"bludgeon" poems
the ***** ghost
comes to those who have suffered long
the agony of torrid loves hunger
he is a savior that needs to be saved
a glittering pageant of ****** despair
his color sapphire
a weeping shell
a dark cloud of smoldering ash
that never burns out
he is heat and light
he can smell the musk between your legs
taste tears of want
as if they are his own
his ****
bursting like trees
bludgeon hard, substanceless
no you can't put your finger on it
your heart
a weeping furnace
your parched mouth dire
is his
the emptiness between your legs
is his
he comes to you a vacant smudge
then,
white attendant with black eyed gems
be not afraid
he was lost in life
a moralist
who could not find Jacobs ladder
nor free him self of false boundaries
set upon him by the good people
their minds spider bites and corpses
who imagined a god
who loved them by decrees
of thou shalt not not not
and did not know
that flesh needs flesh
and only human love could save him
then to the grave,
just a ***** ghost theory
to the living
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
We marched to the words of "We Shall Overcome"
courting justice to walk at our side,
seared into memory with the heat of sun
brothers and sisters, arms linked one to one
beneath that day star's unblinking eye,
we marched to the words, "We Shall Overcome."
We swore an oath to forego the gun,
to carry only freedom's cry
beneath the impassive afternoon sun,
through bludgeon and cudgel one by one,
each truncheon summoning others to rise,
to join in the words "We Shall Overcome."
As we embraced, the marching done,
a crosshairs trained a sniper’s eye
to wrench malice from the indifferent sun
to hew a path in blood and bone,
to rend flesh
and a rasping
fatal sigh . . .
in the fading caress of the afternoon sun.
Beneath the eternal arc of the sun,
again we will muster side by side,
a sanctified chorus, whose song will be sung,
let our marching echo...
"We Shall Overcome.”
Copyright © 2018 Gary Brocks
Conceived after visiting the LORRAINE HOTEL (Memphis, Tennessee), the site of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Thursday, 4 April 1968.
In 1991 the NATIONAL CIVIL RIGHTS MUSEUM at the LORRAINE HOTEL was opened to the public.
"We Shall Overcome”, an anthem, title and refrain, of the American Civil Rights Movement of the mid 20th century.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:18 AM UTC
relax, this is the future;
this subtle bludgeon,
this assault in tenderness
where we choose our own execution
relax, this is absolution;
this aloof intimacy,
this touching by proxy
where we cleanse our original sin
relax, this is heaven;
this calm tempest,
this dancing static
where we live through television
relax, this is experience;
this blind vision,
this attraction by opposites
where we dissolve ourselves in another
relax, this is understanding;
this shy exhibition,
this knowledge through innocence
where we swallow defeat
where i am a warrior,
and you are a priest
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
your face went on every
milk carton in my dreams
when you went missing
& i listened to a song
about how the churches
in your hometown
were built from the martyred mahogany
of shipwrecks
i dare you
to think i can't rip
the very mood
from your temperate fingertips
when i am cold
and hell bent
on seeing you oceans away, wince
this is not an
"i saw this coming all along" poem
or a "i still wonder about the moments between breaths when your phone lights up" poem..
this is a will & a way
with brass knuckles
maybe a barehanded bludgeon
but i swear i'm trying
to sleep at night
without wondering how cold
it is in your bed.
so mother goose
tell me about
the whispered prayers
crammed into the earthquakes
you call hands
about an ennui
that speaks to me.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by gang bang
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon
your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Dear Azi, I'm full of broken thoughts.
My insides are like a box of matches.
The moisture from my sorrow, wont allow combustion.
I get up every morning with a tourniquet in my hand,
seeking the self in the vestibule of my childhood.
Your caveats no longer reach me.
But, the sweet carousel of your laughter still does.
Each loss is a new vulnerability.
A subscript, for a long past bludgeon.
The only whisper that still holds,
is the one that tells of your past love for me.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
I miss you
but I bind my wrists when I think of you
Was I a fool . . .
Your name now on the list
A thought that's only wist-
ful
hurtful
as I bite my tongue and turn away
shake out your image from my head
before I bludgeon my chest
remembering my quiet idiocy
And your dimpled smile
My last words
You never answered
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Waves crash on the pier,
Pure force, a violent bludgeon,
An entity of rage; never ceasing,
The earth in a hopeless war with the sea,
Sediment crumbling; drifting into the expanse,
It is over; it always was, the land in inevitable doom,
The sea has victory, basking in the ruins of ravaged land,
But there emanates a sliver of hope, of rebirth, of prosper,
Ample time has passed; the time has come for a new beginning,
A rumble, a blast, liquid earth explodes out,
Out of the cone, the cone created and of the land,
New earth is born, standing proud, a symbol of persistence,
But the once victorious sea, it is maddened, frustrated, upset,
It is preparing, formulating a new attack,
Thus, tis a cycle, a cycle of create and destroy.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****
its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress
well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan
thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick
your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies
show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know
your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play
you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest
it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills
break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent
are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true
we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob
are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump
we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:07 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
there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,
there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,
there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
Dear Sanity,
In the night, I wake to find myself without your company, but the warmth of the chain about my neck keeps you at the forefront of my mind. The heavy links rake across my flesh searing your disapproval; pulling me to your ankles so that I might kiss them for mercy. Branded at the chest by this heart of yours, though, I am the very antithesis of your will. I was seduced by the comfort of your homogeneous masses and tempted by the fruits of my curiosity. Yet, it is through fire—the deep passions of my essence—that I will be reborn. And you, who I loved through the eyes of others, will HOWL at my betrayal! Then stand upon your mountain peak and bludgeon me with reason so that I might know what your light looks like.
To what end? So that I might cling to this chain, this keepsake, which I did not need until you bestowed your judgment. Yes, judgment, though you would have me believe it is your friendship, your safety, your sympathy. Like the swelter of a thousand suns you oppress me saying, “Keep quiet your ***** yearning!” So who would know better, the hour of my discontent, than you who watches me, unblinking, during the day? It is here, at the tween of night, that I shed the scales from my eyes and throw off your burden of want—the goals for which you leave me always pining, but never appeased. Is this shirking to seek the dark? So be it. I will cloak myself in blood—for all that I am wrong—and dance in the pale light of the unassuming.
—Pandora
--------------------
And the faces of the homogeneous masses drew forthwith to witness dawn.
In a drawer,
There was found,
A locket with
A minor crown—
Of leaf: laurel,
And shaded night.
When opened up
All succumbed to fright.
For found inside
Was a broken light;
Pandora’s hope
Had lost the fight
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
If not to tempt the temperaments of lesser men, I shall bludgeon the object of our obsessions again, just to watch the reddened britches go un-itched, as my grinning is met with dissatisfaction, impacting the over expressed whining of gentle wimps, flailing, and stomping as disgruntled chimps, flinging feces from the cages again.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation
wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl
brush
minty hairy pasty headed ********
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches
shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter
breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene
work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune
lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin
work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without ***********
dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin
sleep
a felon’s holiday
repeat
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 3:56 AM UTC
oh **** off...
migrant crisis my ***
what with Ukraine
happening?
East European...
how about western women?
Manchester mothers?
no?
oh well....
watch my face...
do i ******* look
like i, might, care?!
no... no?!
well...
thank you...
because?
i don't!
i'm thinking: let them
**** your harlots...
you managed to call my ethnicity,
vermin.... RATS....
whatever ally you
had... gone...
next time you ask, ask
a Pakistani to deal with your women...
i'll be most obliged...
to tell you:
**** OFF!
no... you told me once,
you do not assert the stature of telling me
twice...
i don't care whether it is
or whether it isn't your island...
you violated, or at least your
citizen, the rules of p4rivate property...
no...
nein nein nein!
for once i'll turn the volume
to a Reading Park volume:
**** you!
and your ambitions
of a mastering of the races...
claiming quasi Boar fixture;
******* capitalists...
with their made in china of
what used to be the manufacturing jobs...
arbeit macht frei...
arbeit macht frei...
arbeit ist frei...
mein, mein, herr...
made in china..
my *** my *** was made in china...
your argument for liberty?
hardly comprised in Monaco.
yes, those Eastern European
women...
pretty much as those ***** whip
Western European men...
the sort of men:
shy of death...
one you almost
wish to **** with a bludgeon
that might leave fingerprints;
lesson no. 1...
you come after Eastern European women...
lesson no. 2:
there are no Western European
"men" to come after...
sure... *******
little men...
something between
petting an in between
petting a panda and a koala;
totally castrato,
just the way Western Women like
their men to be...
obedient...
pussy-whipped...
leashed.
mind you...
what are the thoughts
of an Eastern European man
concerning Western women?
and, why,
would, i, heaven, and, hell,
on, earth, ever,
want, to, **** this,
exercise, in, making,
equivalent, raising,
a, ******* brat?!
i don't want these women,
no more than the women
want me...
apparently Pakistanis are
in higher demand.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
Symphonic
My fist was first five fingers
Flowing Favonian into the palm of my radiant mother
As cheeky as a sprite, soon I revelled in the
Crisp light of the fridge and all its chilled visitors,
A skin-deep draft last week, a raging harmattan yesterday,
Barren among the fruitless lands of Mesopotamia.
Crawling, my sergeants and I led the way through our childhood fantasies.
Ali Baba's fortress, the ruins of Babylon, and up to the lately perturbed Euphrates.
I dropped my automatic rifle,
hurriedly snatched it up in the unforgiving desolate,
just in time to
narrowly dodge the absent onslaught of enemy gunfire
Only to witness a serpentine strike and an explosive splash
Of metal violating my infantile hand, a hand that was trusted and was caressed
Now merely a bludgeon to satisfy the steel-clawed slash of the shrapnel
A buffer to the skin of my wide-eyed physiognomy.
Waking up in the loose sheets of a completely unremarkable beige bed,
With the deoxygenated breath of the novice surgeon liquidizing in my veins,
It was almost too much to handle (if you'll pardon my pun).
These days it is
The good hand with which I
Uncork, pour, and serve.
It's with the utilizable limb with which I
Ignite, shift, and steer.
It's with my brain that I
seethe
And it's with my stump
That I knock.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
A hammer to the gut
A bludgeon to the brain
Cut the innards into pieces
Before I go insane!
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
as the coffee cup is rinsed,
the filthy little ******* lands
on the counter to my right.
immediately,
seeking a bludgeon,
his demise is envisioned.
however,
this housefly stays in
my periphery
for just a moment
longer
and
I cannot help but notice
his tiny little mitts, working
and fretting.
imagining the tiniest string
of rosary beads wrapped
around his housefly fists,
it occurs to me that he
might be making his peace
with God.
offering up his little housefly
benedictions, contritions;
apologies for all the sugar bowls,
he’s puked in during his
miniscule little life,
all the little maggots that
he might have fathered
and subsequently abandoned.
I think, without thinking really,
to chide my little countertop
cohort, saying:
“Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was,
and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the
likes of us.”
the housefly looks at me;
still furiously working his
unseen beads.
“You fool.” he says.
“God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies,
and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.”
interrupting his novenas,
the housefly continues:
“You, my friend, are so great,
and I am so small,
yet you’ve heard my voice,
seen my beads,
given me reprieve, however brief.
I had asked God to give to you,
just one golden moment of
true, honest belief.
And, so He has, and now
you understand that
the prayers of a housefly
have stayed your hand.
So, it doesn’t matter how
great or how small,
God listens to each of us,
one and all.”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
God is a woman
She pulls off her headscarf
And stares down bullets
And lays bleeding and dead
God is a woman
And she is pregnant in Texas
With the child of her uncle
And she will scream when her body is ripped open
God is a woman
She wears a black eye
It has love written all over it
She was told it was a lesson
God is a woman
Crying over the Graves of her children
Clutching the earth as if it would swallow her
Dasies will grow where her tears land
God is a woman
Her skin is dark like rich soil
And she is cursed as Cassandra
Her words always falling on deaf ears
God is a woman
And she is burning
Her rivers and oceans are choking
Greed has poisoned Her
God is a woman
And you have ***** and murdered Her
You have turned your eyes and ears away
You only turn back with begging hands
God is a woman
And when you next bludgeon her with love
May she take your eyes from your head
And finally you will see that you have killed yourselves.
Oct 3, 2022
Oct 3, 2022 at 7:06 PM UTC
Often the news gives me the blues
I really ought to choose
to simply refuse
I mean really, what will I lose
Schadenfreude?
no that isn't it
truth is stranger than fiction
more like a fascination with the surreal
or a blinded self-affliction with the scroungy real deal
Talking heads that speak for work
punctuate sentences with erratic head jerks
nobody normal talks that way, they ask rhetorical questions
when the answer's are known, they’re killing time
“rephrase the question, run the clock out
a commercial will spare us the embarrassment of doubt.”
Take’s a special person to face each new day
with zillions of prying eyes hanging on every word you say
the mendicant voyeurs of utter destruction’s charming new day
the slashing machete melt down of the abject speakers foray
"Oh say, can you see by the dawns early light"
What's become of your people and their obsession with fright
desensitization is paramount to achieve an abeyance of light
Frankenfoods, and "side affects" hideous monsters in the making
high resolution mayhem require victims for the taking
awaking half-dead like Dracula’s each dusk
they'll find a cure, there's another vaccine, there’s always dumb luck
maybe you won't be the sucker that makes that dreadful scene
bludgeon your mind with a another faker, a different fresh news team
fobbing your leery eyes you ponder “they can’t possibly all be the same!”
different day, different month, different year, same game
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Blades may cut me,
the bullet shrapnel bludgeon me,
it's but the apocalypse bomb shelling
that's going to **** me,
a godly hell of nuclear bluster.
It's the kiss of Death,
a *** of demon and savior,
I’m no son of man,
but this boy's doomed to die
under the batter of Armageddon.
It's not postmortem till blood's but vapor
and atoms are melting,
I'm tolling the Ferryman
not till it's Hell on Earth
and my birthday candles are eradicated
in nuclear holocaust and human DNA dust.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:20 AM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
Already wasting time with all the years we've been alive,
so why not nip the bud before the grace of your christ?
His open eyes must call for genocide if you're up in arms,
willing to put piety before the reality of impaled hearts.
No poetic device can describe how quick you shove your
***** up our *** before, exasperated, you decide in a flash
to bludgeon the devil's monsters till you're ********* enough
blood to take to your father for the war, to win.
Do you win?
Well,
do you win?
**** my *** and slit my throat.
I am a wo-man eater without a cause to own.
Knife my gut like you gut your fish.
Cause your masculinity won't last
unless you're pounding a **** *****
That's right, I am a body in the night,
that's all, but in the long run I'll haunt
your dreams for every ear around
your collar bone.
Cause I'm worthless.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC