"bulldozes" poems
Is is trust
or disrespect
that swerves
avoiding cats
but carelessly
bulldozes pigeons—
who make it out
just in time?
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
My lips are a battlefield
Chapped on the outside
They represent my inner demons
I cut through those lips of mine daily
When the stress makes it hard to focus
And my breath forgets to repeat itself
When the vindictiveness of my own words
Sews the bruises, and my stomach
Rests as it feeds on the blood my mouth is filled with
I know, vampires are usually beautiful people
But my lips always clash
They always tell the people who see me
"That girl, she's got something dark on the inside
She fuels herself with her brain's own chatter
And her teeth dig her grave inside those lips."
It's a cancer that spreads to the inside of my cheeks
My fingernails, my knuckles, the seams in my shirts
It doesn't just flutter through, it bulldozes
It's something hard and loud that makes you regret you ate that morning
That metallic taste will rot your soul
And turn your lips into a soulless brawl
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
I am a fool for you
and my heart
has no inclination
to follow the rules,
it just bulldozes forward
toward you
leaves me spinning
in its trail and
spitting up dust.
Like a moth to flame
your magnetic being
pulls me closer
than I trust myself to be.
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC