"barring" poems
Throw me to the wolves
See if I don't come back
Leading the pack
Don't you know me
Better than that?
Resilience
Never forget
I'm the girl who loves you
I'm strong and true
I'll come out growling
Barring my teeth for the world to see
I dare you
Just try and hurt me
You won't succeed
I'm swinging and biting
Just try and push me down
I'll stare at the ground
Mesmerized by the sound
Of me clawing your eyes out
I got some fight left in me
Resilience
You'll see....
Tread carefully
My claws are at the ready
I got my whole pack behind me
Literally
Ready to snap necks and chew flesh
The Girl Who Loved You is here to stay
Standing strong
Despite what you say
Resilience
Everyday
Leading this pack of wolves
Never astray
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Late nights in your car, listening to turnover and drinking coffee.
For the longest time I was that girl in the Paramore shirt and converse.
Eventually you asked me my name and to be friends.
Friends didn't last long due to the fact that we clicked instantly.
From music to mannerisms we were in sync.
When I think of you, I smell coffee and cigarettes.
I feel warm knowing I'll always have your jacket and arms to keep me warm.
I'm always cold because I know we're both terrified to lose each other.
But when I started to drift from you for the first time, you didn't say anything because you didn't want to be over-barring.
After a while you caved and finally told me you missed me.
But what I miss, is the way it feels when you hugged me and i breathed in your scent.
When you touch me, I have no thoughts, all I hear is complete silence.
I'm always nervous but more calm than ever with you.
You know my struggles and have seen my scars but still tell me its okay and I'm beautiful anyways.
I like the way your eyes light up when you talk about the new sextape single; your smile is contagious.
You say I make you jealous when I talk about all the boys who've touched me,
But no one is more jealous than me when I think about all the girls you've held and told THEM that you LOVED THEM.
I don't think I can handle us being "friends" much longer.
Every time I'm with you I go to grab your hand but never reach it because I'm scared for your hand to slip out of mine.
I never thought of my future because I'd rather be dead, but if you're with me, being alive doesn't sound too bad.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:04 PM UTC
I am lusted after and I am singled out because of one thing I have to offer them.
I have something the average girl doesn’t have, I’m ‘a girl with a little extra’
I am their secret dream girl, their hidden desire.
They love to love me in secret.
They don’t see me as a person, they see their fantasy being fulfilled with me.
They don’t want to know my mind they just want to know how long I’ve been on hormones.
If my hair is real, if I had any surgery and you know what surgery I am talking they say with a no good smile.
Wow your face is so feminine looking, you would never know what hiding between your gorgeous thick legs.
Your body is perfect, your are not narrow you have full hips almost child barring.
Your delicate nose, your long blonde hair to your pouty lips you are perfect for this one night t girl.
They love my voice, they say its so **** and soothing.
I am a *** object to them, a pretty thing with **** hips and a ****
20 years of flesh on my body, and I still cant feel anything for it.
Yet these men do.
I am a delicacy, I am a rare indulgence for them.
Do you know how beautiful you are young t girl they ask me.
Why so empty t girl, why so lonely you could have any man you want for the night.
The night, that is all this body is worth to them.
My mind attacks my body like a foreign object, something that is not right or supposed to be.
Yet men find it so **** like eating the forbidden fruit.
I am so tasty sweet and so unacceptable.
What will people think they say to me.
How can I be lusted after, but shamed for my body
Something they find so beautiful, so exotic
They love my porcelain skin, that is diluted with freckles they say they want to count each one I have.
Get naked t girl, that is all your body is good for, to be looked at let me adore you.
Yes I have a girlfriend but you are an exception, you are a rare commodity, your skin is baby soft, not rough there is no trace of man hood on you except the one thing below that makes me want you.
You are my fantasy t girl, you are what I think about at night when I am alone.
When I decline what they want, I am disgusting, I am a stain in the world, let me show you what happens to real women t girl, such a waste of a pretty face.
these men are so offended that 'someone like me' doesn't desire them they desire me.
yet how am I the fantasy?
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
When I Grow Up
I wanna sing a Heavily song
No, I want to write a letter a mile long
Listen to Jazz with wine for zen
Play in the grass with a breezy wind
When I Grow Up
I wanna hug my mother
Hold her tight to show I love her
wash her feet to give her ease
kiss her hands for BARRING this SEED
When I Grow Up
I want to LET GO
use my wings to fly coast to coast
filled the world with love and laughter
live out my dreams even if it's a disaster
WHEN I GROW UP
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
Barring a robin
nothing sacred
at the vacant church
- fr
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
The iron in my blood has grown too heavy
The only sensation
I have
is anxiety:
the about-to-jump uneasiness of limb
without the adrenaline.
The lump in your throat
almost heartburn like heart ache
but aches have faded to numbness.
I'm dumb.
And founded on this quiet existence
of waiting for the next hill to climb.
Wryly smiling
at the slightest hint of a plateau
and shattering its mirage.
A barrage is barring the beatings of a heart
that I've often questioned existentially
in nights as dark as my thoughts
and equally as empty.
Every relief
stands in cold contrast
to all my other anxieties-
building up their mounds
to amounts unspeakable
in the crowded, concentrated ball
which has made it's way to my throat.
It's heavy.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me
Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?
Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
But your darker side is the part of you I love most.
Let's play with the lighting;
shadows and rays make one more aware
I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me
Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural
How about an impression?
How I feel about you?
Oh my, that is personal...
yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!
I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;
That particular smile and glint in your eyes
when something intrigues you
and you're up to no good.
Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence
Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
The Mural will be breathtaking.
but of course, not as fascinating as you.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
We are encased in bars of blue,
That hold us in this enclosed space,
And beneath us this infernal chain,
Forever holding us in our place.
We strived to move between these bars,
But our shackles wore our skin to bone.
And we dared to move through the nearest walls,
Into places we thought unknown,
And now we travel to and fro,
Between our cells in large tin cans,
Scraping against these prison bars,
Dividing us into different lands.
The final frontier of our plight,
The barring cage that hangs above,
We slipped through the cracks,
And into a new world we dove.
Freedom was not behind our cage,
In the vast expanse beyond,
But similar prisons that are empty now,
Much like ours of which we are so fond.
Now look between these prisons scattered,
Where our Warden has forsook,
Endless lengths from our night sky,
Into which we can helplessly look,
And we see nothing,
And we find nothing,
For there is
Nothing.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
I write such pretty words
About the ones I've sort of loved
I used to think I'd be like Joni Mitchell
And love all the beautiful men
With their beautiful voices
And their beautiful souls
I've gotta get me a singer in the park, dancer in the dark
A ***** word thief to mirror my own heart
Funny how life goes exactly how you don't plan it
Or if you were prepared for that
It will go according to plan but taste like splenda
Sticky, fakesweet
Me, I'm riding steady on the latter
Sometimes getting sadder
And barring that time when I was sixteen
All the loving never felt like love
Not all the way
I don't mean to degrade those salty days
I've got a headful of memories that I'd never trade
I don't know what I'm thinking when I say the love I make could be better
Maybe because I've never been made stupid, never really been played
Which is to say that I've never actually gone all the way
Never settled or sacrificed anything I couldn't get back
Most of me is always tucked away
Escaping only in blinding bursts that leave everyone involved a little scared
I don't remember how to temper myself
In relation to anyone else
But I remember every time I've realized that something wasn't what I wanted
I'm **** good at falling out of it
And writing lots of stupid poems about it
I've watched too many people rip each other apart with it
Felt it start to rip at me
Of course I'll never let that happen
I'm the first to advocate divorce
But some days I get really worried that I'm not capable of anything more
It's not that I'm broken
I just have really,
Really
Good boundaries
Maybe I'm lying, scared and selfish
Going against my own mind
I know I've felt bliss
Once I felt infinite
But that was a different me, all soft and made of clay
This me, pushing out these particular words, well
I've never been in love
I'm always a little bit in love
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.
You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.
You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.
But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.
"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.
"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.
So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.
You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.
And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
I had a guest to dinner,
It was a Nietzch ghost.
The ghost brought with him five volumes,
A stranger barring gifts in the night.
In civility i poured him tea and examined these books.
The first book was a Book of Contradictions.
A book that called for morality and peace,
But it was laid in the path of genocide and hate.
A disheartening tale of the Gott that grew to the point of oppression.
The second book was titled the Tot of Gott.
A book of the slaying of the oppressor.
The fall of the mighty by the disenfranchised man,
In its effort to cover all, the controller spread himself to the point of destruction.
The third book was the Book of Cosmic Emptiness.
A book of a speck, a book of existential glory.
It showed however grand our perspective,
We are small and empty.
The fourth book was a Book of Mirrors.
In it i saw everything and nothing.
The world around me was so clear,
But i knew nothing of myself.
The final book was the most perplexing.
Unlike the book of mirrors it was empty as the “o”.
Page after page of emptiness, lonely of words,
Save the corner of the last page which said “Your Tale”
I looked up and the ghost smiled,
A bizarre smile of accomplishment.
It took Its tea and softly rose, for the door.
It never said a word but why would it.
I wonder what my tale will be.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
-
this is just a Slum -- this is just a Slum.
this is just a Dungeon full of monkeys n Crumbs...
they
rummage through the Trash -- smashing yer Drum,,
strumming their guiTars -- barring you in Cages.
this is a Furnace -- this is a Furnace.
this is just a furnace full of ashes n Fern...
...first its yer Flesh -- then its yer Nerve;;
burning to thee End -- ending in an Urn.
this is a Prison -- "this is just a Cell."
this is just a Shelter of a skeletons deMentia...
..."ever met the people with a needle in the Retina?"
never ever Ever -- never even Seen em...
..."credit to the Devil -- dwelling in Hell."
this is a Palace -- "this is a Palace."
this is just a palace where the people give yer Words back...
..."acting as a Friend" -- infecting yer Palate,,
slashing yer Tongue -- "tugging yer Blanket"...
...thanks to yer Mouth -- now i never Sleep.
yer
"speaking to the Wall -- crawling with Shadows."
.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
The doomsday preacher has a lot to say
about what’s going on in the world today.
He quotes the scriptures with a loud voice
so as to point out that we all have a choice.
He addresses his words to those ***** passing by
which is usually at times with such a piercing cry.
Some of the people stop and listen there for a while
wondering if what is spoken may not be full of guile.
The words that he speaks talk of fire and brimstone
coming down on us all unless we repent and atone
from the things we all do which are against the law
and accumulate sin barring us from heaven’s door.
He stands there alone in the street as if one transfixed
though the message loudly preached is not ever mixed,
and handing out certain pamphlets of the printed word
for any who care to read later what they haven’t heard.
Rarely does he pause at all during the time of speaking
but continues on for the sake of any lost souls reaping.
Like one long ago who was seen crying in the wilderness
preaching of those things that require God’s forgiveness.
_______________________________________
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
On September 27, 2017, a Partnership between Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines on the Northeast Corridor will come to an end
The key word is “Independence” of both that will begin
Interline tickets barring both bus carrier names will no longer remain
It will be individual tickets only barring the issuance of the bus company name
Before on the Northeast Corridor having both Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus lines combined together
The term individuality will be two carriers being the other
Peter Pan Bus Lines is run by the Picknelly family
The company was once part of the Trailways Organization
When Peter Pan started doing runs South coming through New York City nobody really knew who Peter Pan Bus Lines was
It wasn’t until Peter Pan and Greyhound formed an agreement and that is how Peter Pan became passenger known
Peter Pan and Greyhound will operate as a separate entity
Peter Pan Bus Lines is a bus company being an away we go
Then there’s Greyhound who started the partnership show
But it has become a time to move on
Peter Pan and Greyhound are bus operations that are still strong
Now this is something travelling bus customers will have to get used to
But it will be a matter of time they will get through
The highway will always keep both bus carriers connected
There could be select in what passengers will elect
But bus travel in general I don’t think will have that much effect
Two enterprises having histories of their own
What’s in a name has always been shown
A partnership that will change
The names of Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines that will always remain.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with
making life more expensive for average home owners
signing orders threatening the health of millions
restricting the publications of researchers
denying global warming
encouraging coal and oil companies
forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
to justify his ridiculous lies
blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
barring leading media companies from press conferences
waffling about his Russian connections
refusing to release his tax returns
ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
like the old Chinese did, to little avail
issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
causing confusion and harm and even deaths
banning even green card holders from entering the country
filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
he promised to clean during his campaign
people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
like their private family businesses, for profit
courting kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
is quite OK with his campaign team members
his son and son-in-law
[ctd. fron line 2...] it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
if any
of democracy he has in mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
A chance encounter of the best kind
A meeting arranged by fate
Two souls have come together
Two hearts can now relate
Exploring has uncovered what belongs
A tender love sublime
Whose roots grow deep
To withstand the test of time
This much I know within my heart
That we were meant to be
To share the joys of life
Throughout eternity
So now I ask with an open heart
Barring my soul to thee
Will you take this chance with me?
And let’s travel through eternity
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
I’ve been struck down again,
fully aware it’s my own doing.
Do you have a heart you can lend?
Mine’s drying from the taping and the glueing.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
are you smiling or are you snarling,
more importantly are you mine?
Outside the window seasons blend,
the temperature holds no meaning.
I notice the change and the trend,
to ignore the withdrawals from weaning.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
you’ve been avoiding and been barring,
but you can’t severe this line.
The stronger the initial fear
usually means the most is at stake,
and trying to prevent a single tear
can lead to the worst heartbreak.
Those who leave the best memories
usually leave us with the most hurt,
you know we can’t just live life with ease,
there needs to be some blood on a white shirt.
You can try to completely forget someone,
but putting that effort in means you’re actually fixated more,
and after all is said and done,
honestly who do you wish to be behind that door?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
is it cleansing or more harming,
to live in denial all the time?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
when it’s finished it’ll be starting,
and I’ll stand under the Montauk sign.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 7:07 AM UTC
Madame Blaine isn't happy.
Every night his apparitions appear
and they're getting darer by the day
(sorry, by the night).
Her fault she didn't tell him to go
the first few days on the southern window
rather she felt bad as he stood out there
thought it better to offer him chair.
His hesitation stoked her kindness
not much she would lose if sat face to face
recapitulating life they were together
barring the first few spent talking the weather.
Once in the room he gave her his ears
(or so it seemed)
as she talked of loneliness with hint of tears
blinking and nodding an occasional sigh
but not once offering a courtesy of reply.
He would sit unobtrusive in the gentlest manner
till his proposal last night dropped the sky on her
(sorry, the ceiling)
the first words he spoke shattered her peace
May I Diane, offer you a kiss?
She fumbled to decide an aye or a nay
silence was all her voice could say
the apparition rose to grab the moment
reading in her muteness a loud consent.
Since then she is wondering if she can boast
of having been kissed by one now a ghost
or hide within her as an indelible shame
an indulgence that could earn her bad name.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.
as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.
caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.
demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.
caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.
as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?
collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.
there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.
a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.
there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.
we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.
all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.
overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
Shoot up with Ink,
Take off the edge,
allow it to float you
down off the ledge
of destruction.
Instead place yourself
in reconstruction,
go on,
change it all;
Skin
Words
Thoughts
This drug may crawl you back to freedom
First the skin, cut to within
Slithers of scratches
Skim over your arm
doing just enough harm
To Ensure you're alive
Yet this pen's marks are
harmless enough
that they can only reach inside through your mind
You're sure to survive
you must never cut deeper
A needless nicotine patch
for a virginal physical self-harmer
Cut yourself Calmer
Here come the words,
allow verbs, vowels and nouns
to sound their way out
Say things you wish you'd said
Type things you want to shout
Find the door and safety lock
and force your way
bound out
You are Alone
but for whispered, mouthed and subtle
tone of Freedom
Relish and Revel
Search your way to hell
out here
Find the things so close,
so near,
you couldn't see them if you
tried,
they hide behind the ink.
Blink, they're gone,
splattered in the lyrics
to a lifelong song,
branded.
How could something so true, be wrong?
Allow your thoughts to be free,
be you, be me
See everything
Feel all,
Stall as you wait for the buzz to fade
You can never be sated with this
Something you can't recall
but you must always miss.
Addictions scarring, marring and barring
words always a
kiss
away from overdose,
it's so close you can taste it
Feel it's breath
When you put the pen
down
You can only feel
Bereft,
so test yourself again
Find the mental vein and
slice it open
Feel the pain of truth
Open the roof of your skull
and allow the clock to fall
Ticking
to silence
Violent peace
Calm chaos
Hyperbole
Alliteration
Oxymoronic
Nouns
Verbs
Words
Words
Words
Think
ThInk
hInk
Ink
Ink
InkInk
InkInkInk
InkInkInkInk
InkInk
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC