It struck me hard, yet I’m not dead
I’ll only forge beyond ahead
And never lose my ground, my stance
To bludgeoning of circumstance

It stuck its blade, it tried to ****
And let blood drip from my heart’s will
But though my soul was slightly bent
To bludgeoning of incident

Never did I to it give in
Instead I’ve forged ahead to win
At last it struck with sharp his lance
And took me down, this circumstance

And let me bleed, its shrill laughter
My woes, my thoughts of dole after
Belittled me to nothing more
Till I dropped wan and cold and sore

Yet gave up, ne’er before I’ve done
And tried I to rise like morn’s sun
And with my light I veered from sight
All circumstance and dark its might

And then I stood and with my blade
I did knick-knack and brought the fate
That long I waited ever thence
The death of darkest circumstance

We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.

He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton

Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room

His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up


He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to

He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps

He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted

He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder

You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana


He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers

His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout

Don’t keep your eyes peeled

You won’t find his face
on a milk carton

This boy isn’t really missing

He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law

But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore

So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”

and hope I still have one

White Man! White Man!
You dare come and conquer this country?
This corner of the continent
Construct your castles with crystal windows
Looking out on a foaming sea
Model your marble walls, polished and pristine
On your porcelain teeth: terrible and tough
Paint clouds on the ceiling with paper fingers
Papyrus skin crumpling with age
Your knights galloped in on young geldings
Castrated to keep them clean
Like the sterile white cloths draped across their clavicles
You’d scar this landscape
With a squat whitewashed town
Matt and peeling
Dishevelled and overgrown

Black Man! Black Man!
You dare come and claim this country?
My corner of the continent
Behind boulders and barren hills
Coalfires choke the burned sky
I’m breathing in your smoke but at night
Your bullet-holes in the firmament glint
As stars glimpse the belching flame
Of your volcanic pride
Your bearded bishops bludgeoning
The bloodied populace of pockets of resistance
Scorched brown eyes smouldering
From here to the horizon
Of mournful ashen mountains, blunt and black
You’d build your walls of black onyx
Cold, hard and brutal

So let the battle-lines be drawn
Let us duel to the death until we mix
Into that emotional grey area between man and man:
Peace

Being a poet, a heavy handed right-hand writer, is to me, being a sociopathic killer of language. Hands that worship sometimes the least popular fruit, the myrrh or the mana, the young woman or the homeless man-animal, prostitutes and the dregs of civilization.

Here I am, shuffling through my cabinets, searching out that precise instrument, for this precise moment. My repertoire of blades, bludgeoning objects, handyman's tools: the hammer, axe, screwdriver, sieve, staple gun, nail gun, jigsaw, bandsaw, handsaw, and wrench, also too there are wood chippers, snippers, clippers, scissors, tapes, shanks, cords, ropes, and wires. I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the incredibly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal poisons, toxic chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments I've listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desired pleasure or response from he or she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer the Uniball .7mm with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the intensity and seriousness that must be conveyed or omitted. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the necessary temperament and intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique unto itself. No ****** is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.

It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and only me, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and I. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, and unbalanced, nearly schizophrenic performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead draws heavy sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each movement of the hand readies this god-sized control to the pen, exercising its tumultuous rein of might, choosing to exact its motive on this word, while ignoring and sometimes even skipping over whole sets of words, sentences in some instances, while in others it chooses to exhaust itself in wholly unbelievable performances of carnage, destroying speech, and slaying, splicing, and splitting-up complete sections of the English language.

In some cases neglecting those words that might seem noisome or rank to some folks, only to select and offer penalty to others, it chooses on occasion to ostracize other more sweetly and eloquent pieces of speech, it chooses which parts of our alphabet to select and which words or letters it ought to omit.

****** after ******, the writer counts each ****, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts he or she might even bring home a treasure or trinket, something small though, not bigger than that of a pomegranate though often not smaller than the wick of a candle. The writer takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie his or her method to his or her execution. Until, at last amid the company of themselves, they can revel in their vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts they've chosen to commit and the acts they've chosen to omit.

It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is called to rest, there can be found an easing and peaceful contentment. Each room slowly ushers out any of the unwanted sounds of the day. Finally, he or she may sit or stand, lay or play, undisturbed by agonizing wants or needs, and happily, having chosen to keep many cupfuls of pens, not only on their work-bench and writing desk, but in the kitchen, in the living room, and in every room.

In recent years, I've begun to notice that nearly every home and establishment, business, and institution keeps at least one pen on hand. If only for those special moments of social awkwardness when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells and vespers, free-verse, stream-of-consciousness, or prose that quickly by taking up the pen can offer to its bearer in short time steadfast relief or certain resolve. For the heart certainly pumps more ink than it does blood.

I will ignore all concepts of adherence and maybe, just this once,
be blunt about my fear;

I’m a stuck oriole in a window.
I’m a pedestrian somewhere in VV Soliven underneath the pouring rain
with my parasol jammed, won’t spread out.
The petrichor from the ground rises and like dust,
I settle and cave in, like an unsuspecting dagger making its slow crawl
towards the back of the next face I see in this deadlock.

They say when you stick it to the man,
stick it good, and whatever beating or punishment may follow,
face it like a man.

but what is a man to do to the higher man
when he has his guts spread on the floor like an inkblot
from a shattered glass?
this working classman status isn’t for the weak,
and it sure isn’t for the brave either – what will become of the fools
sitting atop our heads when we have learned to outgrow them?

Sooner than it is later, I will go back to the pit like some soldier
cleaning his Lee-Enfield in the endless snow.
I will be faced by inbreds, imbeciles, rebels,
dilettantes, proletariats who have their necks leashed, their arms
puppeteered and their voices mellowed down by some defunct ventriloquism.
I will crank open the mailbox of my home and see that there
are notices: some from the bank, the loans, and the bills – all of them screaming
pecuniary, all of them bludgeoning soul.

If this is what a man has to deal with when he comes to
learn that life’s no downtown street promenade, then I’m willing
to slit the throat of the next child that’s giddy enough and filled with life
to search meaning through the bleared image in front of him.
I see high-stake rollers and proletariats, bigshots, and darling boys
roll down their car windows and flick the smoke out in the **** freeway

while I am here, watching myself slowly rot in the cubicle mirror next door
wary of my somber entrails. I think of a pub somewhere in Magallanes, and I dream
heavily when I am awake. The beaded body of the Hefeweizen is waiting for me
like a paramour, but I have to clock-punch my way out first before I can reach
some sort of truce: as long as I have myself sign these contracts, as far as my freedom is
concerned, what keeps the ball rolling for me might be something I would
despise as long as I breathe in this disgustingly thick air of deceit and consummation.
There is no life in here. All of us are dead.
Buying things we do not need, doing things we don’t want, fooling ourselves
in the complete process, marry wives and husbands and breed children
who will do the same in this cyclically deadening circus. My god is filled with
cotton and the streets scream ****** ****** against the spring.
There are enough violence in the thoroughfares to cast me back to my
home and coil, fraught with unrelenting demand.

There’s no other way to look at it rather than simplifying the equation.
Some do it for worth, that’s your tonic.
Some do it for fun, that’s your senseless beating.
Some do it because they have no other choice: they are not looking far enough.
As long as you have yourself beaten to slave-bone and driven mad with
downtime, then you have yourself laid down on a silver-platter catching
the swill of such riotous rigor: to be shaken out of sleep and shove
meat down your throat and thank the Gods for a wonderful day when all I see
outside are streets blackened to the teeth with distortion and the automobiles
like limbless children leaving no trace.

Some take the easiest way out, but I am not crazy enough to bring
myself to sanity. I have other caprices to go with.
This is enough a suicide than it is on the other side.
Whenever I look at my superior, I see nothing,
and whenever I gaze at the surrounding scenes I see people
sticking knives at each other when backs are turned.
I see people swallow everything that is given to them without
the slightest inch of askance: to complain is the inability to withstand
the current situation – but I am no fool to close my eyes.
I have still the guts to face everyday like some old friend, death, in my arms,
singing blues from the 1980s. When this is done,
I will go back to where it usually does not hurt: in the silence.

where no faces bid me hello – they do well in their own discomfiture,
and I do not wish to see them any longer.
where no automobiles tear the streets and cleave the moon farewell.
where there are no sparrows outside, where there are no laughing children,
where there are no hollow men and women greeting each other tenderly
and blighting each other safe in the resignation of some dull home.

if I am mad, then what does this make you? better? privileged?
I’ve had other people look deep into me like some deepwell without
water and they tell me, “there’s something about you, something about you.”
and when I turn my back to search for some sameness,
I figure there is nothing else to find but the same trapping fate in this
burning cylinder of a home.

Waking up and filling in shoes and dressing up for nothing,
earning money and throwing it all at our own expense,
buying thrills and wasting away as time lounges like a cat
at the foot of the Victorian. If there’s better enough a fall than this,
I will sign myself to have my bones broken, my ribs opened

to let go of my famished soul while all the others
keep themselves clean, putrefying themselves viscerally.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is ******, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.


በጨለማ ውስጥ

ከጥግጥግ ከከበበኝ
ድቅድቅ ጨለማ
ለማይበገረው መንፈሴ
ለአምላክ ያለህ የምስጋና ዜማ
ነኝ የማሰማ፣
ሑኔታዎች ቢያሸርቡም
ተሰቅቄ አልጮህኩም፣
የፈለገውን እኩይ ጣጣ
ራስ ላይ የሚወጣ
ቢሆንም እጣ
ይዞ የሚመጣ
ብናድድም ግና አቀርቅሬ
ወይ ተመርሬ ኣላውቅም!
ከዚያ የንዴትና የእንባ
ባድማ ባሻገር
ይታየኛል የመከራ ጥላ
የወረረው መንደር!
አንድ ወቅት ለሌላ
ከነግሳንግሱ
ቢሆንም የሚለቅ ተራ፣
ዘመን ያገኘኛል
ከአይበገሬዎች ጎራ
ሆኜ መጻኢ እጣዬን የማልፈራ!
መሃንዲሰ ነኝ
እጣዬን የምቀይር ቀጥቅጬ፣
የነፍሴን መርከብ
መሪ ጨብጬ!
(ዊሊያም እርነሰት ሔንሊይ) //

The infernal machines loudly portray their thoughts
When all culminates they taunt me.

Hysterically laughing at my blunders
No machine can make a mistake
Banging at the doors of the psychological house
Of my nature; my brain

The infernal machines, steam spewing; combustion fumes fill the air
Choking only me to my breaking point
The unforgiving hardness of the machines
Touches my skin with severity.

The infernal machines broken…
With no more fumes or steam lay torn;
For machines cannot feel the security of warm blooded touch
Beating; bludgeoning
I weep at the hardiness of their steel in that cold basement in which I dwell.
I smash them with my emotion (now I taunt them)
Watching the deprecation of the beasts’ rusty metal.

But…
With a sputter,
The infernal machines awake,
Building their factory over my rose lilacs
Where you and I once laid.

Those machines of my psyche
No longer allow the good in me
To be released out of this bubble of depression
That consumes me when I am secluded.

But humming below my feet,
Droning on, they heat the floor.
My path always leads back to the machines.
Believing the lies, they whisper to me.
Beckoning my ******* self to the bottom,
of that basement where the floor is no longer,
a grate, but a slab of concrete.

As I approach the stair, a figure stops me,
“Head my warning. What you seek, or feel you should be seeking isn’t there.”
I repressed this.

As I walk, the sound of the machines slowly haunts its way to my ear.
I strain to hear and when I arrive the machines are off.

I sprint through the basement, but it seems they have abandoned me.
In a mad dash, I frantically search for a working machine.

But to my demise have forgotten,
That machines cannot give nor receive warm blooded love,
And for this reason I sit waiting for the next sputter of the evil machines,
For it is all I know.

Deprivation or consumption
The familiar quandary

I traverse this treacherous world
With a mind crazed by ravenousness  
Satiation is the ultimate fail

Bludgeoning the lethargy
With this astounding
Inexhaustible fortitude
I seem to possess.

On the last, icy, breaths of December 2012,
I found a wounded sparrow,
who had mistaken glass for freedom.
The tiny neck was askew,
but the heart still fluttered against my palm.
I thought, for a moment, of ending his misery,
but the idea of bludgeoning the fragile skull,
or twisting the brittle neck,
turned my stomach sour.

I brought him home in a kleenex nest,
moved him to a basked of pine, lined with rags.
Tried to coax a few seeds and drops of water
into the tiny beak,
but to little avail.
He died new years eve, with the last breath of the old year,
and I buried the stiff body
in the garden with the dead rose bushes.

Had I, like the ancient greeks, believed in bird signs
I might have taken it as an ill omen,
run screaming to the oracle,
demanding what misfortune was to befall me,
with the first gasp of January.
But, like Achilles, I put more stock in my own two hands
than the silver-plated fingertips of Olympians.

And with that first cry of the new year,
came fates I could not have imagined,
no matter how many feathers and fates I followed.
Misfortune, of course, made her customary visit,
and stayed longer than expected.
But Joy did not shun my door,
and, by good fortune, stayed longer than her bitter sister.

The cold darkness around him does not scare him,
The wafting moonlight does.
As his pen touches the parchment,
Memories rise up, like the blood which spills from his wounds,
Dear dad,
It's been a while.
I don't know what to say,
I don't know what to write.
You were my father, once.
Do you remember the walks we took?
Do you remember that elephant ride?
We were a family once.
You, me, mum and sis.
What happened then?
Who was it who killed my father?
Was it the stress of modern day?
Was it the stereotypical past making its way,
Spilling its hatred into our future,
Poisoning our now?
I remember watching you drink.
I always wanted to swat that glass away.
What was in it that made you so evil?
Was it really the alcohol, or was it you all along?
Who are you?
Are you the man who was my father?
Or are you the man who cracks his belt at me for my own good?
I remember the day you died for me.
The day our brittle family broke under the bludgeoning of your abuse.
Do you remember?
Do you recall how you tried to hurt the ones I loved?
Do you remember how I shoved you aside?
For a moment the boy pauses,
His grief welling inside.
But he does not allow himself the luxury of tears,
He doubts if he can.
Dear dad.
Where the hell is my father?
Why did you have to walk that path?
Did you not remember the days we laid back and talked about everything?
And now as I sweep away the broken shards,
Trying to forget you forever,
Swearing not to be your heir,
This question haunts me.
Who the hell were you?
No matter what happens though,
I know you'll always be there.
The embodiment of human rage,
The capacity to fall as low as I can.
No matter how hard I run away,
You'll always be there.
Striking out with your belt,
Destroying everything I care,
For my own good perhaps.
Why are you always there?

Technology in upheaval my beer is full.

*** fills my mind with pheromones while half my hand goes limp.

I can’t feel, and nobody can feel me.

This perplexing relationship is mute resting in a lull.

I go away soon. My brain sees the afternoon and never more sooner do I go lunar.

It’s a language fight, who has the right, I might, with delight I entice the ever bloated fat cat with money scats coming from three throngs of bludgeoning

It’s turning into a symphony  you seeing me, me seeing me, you seeing you, you blowing who. ******* the dmca from the caves of *** filled futures of virus infected tri-elected future tumor leaders.

**** the breeders!  Heaters is what I have, ******* for the slave pit to go desolate into it, feeling the kit in it my slit, that which you lick. I hit and quit with quite the light of resolution and destitution upon your innovations of new year munitions.

It’s a ******* mind game, stop asking and stop doing the same.You have it [answers] in your hearts.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning's of chance
My head is ******, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

He was pitifully weak, yet he was brutally strong.
She couldn't get out of his grasp.
He ripped off her clothes, took off her dignity.
She was his, but he would never be hers.
She was pressed against his repulsive sweaty skin, yet her blood was freezing, even though her veins were on fire.
She shouts, screams and cries.
The man's humanity is dead, he cannot hear her.
Humanity is dead, mortals turn away their ears,
The Gods live no more, repulsed by the acts of their creation.
No one can hear her but herself.
His eyes are full of lust, pleasure, strength and cruelty.
She might have been caught off guard, but he had carefully planned this.
This was not just a ****** transgression,
It was the brutal bludgeoning of a soul.
She slowly loses even hope,
Only empty cries and flooding eyes exist.
The sun was never meant to shine like this.
Holy blood trickles down and mixes with impure sweat,
Each tear drop, each cry excites him more.
What sort of a man was he?
Naked, bound, gagged and tossed aside.
His brutal thrusts and ***** words have destroyed her soul.
How can such a man exist?
How can the Gods be so unjust?

who holds the leash
of the pigs in the streets?  
follow the paper trail:
dead presidents
never fail to be the culprit.

it's not who
but what.
the police always
serve and protect
capital and property.
why else would they block
off a jewel store
during a peaceful rally?

they may not be
our enemy,
but they
certainly
aren't our friends.

they are the strong-arm
of the State,
fodder on a frontline
devised by fascist elite.
the boys in blue
with low IQs
are oligarchs' favorite tools
for bludgeoning
dissent and pummeling
free expression.
useful idiots—
truncheons designed
with punishing dissidents
in mind.

we may well be
the 99%, but they have badges,
guns, and a license to ****
emblazoned on the blue shield
slapped on their chests,
stoking overzealous
racists to respond violently,
a cacophony of bloodshed
seems to be the only language
they know how to speak.

smash the fraternity
that acquiesces to criminality.
white men in pressed suits—
who's speculative spending
lead to economic catastrophe—
get off scott-free
while black men are imprisoned
for possessing an ounce of ****.
not even the blind would fail to see
the "just us" system excludes
the majority of humanity.

all lives matter?
only ignorance could present
such a fictitious narrative,
a self-congratulatory hyperbole
disregarding contemporary reality.
private prisons designed for profit,
institutionalized bigotry instigating
a new form of slavery.
when mass incarceration
lacerates our communities
and exacerbates the conditions
of the working class,
the only dignified response
is to stand up, fight back.

we no longer
have a need
for this blatant idiocracy.
if we truly want to call this country
"the land of the free,"
then we must say,
loudly and clearly:
abolish the police.

I look down at my boots and their straps and see the sludge slathered on the tongue and smeared on the deteriorating souls.
I look down and I ask myself, if they’ll make it through this winter.
My pitted fingers caress the withering leather and thin laces with no pleasure of the flashbacks of the bludgeoning boots splitting the mire in order and precision.
The mire, dried now, brown and cracked like the hills we salted and left to eat itself from the inside out.
The split end laces compliment the worn leather.
While I’m complimented for my “Working Man reconnaissance”.
War made me an old man at 25.
Wrinkles helped shadows cast deep pools upon my face.
My scars tingled like my spine after I first fired my gun.
My ears still ringing from that first shot.
My mother told me my battle cry, reminded her of when I was born.
Her ears still ringing from my first cry.
I bowed my head at her funeral, just like at my friend’s funerals.
I bow my head now more often than I ever did before.
When I do, I look at my open wounds and my deteriorating soul and ask myself if I’ll make it through this winter.

...With much ancestral barking, and
loaded quieting, the ghosts sat down
to paint.
Color renounced the spectrum...
blanching their translucent shrouds
as the firmament flailed maniacally,
bludgeoning the telltale signs of lives
painted by number.
A fractal engorged upon itself...the
ghosts foisted their vision.
As refracted tunnel lights upon the
cyclopic eye of a subway train...from
front to rear.
Went through both ends of The Tunnel,
broad daylight...broadening, and
broadening--till the ghosts sat down to
paint...tethered color snapped loose.

Think twice
About your lies
About your words,
The sharpened stick
Our suffering, your fix
The bludgeoning stones
That break the bones
The structure of our hope
Our only way to cope

To think that broken bones
Hurt as much as the verbal stones
The teasing and picking
Pushed around the circle
A game of cruel hot potato
Until they got sick and let you go

Elementary thugs
Became middle school suicide assistants

Determined in their mission to blow out our souls
To reach their sick goals

Some wander through their rose colored glasses
bitterly nonchalant for their lives
passionate about everything in their
non-compliant ways and
unforgiving aesthetics
pleased to accept their parts

I get tired after a few dances back home
feet sore, the blistering skin
a familiar commodity
raggedly hanging irritated
drifting drifting away
onto the lonely tufts
of ancient carpet rags

my nose hits the floor
bludgeoning the tip of that sensitive aquiline shape
nerve jamming straight to the heart
and so does the dream begin
Soaking in the summer nights,
baked in that warm smile
isn't it so odd?
being terrified of an echo blocking me on the head
soon erased and tuned to an alien frequency

then
trapped in a cave
crying into the abyss
the man behind me
his shadow encapsulating mine
comforting monster
I can feel rip through me

and as I run from that i fear
falling down the rocky terrain
hat ripped from my hair
blond glossy tips frosting
the cross mountaintops,
I left my hat in his hands
the one with embroidered sunflowers--
with a scream left eroding in my mouth
from inside to out,
an ancient friend I'd forgotten

Living where my mother be
inside america the land of infinite discovery
Utterly
shaken by words the prez is uttering
Bludgeoning the labeled "foreigners" for their said struggling..
i see your ways
Its usually quit disgusting
Grab em by the twuat you will get got and thats for sure
unpure
I hope that soon we get see some gore
i prey that you decay your toupee through the air will soar
Unsure ;
are yall the people which i should be blaming
You asked for this destruction now you ******* and complaining
god ;
How many claim to see through the facade
yet sit and watch their brothers getting buttered by the odds..

Here's 3 poems about doing Xanax mostly

I.
See how they fly
Me, how I
die so gracelessly.
Just
smack
the
rhyth
m.
To space,
you see?
I've hacked a mission.

Regardless

I have
to work
on my addiction.

II.
     wow.

III.

Oh, my bludgeoning "savior"!
-save me as you
Trudge on
through these leaves.
The Colorful Ones
and all these spaces in between.

Know what I mean?

A hoax 'til death.
I've got the hiccups
and im Hope- {pills] less.

about 6 are left.

Every drop that falls chains me further,
dragging me to the floor,
trapping me in anguish and misery.
"Blackest mourning lace,
Stiffest upper lip."
These lines I whisper softly,
hiding the weakness subtley.

I feel the bruises of every impact,
Bludgeoning blocks of liquid torture,
falling on acute senses.
the tears that stain,
on satin clean and plain.

Reflection, contemplation
Caught in the midst
Of self-degradation.
Alone, miserable,
Painfully sober:
Searching for something lost.

Here we are again
Incessant bludgeoning
of the mind and soul
Here it is again
this crushing, paralyzing pain
from which there is no escape

Take in a long deep breath
to clear your heavily-laden mind
But it doesn't seem to work.
It doesn't.
Nevermind.

You continue to think,
to rationalize,
to rot, to decay,
To become something less
of what you were,
Until you taste, once again,
that bittersweet liquid fire.

It burns the throat
and drowns the cacophony of voices
in this temporary relief
You seek refuge.

You hang on to this mirage
this oasis where nothing seems to exist
nothing but the numbness
nothing but the muffled sound
of your cries for sanity.

You think too much
and you wish
for the impossible

Your dreams
come at you
like a bludgeoning

It is time to wake up

It is time to face up

It is time to realise

You must realise
that it hurts
to think the way
you do

You must realise
that repercussions
happen to those
that take action

One day
you will find
that the best days
of your life
are the ones
with regret.

The room is blue-bright
Like a lie or the cheap plastic of a child's cup.
The moon moves so slowly that you are confused.
The ring that you bought to replace his somehow
Shines more strongly in the sodium light.
It excites you, and that makes you ill.
You want nothing more
Than to want to waste away at his absence,
To feel betrayed that you are never enough
And so after years of bludgeoning him,
Passionlessly tracing those grooves of betrayal with memories of indignance
You decide to kick the habit.
The mind wants to reject change
But you have begun carrying exact amounts.
He won't understand, but you don't either.
All you know is that his absence is rightness.
You close the blinds and smile, alone.

Duskland
Day's portending glow
divided by the room we're in
                           verted, lit from below
our shadows cast on ceilings loom
disfigured by the self-consuming gloom
of doom we ourselves evoked
in youth
Tooth for a tooth,
In short: revenge: the word we never spoke
As the hammer fell on his existence
Bludgeoning his dull, swollen resistance
Toward a ****** stillness
That, we hoped, would equal calm
But instead has led us
to the
Duskland

You are a decrepit home
and I am a crowbar,
familiarizing myself with your insides.
I am not rusting from the waterbed,
my skin is not tarnished.

I am strong and bludgeoning the windows,
there's blood, beneath your gums
as I swing, knock out your teeth-
this time,
I am inside of you.

Your knuckles fail,
with the first blow;
broken, unable to push down
the folds of my underwear.
I plant a bruise like a kiss
on your right cheek, erupting
into a display of consequences
for your actions.

In my dreams, I scream
your name. Under the surface, I am your messiah
with the sunrise of bruises tracing my broken rib.
I am your adam, using my pain to create
strength.

Remnants of the scars

Stronger than steel
And sharper than the saber it had formed.
Explosive , nearly deadly , and debated.
Leaving Scars....
Scars etched under the skin and lasting beyond forever.
Weapons ?
Stabbing , striking , bludgeoning , no age restriction on this arsenal.
Concealed ?
No need , I'm sure everyone has one.
The remnant mar itself,  
more painful than the wound it came from.
The genesis of all aggression
An instant to apply , and a lifetime to master.
If not handled cautiously
If let slip
Such a cherished understanding of everything that is meaningful can disintegrate.
A paradox ,
A tiny wound ?
A gaping blow ?
For do we ever really comprehend the force of our words ?, the pain they can induce? and the internal scars that may never subside ?
Some of the most grievous scars , are the ones we can't even see !
The deadliest weapon ever known
Utterances of the tongue
Words
And the remnants of the scars!

even love, a faded meaning
the uneven skill; bludgeoning the compass
a longing, a thirst for fortress in the prodigal past
always seems to swim so shallow

an even meaning when roses die
a shadow walking ground, a skeleton in the earth
leaning on its symbiotic ecstasy;
frail and ephemeral dipped in a sea of ash  

when paradise keel's over in sea
awake in this lucid dream
let loose of the pipe
lest you breath as love

a silent lips for astrologers, even a tombstone for gazers
blood streaming down the crown;
never to grow rose
love is the soil.

They want to tell you that the evil that I fall asleep begrudgingly with is the same that every single one like me is bludgeoning the innocent with,
I am not afraid to say it, I am not the victim,
I will stay awake for days until there's no more skin to pick from,
I'll sew shut the mouths of every infant to quiet every winter,
every mother will resent her womb, a fruitless wound within her
****** every father with these wide, arresting ****** eyes
and hips that move on their first ride enthusiastic like a child,
so certain in his mind with every ****** the ways that he'll betray her,
in a rabid fit of lust becomes a family annihilator

They want to tell you that the evil I resent that resides in me is the same as all the rest they deem as accidents
but it takes a heart of pure love and hatred to swim above the surface with a millstone round your neck

I am sorry,
but do not
bother comforting me.

I am crying right now
but you will not read
this poem for many weeks
after this sadness
has passed.

These are not tears
of self-pity.
The water works
are because it hurts
to see others get hurt.

This isn’t a woe is me
small set of verses
for people to see.
This is saltwater anguish
as I watch others suffering.
This is outrage
at the outright inhuman displays
that these authoritarians play
as they spray mace
in a little child’s face
while her mother is
looking the other way.

This is a tongue held so often
that my own words
can no longer soften
this brutal reality.

This is my shame,
cause I claim
to be a good person
but I am not out on the street
with other protesters
cutting my teeth
letting cops bludgeoning me
with their nightsticks.

Shaken with fear,
sabatons tarnished.
Metal singing a glowing sheen.
Shining sanguine red.
Imposing all who had seen.

Victor, we've fallen.
Parrying and glancing.
Terrible force riddled steel plate.
Morningstar chimes,
flung with hate.

Three held the ford,
gleaming silver cloaks.
Duality of mud,
brothers endured.
Morality seeps.

Hand and a half,
too heavy to bare.
Splintering buckler.
Oak; shred and tear.
Ripping and bludgeoning,
all shock and scare.

Metal meeting flesh,
sounded sirens became aired.
Spectacle turned glee.
Our banners, lastly reach.