"bash" poems
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.
I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.
I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.
I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.
I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object
I want to get one of those high end fashion mannequins grab them by the ankles and bash your ribcage in
I want to sharpen 5 pencils, bind them with a rubber band, put them in your mouth and punch the erasers
I want to strap you to a bead of nails then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps on a mall parking lot during an earthquake
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
If Success was Happiness
Then achievers would be glad
But look around and you will find
That many of them are sad
Of course, Achievement gives joy
And excitement, oh boy!
But when our need becomes our greed
To misery, this will lead
The whole world is chasing Success
Everyone wants achievement
Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose
There is no Contentment
Why do people want to succeed?
Why is everyone in a race?
The Truth is that we want to win
So that there is a smile on our face
But though we win, we are not glad
We have money, why are we sad?
Happiness is not money, the sages said
It's sleeping soundly when you are in bed
We hear of suicides in the homes of the rich
If they were Happy, then why this glitch?
Although they are achievers, this fact we know
They are not Happy, their face has no glow
If successful, but unhappy, what is the use?
Winning or smiling, what would you choose?
The purpose of Success is for us to be glad
What is the use of winning, if it makes us sad?
Happiness is something different, we learn
Not just money that we earn and burn
Happiness is built on a foundation of peace
Then we are blissful like waves in the seas
Look around at the people who are glad
They live in the moment, they are never sad
They don't swing from the future to the past
They are the ones whose Happiness lasts
Happiness has no price tag, know this my friend
It's a state of mind where nothing can offend
It's being able to smile, and able to laugh
Not just trying to raise our Success graph
We can't measure joy in dollar and pound
Happy is he who peace has found
Though we may fly the world around
We may be miserable on the ground
Success is not Happiness, this Truth we must know
We may have everything, what's the use of this show?
The truly successful one is he
Who lives with smile, laughter, and glee
If one is Happy, then one has achieved all
One doesn't have to be rich and in fame be tall
One can have little, but if content is he
Then he can live joyously
Achievement gives Happiness, this fact we know
But with Fulfilment and Contentment, does Happiness grow
One who is Happy, doesn't need to win
He has Peace and Joy without committing sin
Joy doesn't need a foundation of cash
One doesn't have to be rich, to enjoy life's bash
Happiness is a simple state of the mind
It comes from being loving, it comes from being Kind
Happiness is Success. It is achieving life's goal
It is being Happy in the heart, Peaceful in the Soul
True Happiness is eternal, not just a moment of joy
It last's forever, it can’t be destroyed
Success is a journey of valleys and peaks
Life is a see-saw, there are laughs and squeaks
Success, unlike Happiness, doesn't last for long
But the truly Happy ones always sing a Happy song
So, Success is not Happiness, Happiness is Success
You may be an achiever, whose heart is not at rest
But though not successful, if Happy you are
Then you are an achiever, you are the very best
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
I'm *** positive
So text me sympathies
Lie to me
Tell me nothing has changed and nothing will
Tell me we're friends and we'll remain
Make me stand in front of a mirror to see if i can face myself
Act like you care
Veil yourself and blame the air
Look down on me
Fake a wow for my worn out shoes
But look into my eyes before you leave
They speak volumes
I'm just not crying
Maybe i wont wake up in the morning- maybe i will
Bash my family like i feed on their blood
Maybe it was just my fault- maybe not
Maybe i have never made love
Maybe i have never done drugs
Maybe it was my latest tattoo that reads " I miss you mom"
Maybe it was the tetanus shot i had last month
Admit that you don't care
Act ill to not eat what i share
You're just another educated
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried
We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there
The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon
There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
you’re a sick, sick person
my little,
old
love.
with eyes like ferocious , angry
beetles, you
chew into me and cut out
tiny,
stinging
holes.
if only you knew i wasn’t invincible,
if only you knew
you were toxic.
the cement is wet when you bash my head
open,
and
the cement is still wet when it
rains.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
i like Sunday dinner a proper Sunday roast
this it is my favorite dish the one i like the most
looking at beef as it roasts away
sat there in oven in the baking in its tray
eating all the veg roasties and the mash
a proper Sunday dinner a proper Sunday bash
making up the gravy for a little pour
ad a little bit then a little more
then there is the pudding looking very nice
my favorite one of all a lovely bowl of rice
i love Sunday dinner a proper Sunday roast
my very favorite dinner the one i like the most
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Welcome to the battleground,
Welcome to the fight.
We're an army waging war,
Soldiers armed with light.
Living on through madness,
For a cause we're standing for,
We're going to be brave,
To keep the oath we swore.
We're going to be brave,
When all around seems dark,
When shadows bash our armor thin,
When evil leaves it's mark,
We're not fighting alone,
We have a helping friend,
So we're going to be brave,
To the very end.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Paragliding is a matter of maths.
You launch, fly, land, bash or crash.
How you meet the ground depends on maths.
Maths is key to survival.
Allowances for maths out of your control, will drive your fun.
Wind, heat, thermals and other pilots in the sky.
Unforgiving ground is gravity's final aim.
The wind will blow, thermals will lift, but gravity's maths will always win.
Your time in the air, and possibly life's end, will depend pilot error.
But gravity's maths doesn't care, he is all.
Gravity is annoyed with paragliders aiming at the ground with miss.
Gravity has calculated it's maths.
He spies those who fly forever, and wishes them on the ground.
With silence and invisibility, he draws those pilots in.
Some follow the maths and land with ease.
Some ignore the maths with peril.
Gravity's maths will always win.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
A year has passed since I crashed my motorcycle.
The road rash had since been cast away.
The fast paced life was smashed together.
A singular bash that cached my memory.
Lights flash and whiplash has new meaning.
This thrash blinked my eyelash three days later.
Dreary forecast laid flabbergasted.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Fireworks!
In such a razzle dazzle fireworks flash and bash in vibrancy,
In a spectral aura of contorted colours,
Stars sparkling, noisily highlighting the sky,
Release the Gods of chaos, as on the sparks they fly,
Amid a colour scheme supreme, a total fascination,
In an argument inopportune as fireworks hit home,
In a firework of a love-struck soul my body is vibrating,
Travel on a firework fly beyond the moon,
For on a pyrotechnic dream, embark beyond those stars,
Saw rowdy fireworks the day I met you,
Still seeing them now, those flashes,
For in my heart those fireworks are popping still,
Wish I could ride upon a rocket to be with you today,
Make the fireworks flash in procession,
Let the marching band play on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
Take a look
At this decade's eternal light.
Youth, beauty, happiness.
In theory.
Is that how it was for our parents?
Top tags on this website
#depression #suicide #heartbreak
Are grandma's photo albums fairytales
Or has something changed
Without shame
Unmarked blame
Just a change
Perseverance died
At the doorstep of sarcastic self-deprecation,
Cool-to-be-lame facades,
Glorified depression, growing vines on glowing laptop walls
With a generation, fetal position, ripped jeans and eyeliner, inside
Self proclaimed ****
If you say it first
Those twisted lips of others
Won't press on such a fresh wound
And here we lose the metaphor
Cut yourself
So everyone else
Is picking at scabs
No one would hurt another
Who hurts themselves
Unless they're an ***
So the words are silenced
Are you stronger? Happier? Healthier?
And so we can always be safe
In our self loathing
Until puppy eyes and perfect pictures
Leave us hungry
Hurt by the people who don't mind being *****
Gaining assets, stealing rights from under
Our droopy dismal noses snapshot
Caption: **** up, let down, repeat. Hate me.
-politicians and companies will bash your head on rock bottom
Looking up in disbelief at chemical burns from Big Mac's
We'll look back down to pout about our pain.
The only way to save ourselves?
Perseverance
Positivity
Hope
Though I conveyed none of those emotions in this poem.
**** me.
I'm a hypocrite. But my point still stands.
Perhaps even stronger.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
What ever happened
to the Idea of Freedom of Religion?
What ever happened to religious equality?
I want it back? I'm begging for it to come back.
I sometimes get strange looks
when I admit that I accept all religions EQUALLY
that I would let a Jehovah witness into my home
just so I could learn about their faith.
That I find Catholic sermons tearfully beautiful
That One of my pen pals is Mormon.
People find me strange, they find me fake.
"How can you love them all equally?"
"how can you accept them all?"
It's quite simple really. This is my answer.
What right do I have to Bash what others think?
What right do I have to say
"No your god doesn't exist"?
I wouldn't want people to do that to me and my faith
so Why should I go out and do it to theirs?
There's this thing call FREEDOM of RELIGION
and I stand firm and believe it whole heartily
We all have the right to believe in what we believe in
And no one i mean
NO ONE
has the right to take that away!
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.*
personally? i hardly think
******** **** is what men turn
to when excavating
***********
ever watched
pregnant
women
************
while filming themselves?!
ever watch pregnant women
film
themselves ************
ever?
in the beginning there
was the word,
and the word was god...
you hear the talking
of pregnant woman ************
**** me...
who the hell needs ******** ***
when you can **** off
to a pregnant woman...
jerking off, talking *****
paradoxes of Freud
about her yet to be born
son
watching her **********
who the hell needs
******** ****
just watch a pregnant woman **********
oath of god...
hand on my heart...
it doesn't actually encompass a
desire for intricacies of latex...
just a pregnant woman
************
*** mad... *** mad...
*** mad...
******* *** mad as hell...
Freud? pale as an uncooked
pancake dough...
the **** that comes out
from the mouth of a pregnant
woman ************
believe me...
i ****** off to one of them doing it
helpless.
nice try... thinking
a man would turn to ********
***********
can't turn to more ********
****
than a pregnant woman,
************
while talking, Oedipal,
*****
try... try, ******
try to bash that fact out
of existence!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
You are like a lion, are you not?
And I shall be the lamb, shall I not?
Our remains shall stay preserved, but in what?
In golden love and awe, am I correct?
So do not fell our affection like a sapling tree.
And do not bash the skull of our forever into the wall of never.
Please refrain from unnecessary doubt of the possibility of us.
For we are our own and our own is us.
And I can only hope for nothing less.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
I am a piece of glass.
a glass that has been shattered time and time again,
losing a piece of me with every new bash/
a remnant of what I once was.
If you try to put me back together, the world will never look the same,
for
I
am
shattered.
If you try to put me back together,
you need to remember that I am a broken piece of glass,
you will hurt yourself if you hold me in your hand,
and then I will hurt you more.
Don't hold too tight,
but don't let go.
Looking at the world through me may be hard.
I have fallen so many times that I am mere piece of myself now.
Me as your lens of the world would be small and stained.
But then again, I can show you the world.
If you try to find yourself in me,
you need remember
that I am not a mirror,
but a hollow thing where you can never be reflected.
It's a lonely existence.
I am a barrier yet I am a transporter.
You will never know
I am transparent.
If you want to find inside, you can see right through me.
But do not be deceived, for I am empty.
But with all this,
I am a piece of glass.
I am fragile;
I can be broken,
so please handle with care.
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 9:42 PM UTC
If all you want is an image
Just imagine this
A man to your liking
with features so striking
A man you can’t resist
If all you want is emotion
Just emote to me
And we’ll start pretending
That love’s never-ending
And happy we will be
Mold me into any shape you want
Hold me, roll me
Shuffle, cut and fold me
I’ll be yours for life
Slash me, bash me
Slice and dice and mash me
I’ll be the perfect man
For the perfect wife
Let me be your Frankenstein
Let me be the love you pine
I’ll be yours and you will be mine
Let me be your Frankenstein
Draw up a blueprint
Make out a plan
Tell me what you need
A groovy assortment
Of all the important
Things that you can’t see
A wizards brain
A heart of gold
A fiery touch
And I’ll be sold
So if you find him
Bring him here
I’ll pay to rent him
Every year
Don’t be jive
And don’t be bold
For every story
Ever told
Ends up somewhat
Not so clear
So if you find him
Bring him here!
Searching woman look no more
You have found your dream
I’m worth two plus three times four
Let me join your team
You can see that I’m the one
I’m just what you need
So I ask no fee save one
Let me, Let me be
Let me be your Frankenstein
Let me be the love you pine
I’ll be yours and you will be mine
Let me be your Frankenstein
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
I think things like "weigh my belt"
That weight dowth felt thy girly wirly smell
hand made
sew maid for two plums pie
I cry I cry I almost pass away
way to the future down
down to below. Oh
how can I
be so
naïve before the summer glow
a basement bash of feet below
below a hazard haggard waist
wasted on the belt loop of his father
a potter
plain before your very eyes
a seismic ray of disbelief
a cobble stone of sticks and leaves.
No
I could be a sailor man
and I could eat things from a can
and inching toward a rubber band
Damsels in distress
they're not impressed by you
or shallow deeds
deeds begin to play
beneath my skin and things that float away
and inching toward the silos of
a tribal super plane
a racecar a racecar
I'm ******* erasing it all
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
*A kiss from the night
Drunk from all that pain
Struggles to breath
Can't remember her name
Lost his eyes
Love made him blind
Hate made him see
Scars remind
A story that'll fade away
Pages eaten by time
Memories don't go away
Weather is not kind
Storms bash the home
Walls ripped of from the bones
All his secrets in the open
Strangers are gone
Who will love him now
Caress and hold him now
Wipe away all the blood stained tears
Who will bring him down
From the skies he wanders at nights
Searching for a lost cause
A moon that glows in anger
A sun that's faux
A wolf howls at a distance
A dog barks nearby
Night shows resistance
Ghosts never pass-by
A bleak view from a window
And a madness from outside
A letter of hatred
Enough to hurt his pride
He cannot see but whisper
There's a tale hidden in the stones
He warns once again
About the rage hidden in his bones
No one listens
World won't skip a beat
It Dosent matter
Even if with blood he repeats
They'll only see red
Not what's in his head
They look right through him
Like staring at something dead
He's afraid of the demons
That guide him to scars
Gently takes his hand
Makes him draw on his arms
Death , he mused
Life had refused
Where to walk now
He is so confused
And lies that destroyed lust
Ashened black lies in dirt
Forgiven but not forgotten
In dark prisons they lurk
Prisoners of darkness
They weep solitude
Embracing their fate
Another sunrise they refute
And to feed them love
A mistake of the holy
Wise seeks hurt
Impervious of the story
But a mother does worry
If her child lives or not
Thirteen cents
For which he was bought
She loved him and fed him hate
Watched silently and smiled
While he ate
His mouth blood stained
From the flesh of the saints
Imploding the verses he preached
Every rule he ever bleached
Hands of god from heaven
All hell broke loose when they reached
And strangled his very neck
Coldness in his eyes
Staring at the mirrors that don't reflect*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
I'm about ready to bludgeon
Someone with my microphone
And string them up
By my black cord
Stab them with a music stand
And slit their throat with the feet of it
Bash their head into the piano
Then stuff them inside of the instrument
See, choir has become a competition
A sport which everyone is
Now on their own teams
Only rooting for themselves
We all sing together
But we clash and our
Voices don't blend anymore
Instead you hear the individual's song
Selfish and cruel
They all gossip about one another
Manipulating and breaking
Each other down to dust
Confidence stripped and raw
Wounds festering and emotions building
Of the words said behind backs
And not to the face
But just because our backs our turned
Does not make us deaf
But even more unsure of
Ourselves and the people surrounding us
Choir is not a family anymore
It's World War Three
Teeth bared and claws out
Missiles ready to take out other parts
There goes the altos
Taken out by the sopranos
The baritones still talk with the tenors
But the tension is still high
Choir is dangerous
But what they don't realize is
I can be the most cunning and cruel
Animal of them all
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
Oh I do like to be in the countryside
where the branches bash against the windows of the bus
where the leaves on the boughs of the trees bow so low
that I feel I have to duck.
Where people know me almost better than I know myself
I can gesture to my figure when Brigitte says
"have you eaten?"
and she will reply
"but that means nothing."
Where I can tell Tracy all about my life
and she won't judge,
will look at me with the same quiet smile,
the same laughing acceptance
as she ever has, since the day we met.
Where Cindy and Cathy sit talking about the world
and tell me of their troubles
because they know I'll understand.
Where the sea pounds gently in the distance
whipping the wind sometimes into a frenzy
and molding my hair into a salt-ridden sculpture
on my head.
I don't miss it
when I'm in the city
on the contrary, I love the beat of the sun on the concrete,
the thrash of the trains in the distance,
even the wheezing exhaust fumes
feel like they fit somehow.
But it's nice to be back sometimes
where the trees still grow on the roadsides
where the fields are green even in winter
where the pubs are cozy and quiet
like their clientele.
I went back there today
and I loved it like always
I loved it as ever
I love it still.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
"Cash, Grass or Ass-No One Rides Free!"
reads the bumper-sticker slapped on the ratty Harley.
Its black leather seat is cracked, tattered and torn,
the headlight is busted and there's no friggin' horn;
with mismatched saddlebags strapped to each side,
the panhead leaks like a sieve, but it's still quite a ride.
The gas-tank is dented, scratched and coated with muck,
the chrome no longer shines, but who gives a flyin' ****
Its tires are bald, the spokes are all rusted to ****
and the frame is off-kilter from a cage-driver's hit.
The biker just puffed the last hit from his pipe,
slammed down the rest of the J.D. from the bash last night;
then he hops on his hog, kicks the monster to start,
the muffler-pipes blast flames and roar like a ****
Together they roll down the road like old pals,'
with nowhere to go, just obnoxious and loud:
the tombstone tail-light flashes bright red on this mess,
'though Cashless, Grassless and Assless, they couldn't care less!
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 1:34 AM UTC