"begrimed" poems
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Just like Goddess Kali
I am feared when not
understood
my enemies know my loving passion are my kids
those demons slander me
fearing the mother
goddess in me
I gave life and inadvertedly heartbroken waived it
I give life
birthed my children
against all adds
motherhood apeaces me
injustice enrages my dance
I am Goddess Kali Karijin
~~
Precious daughters
Elena Rose Jeanette fear not
I save I protect I write
it's my frenzied dance
surounded by demons ferocious
you and me won many a
gruesome wars
to protect you three your
children alike my light
I have deamed
Remember Mother Kali
I love you miss you
more and more
and for you my life I lay
~~~.
The goddess mother
(excerpt)
~estranged from kids ~
~~~~~~
"The stars are blotted out,
The clouds are covering clouds,
It is darkness vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring, whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics
Just loose from the prison-house,
Wrenching trees by the roots,
Sweeping all from the path...
The sea has joined the fray,
And swirls up mountain-waves,
To reach the pitchy sky.
The flash of lurid light
Reveals on every side
A thousand,
thousand shades
Of Death begrimed and black."
love & motherhood apeace me.
~~~~~~~
By: Karijinbba
inspired
by Hindi ink Durga-Kali
Shiva Lord's Wife
revised 06-5-19
~~~~
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
I endured the pain in the battlefield as a soldier,
Keeping my promises of returning at any haste.
That day, I would be coming home to marry her:
No moments left to shatter, or time left to waste.
A woman that all eyes of men are worthy to see,
Mona Lisa, a lovely name engraved in my scars.
In the train, I reckoned the memories so silently;
Our love has no ends, it was written in the stars.
An advent of a man’s burning pleasure for love,
I knocked the door, but silence whispered fear.
I entered; I found a painting on the stairs above;
An enticing self-portrait of Mona Lisa, my dear.
The dusk was painted by the colors of her smile,
I… I… I saw her with another man in the dark!
I traveled for miles only to witness that betrayal
Of her and bestfriend Leonardo, making a spark.
Bloodstained walls, caused by my troubled guns;
(She sewed my heart and then rent it into pieces).
I… I… I did **** them with my begrimed hands!
Should I cry for the sullen load of those britches?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
“oh, how they will all bet on morrows that strain rills after dark,
and yet the Game, unpitying, regains its lordly behest at dawn;
lean back and feel the turn of things, the chance, the risk, the almost...
ante!”
⋮
this mania!
when it wreathes,
the imperceptible of myself,
it drains through me, sedulously,
hands aquiver, sight fretful,
and the bath of wanting (and not, ergo),
spewing and fusing
inside the etna of my inlying.
you are, then, obedience itself,
long before the grapevine,
before the Cards;
rails tarnishing, yet begrimed steel,
rather ossein, or thew,
turning to a suttee so pale, it forgets its ills.
and the trains;
yes, they were gushing, though not afore;
“did you think they would arrive for you?”
they smelt into clag,
into a mist of faces, barren,
swelling and shrieking of throe,
snaking, snaking down the spine of
the Stake.
slaves betting with their ilk of ardor,
when a match struck, belatedly,
but already it is leaning toward cinders,
its shine no more
than a laugh of people,
leaving the hall shivery in its bleat,
charcoals sighing their waning,
others honing their exit.
bitterly, bitterly, i am
left with nothing to hold but smoke.
but time, ah, time,
the nimble Host,
old trickster with his cuffs of lithe,
shuffling cloaks for loose change.
he and i,
always at the same table,
and i know his favorite sleight:
to grant the boastful player
a losing hand,
and winning eyes.
the coin is tossed,
to the Parlay; so soon cast,
so soon swallowed by the piker.
the crowd, they clap for a name,
but it is never genius they are crowning,
only luck,
foremost Dealer,
with that last word,
smiling as he lays it down:
only the blind Card turned upward.
~~~
and i,
sitting with my empty cup,
still growing a taste for losing
foolish, surely,
but the loss only deepens the greed,
doubles it, whets it past the reach of will.
so ring then, coin,
dull as you are, tattered,
clattering against the floorboards.
it tells me i am counted,
measured,
already spent.
yes, yes, it is only a caprice,
but it hews, it digs,
it laughs where no mouths are,
and i laugh back;
ante!
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 6:33 PM UTC
We grew up in the muddy puddle
That was our coffee
In a begrimed little café.
We ate in little bites of each other,
Rolled our tongues in our mouths,
Tasted each flavor and each seasoning.
I gulped you down and digested each little mishap of you.
I undid all the sordid belongings residing in your mouth,
You were the embodiment of shame and failure,
And I made it all such a part of my gut,
That I haven’t shaken it off
Thirty years hence.
How did I make it to here?
This is such a foreign rest.
The only familiarity was that,
Which settled around the corners of your eyes,
In the crevices beneath your *******
And the clarity of your skin.
There were snacks,
And books.
You had your brown sweater on.
Your moist brow was so restless that day,
That I was reminded of all of my desperation,
All the stories I hurled at myself,
All the children I knew were all right.
Oh Nara,
Your brow vanished all that I held true,
Even you, Nara,
Your brow swallowed you whole.
Oh Nara,
You killed a part of me that day.
You exploded into chemicals,
That stuck onto my skin.
Into hot tea that surprised me every day.
It crept into the jasmine oil smell of her hair.
In the sweat of her neck,
Into our lazy evenings filtered through with years
Of careful exclusion.
Everything I owned was only me
When I was naked, and writhing,
A baby in the womb of something so desperately motherly,
That it forgot to give birth.
She noticed, Nara, she noticed me.
She noticed these hands shaking through everything they did.
And she hid.
She hid into her red, pleated saris,
Into cookbooks and cakes,
Into soft butter, and hardened cookies.
Everything has been seeking to destroy itself since, Nara,
Cigarettes would paper itself into existence.
Now it burns smoke and blindness.
The trees move in fast forward,
They are arthritic fingers
Grasping for something,
Long since out of their reach.
Acid has been running in the veins of this house since years,
The wood is out of place.
The rot in the bamboo tables is only concealed
By the tinted glass.
And sometimes, I sit at the cadaver porch,
You are a mindless zombie of a woman,
Who decides to stay with me,
And leave me alone.
Destruction had become your favourite hobby when you were that real.
When did poetry become so important to you that
You quite forgot me?
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Droning a monotone note,
Rocking back and forth,
complaining of a sore throat,
I witnessed a man go insane.
Down the street from the store
By the grey abstruse sign on the back door,
He did a quick shake. . . .
He did a quick shake. . . .
To the acrid taste of an apple.
With his begrimed hair and dark eyes,
He pulled out a paper and started to recite his final goodbyes,
O darkness!
Swaying, syncopated with his incoherent words,
He imagined a world with only birds.
Sweet world!
Coming from the innards of his soul.
O darkness!
In a deep voice filled with dissimulation,
I heard that man whisper,
“Ain’t got nothing to think of,
Ain’t got nobody but my self.
I’s a lonely man,
And I find no reason to prove it to oneself.
Thump, thump, thump, went his heart against his chest,
He thought back on his life, and was not impressed-
“I cant find comfort, And I can’t be satisfied.
Can’t find comfort And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t got a care, And I wish that I had died.”
And for a long time he sat there.The sun came up and went down.
The man got up and started to walk without a destination.
While he was stuck in a state of disconsolation.
He closed his eyes-to die-or to engage his imagination.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
Brings up the hole in my dreams, white dressed mannequin overlaid with sequins,
her dress form baring my hide, skinny legs in skinny jeans, faced with her blue eyes.
This constant storm of thick regret, plays aching words through my stiffened threads. I am startled by the tinge of when he picks at my strings, his fingers cueing up my grief, I'm
transfixed by such staunch memories.
From this September thru December all that is anxious wrecks this time, blending stages of unconsciousness with the right to bide these rhythmic tidings outlined by the rigor of her whines. Bent by the rocking of the sea and the buried screams beneath, herein these mouths are tanned from where these voices once laid command.
Subtly superior, yet haunting in its serenity and clause, the metal stretched across her jaw, and while the dove is drugged, she cannot bestow her love, she is betrayed thru the very lens that halted life's immenseness and intent. Draped in her hospital gown, even her crown forgone, her gurney replaced her throne, no more royalty will she ever know.
Soma sudor, spit begrimed at ends, tiffs being had with friends, he takes away the organs, sends me back to consciousness with the bends. Every lock of hair I wanted, every piece of night I held, all my organs have been dismembered, all the luck I had is lost. In the corner of my iris there's a prime instance of despair, something left on a scrap of paper, though I could swear it looked like underwear. When the locusts fill this mind with every cadence indisposed, then they flourish on my body, leaving once they've eaten off my clothes.
