"bunkers" poems
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac
it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin
indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
*how could the switch
be set so wrong?*
it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
*couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?*
the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
He filled his week bag
with quick picks from the commissary
cover blades and skull cap
canned goods and half stated pearl
liquor bills and bleeders
for the flight of weary
Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana and nurture sage
past the pomp and ceremony
out of robes and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas
Light infantry and yelling men
muscled and scorned
fly boys high in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape
Tarrant tabers and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands grease the mill trap
carnage makers mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack)
Trench helmets and metal back
under machine fire
minefields burn in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold despair
Slouch hats and burning rats
kerosene lamps and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken lines and limbs
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped and rolled pipe and beam
It was an all in end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the fokker pursuit
over rolling hills and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
off the brae corbie road
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
i’m so ******* weird
from the time i could talk
i could never get the language just right
since the first time i walked
been stumbling and awkwardly fumbling along
a slow learner is what they called me
in the back offices of the training institutions
the doctors and teachers didn’t know what to do
but my experience was as true as any without solutions
wish i could find the best words to remind me of you
keep your eye on the ball
or sing the tune to your own songs
you never get the balance right or wrong
life’s as short as it is twice as long
driving around in a teenage mind looking for something to prove
we would draw pictures in art class in high school
most of the kids would paint flowers or attempt portraits
i would draw intense war scenes prophesizing the end to come
with underground bunkers and a militarized fortress
to harbor the last remaining scraps of humanity and my sanity
i’m so weird
they called it an autism spectrum disorder
but i wonder if i’m actually possessed by a demon
a love demon dancing out on the border
between insanity and the truth and the divine
i’m so ******* weird
i especially am slow
stumbling and tumbling toward the light
always right, always wrong, i know
since the day that i was born i’ve always been a slow learner and a loon
originally posted on my blog at https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on January 8, 2015
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
For nine days the artillery barrage
rained down on us
that June of summer in the Somme
machine gunners like me waited
in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth
When the shelling stopped
we rushed to the surface
and began our job of mowing down
the slow walking British Infantry
stoically advancing as if in another war
in another time where they might choose
to die bravely and with honour
a hero fighting for his life
his king and country
But here he dies unknown
by the chance turning of my gun
in his direction at that one moment
and the random number of bullets
left to fire.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Another late-in-the-day
Same way
Such a shame
No sweat
Going sane
Don't fret
Never tame
Heat of the moment
Something potent
Brings me back
Nostalgic flack
Heavy with a boost of fullness
Coolness
Cutting to the bone
'Til the sun hath shone
A freighter of light
Crashing down to land
Superman, Superman!
The end is near
The end is here
The time to drive is over
The bunkers and the shelters all hung over
Heat brimming with its closeness
Waves of air swimming with its force
Light to blind
The fickle mind
That caved straight in the moment it was given time
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
survivalists in bunkers
w/ rations & guns stay
underground while up
above poets exploring
a strange, new land on
a bet, finding nothing;
searching for tampons
to barter for *** while
women's periods last
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
Your words are precision Bombs from slow junkers,
Exploding between my ears. there are no bunkers.
My response tumbles out stuttering like anti aircraft nests.
They hit smoke at best.
The alarms in my brain go off suppressed by tears discharged
Heart, Trust, Ego, Friends over the years the shards.......
Your armaments know where to hit and cause most damage,
The sarcasm of your arsenic love language.
Plumes of fiery emotion flare up, soon loves smoldering cracks .
I dodge your heat seeking adjectives, they encircle in packs.
Cold nights afloat clinging to this yellow deflated ego. falters
Awaiting hope in pirated waters.
Our love is war
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
It is simple, and yet sublime;
Incapturable.
You need not go in,
Take away the man, destabilising the economy
That you so love
Letting them die
You need not assassinate and collaborate,
Scheme and puncture
Spheres of influence that stretch and bubble
In Latin America and Southern Asia,
You need not sign secrets away
Safe and deep
In silos and bunkers
Where Armageddon sleeps.
You need not supply, buy and axchange
Implements of violence and rage,
Picking sides in civil war, tribal conlflict
And bigger,
In lands you do not understand
Lands where the mountains resonate with holiness,
Lands of spiritual awakening awaiting for the young;
Concepts you can’t grasp, that don’t sit well
You need leave them be.
Enough has been done,
Not always with bad intention
But rarely for the greater good
Enough has been said and bought and replaced
Captured, shot at, disgraced,
Caricatured into funny cartoons
Taken over, the masters’ role assumed.
For all the radars and sonar
It seems impossible to listen;
Simple, yet sublime.
Incapturable.
Irreplaceable.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
.
•••••••••••••
•••••••••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
communicate•such are her methods to make us see•
she tries to the mother we've abused to such
the way a state•the earth we've squand-
it is ered so very blindly•but we do
• not change our ways • instead
we devise our feeble solutions•
bunkers and alerts, in place we
lay•hoping these would halt her
spiteful vengeance•the past has sha-
red of what transpired before•our days carry
on without words of thanks•we could never learn
of what's in store•what ripple could grow to consume
our banks•
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
There was a man.
Lying face down,
In his ocean of rain-
A reclusion of self...
Sharp with shells
Piercing permeable
Sonnets--
Thistle to speech
Embedded paving's
Of lavender bunkers.
Exude this chalice
For my chandelier
Made tome-stone--
Cemeteries bequeath.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
A friend of mine was unemployed,
he didn’t know what to do.
So he went down to the Army office and
said “I want to join you”.
So they sent him off to war,
for something he didn’t know.
They put a gun in his hand and
said “shoot the ones across the road”.
So he squatted down in the mud,
with the **** the bullets, the bodies and the blood.
Trying to think of the ones he loved.
Trying to ignore all the death and the pain.
Then he saw the enemy come up to him.
He got his gun and went over to them.
He looked him straight in the eyes,
“That’s the first mistake”, the Officers replied.
For he saw a young man about his age,
he said “You’re the enemy, I must shoot you dead!”.
The man said “Why?” and stood there still.
My friend was silent and thought a lot.
His mind went crazy, he couldn’t shoot.
He couldn’t see why the war was on.
Why was he fighting? What’s to be won?
Why shoot a man the same as him?
So he put his gun on the ground,
and the enemy did the same.
Then the Officers went up to them,
and shot them both in the brain, and said
“They should have played the game”,
and went back from where they came,
to carry on the war,
like all those times before.
Safe in their bunkers,
with a gin and a straw!
Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I went into the pro shop
Paid my fees and turned to leave
The man behind the counter said
"you're new here...I believe"
I said I'd never played here
He said "there's things that you should know"
"I'll grab us both a coffee"
"Listen close...before you go"
"The first two holes are easy"
"nothing there gets in the way"
"no bunkers, and no water"
"just the way to start the day"
"It gets tougher on the third hole"
"There's some birds up in the trees"
"They buzz you while you're putting"
"Remember...birds on three"
"The fourth hole is a dog leg"
"It has a river on the right"
'Avoid the yellow caution tape"
"We had a drowning there last night"
I swallowed hard and stared back
"A drowning out on four"
"That's right" he said "don't worry"
"At least it's not the wild boar"
"The WILD BOAR?" I said aloud
He said "he's on five through seven"
"Don't worry much on those holes"
"He's been sighted on eleven"
"The eighth is fairy simple"
"A par three that you can reach"
"Water moccasins in the swamp"
"And lots of spiders in the beach"
"The greens are all receptive"
"They hold well, just come in high"
'But, land is short...there's quicksand"
"So...go in there...you die"
"you make the turn, and grab a dog"
"I give them out for free"
"The owner says it's wasteful"
"But, I say...just let it be"
"The tenth hole is a par five"
"It' one to reach in two"
"But if you put it out of bounds"
"I'd leave it...if I were you"
"you know about the wild boar"
"so eleven gets a pass"
"he's got some bite, that sumbitch"
"He might gore you in the ***
"Now twelve...is quite a pickle"
"I'll tell you watch out now.....not later"
"We have a situation there"
"It's fairway's full of gator"
"What the hell is that you say"
"There's a gator out there then"
"Today there is but somedays son"
"You can meet as much as ten"
"You must be mad" I yelled at him
"I'm leaving...I'll not play"
"on a course so full of danger"
"There's no way...just no way"
I asked him for a refund
he pointed up above his head
"no refunds, only rainchecks"
"and then only if you're dead"
I sacrificed my forty bucks
And left, out to my car
The pro just sat and smiled
"I've scared off thirty one so far"
I know I'll not return here
not with friends or by myself
not with spiders in the bunkers
Or gators on the twelfth.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
Painfully awake at two in the morning
Candy talks about space weapons
And their orbital, falling metal rods:
Terminal velocity, bunkers and deep ***********
The blood swells and my heart cranks
The warmth and wet of solid teeth on flesh
200 different words for ***
For a tribe of ***** Eskimos
With a treaty banning lack of such madness
No metal rods shall fall from the sky
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
when a goose steppin hoard o' mad men held no sway,
thick eyebrowed men plotted plans hunkered in bunkers,
But we could lick the likes of Adolf
-- any day
Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
when the Ayatollah lobbed fatwas at our ****
we could raise a middle digit - to the Eejit.
coz Rushdie was quite cusdie
-- what a farce.
Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
Al Qaeda n the cowards planted bombs.
bin laden poked the eye of big bald eagle
was it legal; when he brought it home
-- to moms.
Remember when bullets bounced off our chests???
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 8:29 AM UTC
We need to find a new space of revolution,
Beyond this place of pollution.
Democracy’s dying - the chambers of brick and bone can no longer hone the power effectively,
And besides, the mortars crumbling.
Grumbles echo between screens until the rumbles bubble then burst and tumble onto the streets,
but cries are few and weak.
The masses are meek.
‘To question the system is extreme’ media teams scream while they profit from the chaos and hide behind headlines.
The bourgeoisie sit comfortably as their bunkers are fortified,
Happy to capitalise on destruction and dramatise death.
Their crimes are discreet,
And steeped in deceit,
Yet they remain unburdened by the bodies that pile at their feet.
Why bother searching for answers when science is censored and senses are dulled?
They want us senseless,
Immune and desensitised to the countless lies and ecocide.
“Not our species, not our problem”
But it’s both and more.
Our streets,
Our future,
Our planet.
When will the lesson sink in?
When pollution is skin deep and soil bares only the spoils of war?
The climate crisis takes no prisoners, favours neither rich nor poor.
Your wealth can’t save you.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC
.
The Ancient of the Days,
can you see what he is wearing,
Cardinal shoes made of children’s skin
wrung out from the veins
Last drop of blood that remains
overflowing tankers
Come through the secret bunkers
Descend to the underground
To the cities of gold
The gardens in diamonds adorned
Hotels palatial
Death camps infernal
Where thousands of children abducted
Cry in the clutches of the devil
They will invite you to dine
Pour adrenalin into your wine
Baby roast on the menu
Bones burning in the fireplace just for you
They will forever be returning
Rejuvenated with blood, rejoicing
to walk among men in shoes of cardinal skin
Stepping over dead bees just the same
Compassion they’ll say is their name
Whilst from those cities underground
From their laboratories
Millions of bacteria and viruses
Are killing your world mercilessly
The poles and icebergs they are melting away
Torrents will bring you to dismay
Tsunami will crumble the cities to ruins
Earthquake will shatter graves and dreams
Everything you have they will turn to dust
Drought will ablaze crops to crust
Of hunger millions will die
Poisons are raining from the sky
To the bones of children cast thy eye
to the bottom of the sea where they lie
look inside the savage eyes,
yearning for demise
gleaming with innocence
of the fallen victims’ cries
The Ancient of the Days can you see
The Heavens are yearning for equity
Without the soul void is poetry
Let the world,
That endures the humiliation silently
Frightened of camps and lethality
- be free.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 7:21 AM UTC
Acorns keep coming loose from the tree outside and
I imagine they are being pelted at all the metal chairs on purpose
Like tiny bullets ricocheting off of bunkers, startling me awake
Oh yes, my friends
The squirrels are busy staging a happy little revolution
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Stasi shredded stripes
bags of systematic
bureaucratic
destruction
of memories &
moments in time
Bagged, gagged & tagged
in sylo’s
bunkers full
crammed with broken
histories
fragments of faces
letters
postcards from beyond
blue, yellow and green
in grey
Inhumane
cynical destruction
of hope
slivers of the disappeared
commandeered
processed
pushed
mechanically
through the sharp teeth
of a hungry system
The greatest reconstruction
Reconnection
Resurrection
Of a nation
Continues
Every weekend
As the many mend
the states’ excess
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC
They came out in force
Out of nowhere
Ravaged the hillside
Stripped bones bare
I left them poison presents
Embedded into flesh they consumed
They retreated back into their bunkers
Then died a horrible death
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
My sister said she felt as though she had been *****
although neither of us had been
and yet both of us were
We each manifested it in our own ways
and in the same ways
The PTSD so characteristic of crimes against
those of our kind
She steered the little blue vehicle
while I charted the course
I argued in favor of what we had become
Through our inner battles our need to have built nuclear bunkers
in our hearts
our fine tuned herd instincts and our prey-like reflexes
Stronger I said, Stronger women we have become
Eyes fixed on the road she seethed
"I am a freak in isolation (as a tea kettle she would have boiled over)
I reach out but cannot, do not, will not touch
do not have the knowledge
to kiss?
to kiss another's lips...
I flinch I shutter, turn away from and flee
The upper air not clear yet
my heart's bunker I do not leave
forced there, forced there by so many years of wear and tear
I Stay in my dragons keep"
as we on the road drive to the dragon lair
My sister steers
and I, baby sister,
in our noble steed of a powered blue;
I guide us there
- To my sister:
Know that this is just a snapshot in time, a photograph that we will later burn.
That we will soon move on and you my sister. You will always be my guiding Sun.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
There’s this 4th grader brushing his teeth
slowly on the living room couch confused
contemplating the consequences of mom
turning on the TV to talking heads spinning
anxious talking points while shock rage revenge
unilateral retaliation is considered in executive bunkers
and everyone else watches desperate people leap out windows
through airwaves broadcasting what we couldn’t comprehend
looping those heavenly bodies those two burning buildings
still falling still burning before school starts:
“Does this mean I get to stay home?”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
you stopped visiting the ocean after your brother died
so we drove inland, instead, that day
and found the pit of old bunkers
left to decay
from a more actively
apocalyptic age
and, inside, the
eschewal vision of
tinned food,
concrete pillars,
liquid flesh
warm comfort in disintegration,
emerald concavities that lace the sky
we considered stealing some **** but just drove on back instead,
leave history to history
if you stack the boxes, there will be more space, you-
yeah, just like that.
the chairs have no back, sorry, so you'll have to be careful.
sorry, i just have to deal with,
yeah, the drain pipes broke again,
it now decants into the living room, all
dammed up with paper mache and static
so uh
make yourself some tea if you have to
-ah, no, sorry, i didn't mean to be curt
it's just,
there's no time
but stay, anyway, please
it gets lonely at night
all boarded windows and
old casements
till in the end you're just
embracing a
damp ****** guilt
just to pass the time
with a forgiveness complex
do you think you'd do it?
they make you wear their shirt, and take a photo,
but they give a free ice-cream at the end.
i mean, it doesn't cost you anything,
nothing palpable, anyway
remember that time we drove inland?
and found that petrified forest,
buried in basalt and pumice?
we walked among treetops, near the old crater lake
and
skipped stones
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC