"bartholomew" poems
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
The Angel of the Earth Watches ****
& speaking harshly, she continued
w/ God again & again, w/ a smile,
on the eve of St. Bartholomew
the feet & legs of the light,
like a madman & a fool to ****
the computer w/ Macedonia blowing
up; Then he began upward knowing
goes; Jack, who had come to walk
six of the lowest birth on Wednesday
deserts; Clear in the morning;
able to wear new clothes & expire
to be truly happy to meet the demand
of the Hot Club of the dying;
Love & Light Wide taking stands
against the goddesses then, indeed,
loves itself, senior leader in the
mountains of the lamb to the shore;
He is forever Branding numbers
on the prostitutes at the bar; The
Number of new blades on Hill Street
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
"Baby Brianna was five months old when she died...she had multiple broken bones. Over thirty bite marks. She was beat to death..." "Susannah Martinez (campaign ad)
Doe eyed ghosts
Y los ninos mi corazon
Mall haired mamacita with the lined lips
505 madonna meant nothing to you
Bust that cap while she sleeps
Represent
And leave the little ones behind
Curled up against her cooling breast
Black blood and coffee grounds under their nails
It took them weeks to starve to death
Abuelitas they lament
Light the candles in Torreon
Would you buckle under the weight of tiny bones
Small hands that clutch the sky
Sightless eyes
Fragments of a smile stopped by a single shot
Gangstas gunning the wrong house
Little girl lost in poppi's arms
would her whispered breath against your neck
bring one tear
Baby Bartholemew in his car seat
choking to death in his own blood
Head lolling back crying for mommy
One last time
The sound...the stench forever resonant
Cuz teddy bears cant stop a bullet can they
Wrong place
Wrong time
Hand the grieving parents a tissue
And straighten her hair
For the cameras
This indignation will rise
Bile in your throat
for the next 40 minutes
Until you return to the blur
Of your regularly scheduled lives
We're so casual with our offspring
But Brianna, Bartholomew
and the ghosts in Torreon
they haunt these tears I cry
"It took us three years, but we fought to make it a death sentence. Baby Brianna's picture still hangs in my office." Susannah Martinez (campaign ad)
I will not forget....
TL Boehm
December 2010
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
with him included? the devil's dozen, or
the 13 -
then the hours of Horus:
noon - Simon Peter -
later with covenant
of the hour: holy spirit,
and the minute hand: son
and the second hand: the father
oh quiet the trinity handful,
given year zero -
hours 12 through to 1
Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew,
Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus, Simon, Judas
s / p.
s. a.
θ. j.
j. Δ j.
m. p.
b.
look at the ******* clock! something's awry!
Simon peter 12
Andrew 13
James 14
John 15 (3 a.m. / p.m.)
Philip 16
Bartholomew 17 (5 p.m.)
Thomas 18 (six)
Matthew 19 (seven)
James (ibn Alφaeus) 20 (eight)
"θ" (nine),
Simon K9'ite - ten
Iscariot - eleven - clocks are wrong...
the year 0 a.d. is based on this,
twelve disciples, twelve hours a.m. / a.d.
and v.
p.m. / b.c.,
hence the trinity / Δ -
an hour for the holy spirit to catch on,
son monetises the minutes
and the father being omnipresent understands within
seconds...
but i was aiming to do justice to the harvest missed
last year, i was intending to make wine;
hence the list of ingredients,
a) wine yeast;
b) yeast nutrient:
diammonium phosphate,
magnesium sulphate, nicotinic acid, magnesium carbonate,
thiamine hydrochloride, zinc sulphate, ferrous
ammonium sulphate, biotin;
c) pectolase:
pectinase enzyme, dextrose monohydrate;
d) bruclens cleaner / steriliser:
sodium percarbonate;
e) fine fining A: silica sol,
" B: chitosan (derived from crab and shrimp
shells, contains sodium metabisulphite)
f) two months' worth of patience.
it's that time of the year where you make wine
(just a little bush, enough for 12 bottles) -
and gestapo a curry -
a tarka dhal
and a kheralan chicken with coconut milk...
i love when **** decays, it tastes better than
when **** blossoms and isn't exactly edible
but merely colourful.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
My name is not Matthew,
I'm not Thomas but take a little bit of me.
My name is not Andrew,
I'm not Peter, but give a little back please.
My name is not Bartholomew,
I'm not Jude; Philip always insisted but he was rude.
My name is not James
and I could care less 'cause I heard Matthias was a mouse.
Andrew couldn't give a **** though he didn't mean to curse.
John told me that Simon said Peter was sorry.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
Sacrosanct nourriture…
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)
Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.
Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.
We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls ****** Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.
Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
hate predestination,
reviling it more than a bit.
Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…
People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
this really has become a really bad greek joke, i knew that the romans could sing, **** me, they gave us castrato sing along, but i never knew greeks knew humour, perhaps too much emphasis on their philosophical prowess... 'so you're telling me we've been basically lacerating ourselves and kneeling just to get the puzzle's end result, a ******* clock?! you have to be ******** me... thanks to this device we're more prone to insomnia, news channels of 24 ******** global trading & global warming...' i say, the greeks really know how to tell a joke, first they philosophise so everyone takes them seriously... and then the punchline... christianity!
and indeed first, simon (peter), a name for simony.
simon (peter)
andrew james ibn zebedee
john ibn zebedee philip
bartholomew 3^ thomas
matthew james ibn alphaeous
thaddaeus simon the zealot
judas
and indeed judas, last, meaning the son of judiciary.
^but look here, a clock emerges, the trinity of
the hand of the hour,
the hand of the minute,
the hand of the second, and twelve names
as sentenced to 12 (simon peter),
1 (james ibn zebedee),
2 (philip), 3 (thomas), 4 (james ibn alphaeous),
5 (simon the zealot), 6 (judas),
7 (thaddaeus), 8 (matthew), 9 (bartholomew),
10 (john ibn zebedee), 11 (andrew);
**** this greek contraption!
back then the zeitgeist ("holy spirit") of humanity stated
that it was both α & ω, and indeed this was true,
look at the past 2000 years, we know so much!
but in the current state of affairs, the zeitgeist
of humanity changed, since it states a shortening,
a dried up river, it states that the zeitgeist is shortened
to α & β, the whole alpha / beta male dynamic,
sex-fuelled ******** gladiators with electricity bills,
Odysseus with a dilemma over carrier pigeons
postage stamps and email...
but aha! don't forget the ω male, who seems to be
walking into the freezing plateaus of mirrors,
for whom the α & β dynamic means life is too short
because it's too quick... it means the α & β
are competing, the former is a billionaire / banker,
the latter is probably a journalist...
and the ω male is a pedestrian... remember that guy.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Diaz
Diaz was from Portugal, his first Bartholomew
In 1487, rounded Good Hope, bid adieu
For going on to India was for Da Gama's crew
King Manuel sent 13 ships with Diaz and Cabral
And April 22, 1500 claimed Brazil
Half the fleet, when on return, in Jones' locker laid
But the six remaining, spice-filled ships for the voyage paid
Da Gama
Da Gama, he was Portuguese
For Indian Ocean trade
He sailed four ships, if you please
With Indian guidance for aid
1497 is when Vasco hit the sea
And sailing 'round the Cape of Good Hope, quickly found that he
Would require some assistance from a local native guide
Together crossing Arab sea and in Calicut ending ride
But though Da Gama and the Indians didn't hit it off
He still returned to Lisbon toting spices and their cloth
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC
Cassius Bartholomew, a dapper gentleman
Oh, two-toned fuzzy suit, and smile so genuine
Regarding his tough muscles, a good workout regimen
Gracious with affection, his love is never tentative
I greatly love that Cash, so I write these sentences
Cassius is a cuddle monster who snuggles day or night
Oh, that Cashboy is such a manly man despite his tiny height
Ruggedly running through rolling hills, superlative delight
Gusto! Cash's cry of joy when his name you cite
I hope you understand by now, Cash's character's airtight
Cassius is a Corgi, a big-eared loaf of bread from end to end
Cashboy is the best of dogs
He's truly man's best friend
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
when Margot met Circe: bah bah black sheep,
St. Bartholomew's chicken ****
for the puff of leg-room...
duffos... 1996 made so much sense;
hence the days before teen-mom
m.t.v., hence the days before
teen-mom m.t.v.,
is that revising the opposite
of the caveman within journalists
who'd have no imagination to
carve out a hammer?
but who still celebrate
that origination of all future history?
there's never too little history to revive,
there's only too much of the wrong
history to bookmark,
and subsequently revive...
whatever happened to culture of
things seen on t.v. when marijuana
was illegal?
ted the magic talking bear?
or is that ted'x talks? they legalised that ****
because because there were apparent
geniuses in s low mo t'yo née -
or: scooby dooby do... where are you...
magic monkey juice...
let's make america nostalgic ultra!
as the german poets and philosophers
tried to revive classical greek and came back
with a ******** clock for what really did become
good luck...
because they made marijuana legal
for non-high purposes as in extracting
something akin to Great Ormond kids ingesting
the green morphine monster...
but where's the fun in that when it's all legal
and couch-potato bound and never daring
for the jazz communes and spontaneously
propped poetics?
but i also grew up with
*Wilk i Zając - Odcinek 13 - Olimpiada 1980
w Moskwie* /
wolf & rabbit, episode 13, olympics 1980 in
Moscow... very ******* sputnik in terms of
tunes comrade Gagarin...
i once knew the meaning of the word: harasho...
i think it means: i understand.
я ci pokarzała! (i will show you!)
nu pagarzni! (no you won't!)
o' Ronald re re re, ***** i wielki flop!
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
For starters
we could talk about the Huguenot martyrs...
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 8:23 AM UTC
in the moments before dawn you’ll hear whispers: haunted breaths
that scrape your neck like glass fingernails, razorblades in the liminality of time;
the music in your ears will ring like church bells and
crack like porcelain spoons in ceramic hands. the clouds will call your name,
dip it in the sea and stain it grey, and you’ll wish you could get it back
but you’ll find yourself muted, your vocal chords tangled,
knotted, and slit by stiffened swords in the arms of the enslaved. Cape Horn beckons
and we pretend not to hear. Senegal polishes her silver knife & I pretend that I am not unfaithful to Alexandro’s memory. if there’s no way
to unlock my wrists then don’t bother looking for land, just turn
my vessel around and let my eyes search for the gaze of the mountain. if there’s no way
to silence my mind then don’t bother whispering in my ears,
don’t be naive,
don’t play games with me unless you can dock the ship. when the clock turns three,
go tell Bartholomew he can take my body, it’s not mine and
I don’t want it anymore, the blood on my neck may be my blood but
it belongs to the blade, so tell him,
turn my bones into skeleton keys and Aranda will show you the way.
I’ll follow your leader if you follow me, I promise,
I promise, I promise unbroken dreams in Delano’s unbroken hands. although
my wrists are bound by plastic chains, I’ll still tell you
to watch your step because the planks beneath your feet
are echoing with the phantoms of lost crowns whether or not you can
feel the spirits in the air. you can’t see but your jeweled massacres
have bled into the suds twined around your neck,
My Dear Amasa,
I wonder what you’d say if you knew that
there will be no sunrise.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 4:35 AM UTC