Hours were my pajamas, where I slept once, now I lie. I'm the afterthought of courage, even in this heady nausea I once found sublime. Here this corpse doesn't leave a shadow, missing time where love bid supine. Even the wind it curdles in me, where no heart beats from this life.
With a child inside this bullet, art existed on her face, twice it eradicated lying, but not the ****** debt betrayed. Simple sin on the interstices, connected by the dots where pleasure writhes. All my hands are covered by this fever, where my mind has gone to die.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
Hey there hott stuff why don't ya bust
out that saxophone and play some serious
New Orleans Blues while I drink a beer and
try to calm the **** down before I start crankin
out some seriously ungodly **** that I'm possibly
going to regret in the morning.
And then it hits me that I'm having a
Bukowski moment and maybe
even channeling the spirit of that St. Paul
of new age seekers and left out hippies
shooting up in broke down cars while
holding some sort've seance for he, Jim Morrison.
Or it could've just been a convenient excuse
to get a sad lonely hipster high and
**** her brains out since she was looking
for something that mattered and happened
to find your crooked *** and a **** begrimed needle.
So don't ask me why I take concepts half baked
such as just go with the flow and all things
go according to the will of the universe
and rub my perfectly shaped **** all over them
since 9 out of 10 it's an excuse for terrible
**** that people do to each other in the name of
great grandpa experience for experience's sake.
I'll laugh in the face of people who ***** platitudes
and I'll teach their cats to **** on their
newspapers in the morning just for the
pure naked mischief of it.
There are so many lives out there in the big blue
world full of so many hopes and dreams and
loves and hates and memories and futures
that no one, any where, has the right or the authority
to infringe upon for any reason especially
that golden calf of fearful worship
the supposed Great Scapegoat of the Greater Good.
So come along with me and my people,
we who do not bow, we who do not submit,
we who wake up in the morning filled with
a burning insatiable need to take our world
by the PMC encrusted ***** and make something new.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
I was a promising child
home as a war zone
I reconciled
grown men around
unknown or known
I remained
as their playground
my soul begrimed
one
stroke
at
a
time.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 7:50 AM UTC
The storms and cyclones
Are building, breaching
the defences of Her ambience.
Quietly, they come
Through the begrimed and black
Looting the ears of the lost.
What direction? When there is no compass.
No straight lines. Just circles.
Cycles and cyclones.
Caught up in the invisible winds
Swept away like debris.
What they called home is now Hell.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 7:43 AM UTC
regular routines remain,
trapped in a tenacious loop.
i despise this daunting shovel.
a begrimed bottom i can’t seem to reach.
pain pressures me into prayers,
bystanders beg for me to stop.
when can i be done digging?
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
There once roamed a beggar
With a stark, unsettling gaze
Jutting from bloodshot eyes;
The veins resembled a maze.
His words poignant and potent,
Yet the vain were never amazed.
Though he was eager, his voice was meager.
His courage corroded from attrition and malnutrition.
For years he pleaded with the gaudy passersby
Each one despised him,
And fled before he could even ask them why.
With desperate agony
He tugged on their garments,
Their constant reply:
“Unhand me you varmint!”
Others wouldn’t even lend a word,
Only the breeze from their stride.
Trying to be seen was no different
Than trying to hide.
He stumbled through the crowds day after day.
Wasting away.
Constantly reaching for an embrace,
But he seemed to have the physical hand
Of an invisible man.
Day after day he wasted
Entreating for sustenance.
His corporeal substance emaciated.
A ***
Glum.
****
Shunned by a society gone numb.
Even though he never asked for a cent,
Or morsel, or crumb.
No, the only nourishment he ever sought
Was a ration of affinity.
A genuine bond
For a fraction of infinity.
Even a heartfelt conversation
Would fill his gaunt flesh.
Instead he was given a gauntlet to endure,
And die a myth like the legend of Loch Ness.
For years he shed tear after tear,
Till he no longer could.
But his heart still broke;
Torn, collapsing from tear after tear
Till he no longer stood.
Simmering in resignation,
He withered into a slumped lump,
A begrimed bump.
Bowing to the crowds passing in a blur.
He was an infectious disease without a cure.
He fused into the graffiti on the wall.
Till one day he disappeared, knowing it made no difference at all.
Still taunted and haunted by memories of sight and sound,
Now he wanes and decays in a cave...
Where I write this now.
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC