Always stand against my hurt
Ghost lips on the thigh bite
Always tie my spindle veins wafer thin
Thoughts zoom sync auto pictographs
Words can't lisp sweetly
robotussin giggle about it
Upon my ghost
Always stand against my hurt
Ghost eyes
Ghost spit
Ghost thighs
Always stand against my hurt
Attrition life sustenance
Nutrition
Always stand against my heart
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.
it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,
I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing
I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and ********
but found nothing
I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing
there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity
what I’m I suppose to do?
as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire
I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction
the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me
I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen
the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…
whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.
I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC
Every year now, I note the differences:
the changes in the stones,
the retreating car park and what
is new to the waves.
It is slight. You try to hide it by
presenting the same places and
lacing them with memories that
all correspond.
But you are changing.
You take new beatings, and I can't
help but wonder if we are alike.
The process of erosion has caught
us both, and year by year,
cliff by cliff, it's wearing us down.
It was always supposed to happen,
but what if you change too much?
What will happen when you change
irreparably, irreconcilably?
Even now you are only an
imaginary home, so defamiliarized
from the dream I demand.
I know you promised me nothing.
But I had a deal you didn't know about
and you've ceased to make me happy.
I can't help but be a little angry
with you for letting the
storm break you down.
But is it really you, or is it me
who has done the changing?
Is it not my eyes and my erosion?
Is it not the attrition and abrasion
and the long shore drift
that has welled up inside my own soul?
Is it you or I?
How can we know?
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
The Acolytes come marching in and out and in, out again
Minds befuddles, rationalities amissing, fully indoctrinated
Pathetic Dogs of Attrition dressed all in white, all in pain
Compulsive obsessives, neurotics primed and oxygenated
Scrappers at the bottom of the barrel wants unlawful gain
By hook or crook is their recourse, to that they are mandated
From rhetorics long gone and ideologies forged in days of rain
Our intrepid Confused and Acolytes are soundly medicated
Just march to left, left, left, left and we will ease all your pain
Recognize that the enemies are those that think and are educated
They all claim domain at the top, with kudos, status and fame
While you languish in closed barrels, your poor lives truncated
Those Bosses are all there because they are all Masonic inclined
Doctors, lawyers and Professionals paid cash for Degrees granted
They did no work or study, rich Daddies just paid so they claim
All those Entrepreneurs are Robbers who bankraid unarrested
Because the Police are all masonic and help/share in all the gain
The Royals are Top Mafiosas, with International links atested
So Dumb Acolytes Know the truths and fall with the wise in line
We must regain Power and march left, left so we're not left in vain
The republic shall live because it's 21 Century and we wake in time
We take all from the Secret Society and cut off all our iron chains
Begin by taunting, tormenting and harassing that ****** Wayne
The ****** Prince is the African Mafia Chief and Exploiter kingpin
Sing with me everybody
Viva la Revolution, viva la Revolution
We are clever, all in our White uniforms
We march to the left left left with our two left feet
We know our brains have left us but we go left left
Viva la Revolution, Viva la Revolution, Viva la Jinbba.
Hey! jinbba, jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbba
Sing.........
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Played by cheaters
Kicking a round ball
War of attrition
Divers open to fall.
Sportsmanship rarely
Revealing its sporting head
It's tribalism in a skin you cannot shed
Field of dreams
Beautiful game
Why do the players put the game to shame
The game is the game, it is what it is
The games played by people taking the p-ss
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
There was once a juxtaposition of a silent mathematician,
hand in hand with a melody called fiction.
Fighting to be free, yet fleeing from fruition.
Unure in his conditionm, he is guided by her transition.
This was never going to work.
Fiction's as ignorant as his judgement was missing.
She was vexed by his logic, and his rate of attrition.
Suddenly she see's him far from volition,
Whilst he hears something new - designing definition.
The record plays softly
Finally he understands to feel free from inquizition,
is about more than just logic. It's about his ambition
He returns from his audition
Dressed well with suspicion
Blood on his hands - the endeavour of reason.
Now filled with guilt, this once honourable statistician,
is dynamic and pretentious, it's impossible to miss him.
Because through a bad combination of radio emission,
sounds a shriek from the crowd's world's worst composition.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
in solipsism,
soul left
upon a pole.
you're lips move,
but you never listen.
on a solo groove,
smooth hedonism,
to soothe the mood,
in equidistance;
your body glistens.
The music rules you,
in a
restricted prison -
grinding bars,
wars of attrition.
you never missed
a final kiss,
at your own insistence,
In
pole position,
you never listened.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
Phrases heard In:
Black Jack,
League of Legends,
and The Bedroom.
"This is supposed to be a team game".
"Tap like this, to hit it".
"Let's Double up".
"I need a leash".
"No, no, no, never do that".
"That's everything I have"
"Forfeit Forfeit.. Just forfeit."
"There's no chance"
"Just keep trying! don't give up! we can do it!"
"It's just not in the cards, man".
"I wouldn't risk it".
"Never stray from your strategy"
"Push".
"just take the tip".
"Nice job!"
"We're ******
"We should end it".
"When you go in and out like that, it throws everything off".
"BUST, BUST, BUST, BUST"
"Awwwww".
"Okay, let's finish"
"Sup"
"I always end up on bottom".
"Hit me".
"Ace!"
"split them".
"stay in your lane"
"Stop being toxic".
"He busted!"
"We won!"
"this is a battle of attrition".
"I don't have enough money for that."
"I'll move to the middle"
"Look at this champion!"
"Consider yourself honored"
"You didn't listen, you should have listened".
"How do I play this, Champ?"
"Don't hit the 18!"
"Come onnnnn!!!! COME ON!"
****
"That was a terrible start"
"You got lucky"
"We got lucky"
"That was a hell of a match".
"Good game"
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
When I was young,
I had a dream,
Just a small house,
down by a stream,
Far away from all that mattered,
All the dreams that ended shattered,
Just a home where I could roam,
And be me....
Call it causality, maybe reality,
Call it a God, who looks
Tearfully, down at me,
Call it an arrogance,
call it ambition,
Never conformed, you can call it
Attrition,
Call it a fantasy, call it
My lunacy, call it
my dream...
But in my madness, and still,
In my sadness, There's something
I cling to with hope and a prayer
That one day I'll find it, or worse,
Leave behind it, but still it remains
Like the chains that bind it to me...
When I was young
I had a dream,
Just a small house,
down by a stream,
Call it a fantasy, call it
My lunacy, call it
my dream...
Apr 25, 2023
Apr 25, 2023 at 11:27 AM UTC
First you want me then you spit on me
Call me old and stuff
**** my baby duck
Make me cry tears of blood
So I get drunk on your sweet and sour memories
No home no nothing left but derision
Worked hard then it all goes up in smoke
Jokes on me
Regrets I collect attrition
Threats crash course up ahead
Gold stolen wasted by quack demon deacons
Suffering ******* is my fate
Isn't it Great?
D. Clare
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
We knew of "The Troubles" for most of our lives
They were there before we were born
But, to speak of "The Troubles" to those who don't know
They can't see that our country is torn
Pop stars sing songs about England go home
They make money, while we fight the fight
They stand on the sidelines just flapping their gums
While we live, breathe, and sleep this all night
Soldiers unknowing, just why they're here
They choose sides because that's what they do
They don't know the issues, how deep "The Troubles" go
They're just here, and that's all they know
The orange and green, divided as one
Catholics and Protestants alike
Both fight their battles and both live for peace
And the British...can get on their bike
A land half as lovely, torn asunder by war
would be laid waste, with nothing to show
But "The Troubles" aside, there's lots here to see
And lots of great places to go
It's a war of attrition, where neither side wins
Each army gets recruits from the womb
You stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine
And we'll disagree to agree to our tomb
Fighting for freedom, religion or rights
It's political, hatred and worse
Religions involved, and we've only one God
So which side does God cheer or God curse
The battle still wages, though not like before
It's a war that is fought underground
"The Troubles" remain, and will for all time
And I pray for the dead, not around
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Aching skin,
Boiling blood,
My lust consumes.
Hands long for your throat,
crave to be wrapped in your hair,
pulling you closer. Close enough
to feel your heat, to smell you.
My lips, Ah my lips.
My lips and tongue implore
for the wet heat of your folds.
I must taste your flesh
before I wither from attrition.
Union.
The singularity of ingression,
transcendent of all earthly attachments.
Sublime.
Release. An unfettering of all thought,
leaving only feeling.
A divine conjunction.
And after, the only sounds our breathing.
Still as one, unencumbered by thought.
We rest peacefully in our oasis, sated.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC