"brock" poems
Another win, another celebration.
Fifteen world championships
That’s inspiration.
But are you ready? For the beast?
Because rumors are swirling
That he’s been released.
Four men are the least of your worries,
Because you’re about to be interrupted
On this golden journey.
You've defeated him once before,
But he is no longer weak.
As he is much stronger
Since he defeated the deadman's streak.
Now he’s coming for you,
And your championship.
It’s not so much another run,
But for the pain he loves to inflict.
So forget Mr. Money in the Bank,
And the four other gladiators.
Enjoy your title run now, Cena.
Because Brock Lesnar is an annihilator
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
With Lackey and Heyward both turning blue
The Chicago Cubs scored a mighty big coup
Kind of a payback for Brock, comma Lou?
What, oh what are the Cardinals to do?
We’re pretty sad, say the fans dressed in red,
That both of those guys chose Chicago instead
But a person would have to be daft in the head
To give up the St. Louis Cardinals for dead.
Yes, the Cubbies think that they have enough
But the whole NL Central is pretty **** tough,
Which team do you think will have the right stuff?
To win in September, when winning gets rough?
2016 will be pretty fun.
There’s quite a Division race to be run
When game 162 is finished and done
We will see which team, the most games, has won.
Yes, next year the race will be closely contended
During the season you might have me un-friended
But in winter time, our rivalry suspended
We can cheer for the Bears till their season is ended.
Phil Lindsey 12/12/15
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
TEAM INSTINCT!"
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:
"THERE IS NO SHELTER FROM THE STORM!"
My knowledge of him consists of three things.
1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.
2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive
3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.
"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."
On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."
Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.
When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
"Dude.
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."
I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."
"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"
He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.
"There is"
"no shelter"
"From"
"the storm"
"In my heart."
We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
Up to the North
Down to the South
Keep the ships feeding
The big Mersey's mouth
14 big docks
And 19 big stops
Dad's got big hands
He works at the 'Brock'
He's seen Alexandra
And Nelson too
He passes the Princes
On the way to the 'Loo
Jump off at the Sandon
For a bevvy with Joe
Saturday's half day
To the match he will go
The merchants at Toxteth
Are rubbing their hands
There's money in shipping
And at Seaforth Sands
Jump off at Pier Head
If yer wearing a shirt
Stay on till Herculaneum
To get covered in dirt
The EMUs keeping rolling
From morning til night
Our dockers umbrella
What a beautiful sight
copyright/all rights reserved Joe Fogg 2011
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 3:13 PM UTC
Welcome to America, in 2016.
Where "all lives matter"
Except Syrian refugees
Where you can't even breathe
Without offending somebody.
Where parents are taken from their children,
Because of the color of their skin.
Where we normalize police brutality.
Where you can be a racist,
And still run for president.
Where injustice is served, with a side of GMOs.
Where the citizens of Flint have been without clean water for how long?
Who knows.
Our minds are diluted by capitalism and celebrities.
Where people will look at you crazy for saying,
"Save the bees"
Meanwhile they're out there, planning WWIII.
When you're told "your vote counts!"
But we're stuck with Trump & Hillary.
Where women on the red carpet are glamorous and sexualized,
But if you're ***** they'll ask,
"Well what were you wearing that night?"
A guy selling marijuana will serve his whole life.
Whereas Brock Turner was released in what felt like overnight.
Where white privilege has never been more real.
And our generation is learning that
"You're weak if you feel."
People being told we have nothing to fear,
Meanwhile the media is controlling what we hear.
People fighting for clean water, as if that wasn't our God-given right.
Our women are afraid to walk home alone at night.
You can work 40 hours a week, and still not make enough to live.
But if you ask for government assistance, you're a "lazy son of a *****
When in reality, it's just enough to feed your kids.
The Elite have created this illusion of seperation.
They have torn us apart as a world, and as a nation.
The color of our skin doesn't make us any different.
I promise you can love someone who practices a clashing religion.
Underneath it all, we're all the same.
All this person on person violence just makes us pawns in their game.
We should be coming together as humans, who have lost their humanity.
Maybe this all makes my "liberal."
But in all honesty, the current state of the world has me questioning my sanity.
Love thy neighbor, respect their spirit.
Or we won't be around much longer to experience it.
Welcome to America in 2017.
We forgot how to love one another so we were wiped out, mercilessly.
If only we had come together before we tore ourselves apart.
If we remember who we are,
We can be our own light in the dark.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
God, I hate 3am!
You make me late for work and grind my mind into bite sized peanut butter cups.
My thoughts are not a drill,
but they ***** me like Debbie did Dallas.
*really? You're doing ****
references now? *
**** off!
YES, I said **** in a poem!
*who are you talking to? *
YOUR MOTHER!!!
always voices at 3am!
Voices like shadows barely perceived on the edge of your ear.
*you can't hear shadows *
No one ******* ASKED YOU!
Sleep is a midnight UFO hovering behind an old farmhouse.
You may have seen something... once, but you can't prove it really exists.
Not at 3am when shadows walk like peeping Toms passed your window.
Not at 3am when your eyes are shot and your skull tingles like peppermint body wash on a squeaky clean ********
What the **** am I saying?
I don't even know anymore.
©Nathan A. Brock 2022
Oct 6, 2022
Oct 6, 2022 at 6:00 AM UTC
OK. Today may be dull. It happens. Sure.
But tomorrow remains rife with possibilities.
Podcasts of Trump on on the value of modesty.
Street fights in several extinct languages.
Hillary wins at Detroit poetry slam.
Jihadists explode poodles in crosswalks.
Island countries wave & grin as they sink.
***** flicks found starring Merkel and Putin.
A sane, reasonable presidential election.
Angry cats with opposable thumbs rebel.
Men & women speaking & understanding each other.
Brock Turner announces *** change operation.
God announces: No More Mulligans!
Gender wars conclude. Everyone’s dead.
Debut of lost Bach Partita for Electric Kazoo.
New, hip-hop production of Treblinka: The Musical.
Shakespeare cloned. Buys poetry anthology. Dies.
End-up, instead of start-up, launches in Palo Alto.
Smart phones install apps with annoying ads on users.
Common sense becomes common again.
Victimless rhymes decriminalized.
This is America! Never two dull days.
Take Heart! Tomorrow, there be Wonders…
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
Bob Marley says when music hits you you feel no pain
But when I feel music I can feel the pain of so many suffering artists
I can feel the pain of Nas, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli.
I can feel the pain of Isaac Brock.
I can feel the pain I feel inside of me
Music is my independence, or one of its many manifestations
The universe has no limits when I am being blanketed by the warmth of music
And to me this is the greatest form of independence
I can experience myself through someone else’s experiences
That to me is interconnectedness
So how can I be interconnected yet independent?
How can I feel the warmth of music while at the same time it chills my bones?
Music is like life full of contradictions, but without them would cease to exist
Music is like life so personal, but shared by all peoples
Music is like life it takes courage to listen to your own as well as other voices
Music is life because for so many that is all there is left to live for.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
May my ignorance blind me.
For I'm a product of the 90's,
Instead of being like Jesus,
we all wanted to be like Mike.
Is that facetious?
Or sound just about right?
Right...? No Left,
Child Act Behind...
they say my dyslexia forever disrupts mind...
my...mind...
He yells louder,
*"Why am I wasting my time
with you Brock?
You don't want to learn,
God ******
Quit staring at the clock!
Now go on read the sentence
and annunciate on that last word,
don't overestimate the time,
It is not going to move any faster..."*
There I sat boiling, as he wagged his finger in my face as he stood behind,
tempting me to call upon my intrepid Power Ranger besieged mind.
I would cut his head off with a swoosh of my sword,
sparks go flying and down goes Zedd-Lord.
*"God ****** Brock it's Lord-Zedd!"* , I shouted in my own head.
So, in my imagination;
I still cannot properly read.
Where will this get me?
No where fast...
I work continually, properly, systematically, honestly, legitimately, every way I can to learn every word I want to know.
That's where I want to Go.
Like I said, I'm a product of the 90's.
A whole generation discovered off the product of:
I find me.
Instead of having the powers given to us, we worked for them.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
May my knowledge open eyes.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
I can smell it now. The smell of thick dripping sap -
bitter ****** dirt that rots at the corners of humanity
at our fingertips,
in our news headlines...
The smell of **** stifling the air, like the stench of death -
like burning pine needles -
It pervades, and never moves with the wind,
Heavy in the clouds, soot on our faces and inside our lungs
Don't inhale.
A piece of paper is nothing when it rots away in the dirt in an alley
It's words crumble and disappear in days
A letter does nothing when thrown at the wind
A letter does not begin to explain the complete destruction of a somebody,
The evisceration of a person.
The silent decay of someone's body -
Words can't explain the slow, bleeding out of America.
Hemorrhage is swept away from the streets but if you look in the gutters
In the corners, behind the bins you'll find gore,
guts, viscera that rots away and feeds the dirt.
It will only end when we hunt it down,
dig it out, scrape it out from underneath our skin like cancer -
Burn out anguish and pestilence and scorch the earth
these men walk on
Is that the cure?
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
She had to reach inside herself
and pull out pine needles. They stuck to
her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed,
trailing up. The lights in a police station
post-rape are jarring.
She looked through slitted eyes
and faced a dumpster staring back,
her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood.
The cool infinity of last night loops
into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever,
a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches.
When the story stretched wider than
the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters,
a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts:
“Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.”
No media could be bothered to discuss
the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered
to mention how helpless it is being
too drunk and resigned to walk,
naked,
body like a rag doll left rotting
with banana peels.
The world stepped over a ***** girl
to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster,
all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from.
She could still hear the music,
a steady beat in spite of it all,
ear pressed soundly into the pavement.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Excuse me sir,
Please enlighten me
Why is it that when I don’t find your **** joke funny
It means I have a ‘bad sense of humor’
But you don’t have a bad sense of morality?
Excuse me sir,
Please educate me
Why is it that when a white man ***** an unconscious woman,
He only got three months in jail?
Because he was ‘a good athlete’
Excuse me sir,
Please ask me
Why I need my feminism
I need feminism,
because ‘boys will be boys’ is being used to justify ****
Because if I decide I want to wear short shorts,
Or heels,
Or even red lipstick-
I am ‘asking for it’
Because if I am tipsy or unconscious,
I am ‘asking’ for you to take over my body
‘Asking’ you to violate me in the worst way you could
Because **** is being justified.
Boys will not ‘be boys’
Boys will be held accountable for their actions-
Just like everyone else
So Excuse me sir,
Don’t tell me **** jokes,
Don’t tell me how Brock is a good athlete,
Don’t tell me that I was asking for it,
Don’t tell me that I should ‘consider myself lucky’,
Or that I should have enjoyed it
Don’t **** shame me,
Don’t tell me it’s not a big deal,
Don’t belittle ****
It can happen to boys,
It can happen to girls,
And everyone in between
It can happen to you,
Or to someone you love
Excuse me sir,
Please
Don’t justify ****
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
To Brock Turner
Who they call "ex-swimmer"
"All-American"
"Former athlete"
Who I call ******
Assailant
Attacker.
I know they've made excuses for you
For your entire life
You're a daddy's boy, Brock
As he didn't think twenty minutes of action
Constitutes twenty years of punishment
But when the one you hunted wakes up
Choking on the memories you planted in her head
When she still feels the pine needles stabbing her neck
Even once they are gone
Will your father defend her?
You see, she doesn't have the luxury to get off for good behavior
In five, or ten, or twenty years
Or in your case, six months
No jury decides her fate
You already did that, Brock
And I'm sure she was not the only one
Who else's life sentence was issued by you?
How many other women were ripped from their bodies
By your hungry hands and shredding teeth?
When I get angry that you
And my own attacker
Had excuses handed to you like face cards
Because you both were young
Because you were smarter than this
Because you made a mistake
Because your future is more important than mine
I am told to stop being an angry feminist *****
Stop burning my bra and burning bridges
With men who might actually want me close.
I, the angry feminist ***** push people away
Because
I , the angry feminist *****
am tired of men going to feminist rallies and making **** jokes in the same 24 hours
am tired of men who I've known for years trapping me in a stairwell because I will be their next piece of prey
am tired of men who are the face of male feminism treating women like clothing they can throw away when they get bored
With that,
I am reminded that it is a man's world
and I am no more than a passerby
My outrage cannot change how someone feels about my experience
about their experience
about her experience
My outrage will not cause people to hate you, Brock
My outrage can ignite a spark in someone
who is already ****** off
My outrage can inspire someone to use their voice
and another
and another
and another
My outrage can become another voice in a sea of fire that consumes the system which allows
you, Brock,
to mean more than your victim.
My outrage is bursting
and it does not end here.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
In God we Trust
Don’t make me sick
I will not fall
For that cunning trick
I have an advantage
My mind is free
To search
To explore
This sham fallacy
JC is a fake
There to control
Suppress all your needs
If you enter his fold
But ..
You don’t fool me
With your pious act
Whiter then white
Whilst you’re flat on your back
Flat on your back
With the ***** down the road
Or the hiding the sausage
Before you explode
I cannot abide
This man in a frock
Who preaches the word
Like a babbling brock
So …
**** your ********
**** your lies
**** your hate
And all that underlies
For I am
THE SHEPHERD
And …
I walk alone
I am a my own person
Not anyone’s
CLONE
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 1:04 AM UTC
I don’t exist
outside the lines
on this page.
The physical has never
been my reality.
We have only circled
each other..
mutually unnoticed..
mutually indifferent..
My world is bigger
than this earth.
Yet… so small.
© Nathan A. Brock
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 5:43 PM UTC
This happened to Malcolm
My sister Hadley hosed green stuff off the ***
When she squirted my ear I ****** the neck rope. Her skin was hurt so
The horse folded back her lips and bit my thigh with brown yellow teeth.
I was thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom.
I felt ***** as a smug prayer for running. Mom said,
“Come back out. Don’t get left behind.” My dad had run away.
I splashed my face cold and put on my jeans. I hustled out. Not for my mother.
Scottie was a Brock University girl from PEI who cut and doctored hooves and skin
And shod horses and filed their teeth. You could smell teeth filings and Stockholm tar
And when I went back to the head she held my face
A long time in her hands and said I knew you were a straight arrow.
That might have scared my mom.
That was the first time I ever did it with anyone.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Caution, please, to the Next Adventure repressed
South from the Spangles to have your Bow healed
As Cross-Marked you are from this Faith depressed
Sweep Slathered Leys your Locked Ego concealed
Twice-good-thanks-Merry Five Placards perform
Each with their Tassels a-wait Colours pull
So Train you're wont; Keep those Stances reform
And tie those Charibels sate your Guts full
A Category indeed strips by the Bell
Where Two Sworn Sisters pad your Forces spock
Energise now! Let all Seasons be well
Then Drink-cool-be-Merry lift by the Brock.
There are those who sell Substances beware
The Dark Man's Game knows your Tempting Guns there.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
You were just the guy I would love to have a cigarette with outside.
I looked up to you in a way, listening to your lyrics and trying to tie myself in which I never knew I could.
To sit on a park bench and listen to you ramble on about nothing was good enough for me.
I wouldn’t bombard you with questions or ask for personal opinions.
****
We could just talk about the cold weather for all I cared.
Its hearin’ your voice in person, and meeting the man behind the voice is all I wanted.
I’d even buy you a pack of stogues if you wanted.
Heh,
But I know that will never happen.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC