"cartridge" poems
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY
The morning found
only blood & feathers.
The fox leaving
only Death
& its presence
& the gossip of the frightened chickens.
My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue
(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .
An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock
crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ”
My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.
“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”
I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a chicken! ”
* * *
All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox
who was clever enough
not to turn up
until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature
she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight
as both it & the fox(shot through the head)
fell dead
at my uncle’s muddied boot.
My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.
His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:
“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”
The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.
I whimpered:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a fox! ”
The countryside
brutal & Biblical
demanding
a life for a life
Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.
Priest-like...
I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.
My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.
That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck
(the chicken’s name was Patricia)
& I declined the clean
white breast
still haunted
by the chicken & the fox’s
death.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
Tapping and clicking,
A and B,
Select and Start,
Wasting my thumbs away.
Reacting with speed,
or with mindful strategy.
Point A to point B,
or aimless wandering.
Slam in the cartridge
and boot up the game.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
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Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
I scribble on a scrap of paper while
she goes to buy a cartridge for the printer.
It’s five o’clock and Wednesday and mid-winter:
I should’ve stayed at home—I’ve got a pile
of work to do and this is wasting time.
Obama’s on the radio again
with promises on gun-related crime
and fighting poverty that hidden men
in long dark rooms will never let him honour.
A woman in white boots. Behind her, on a
bicycle, an old man, very slow.
She doesn’t look it, but somehow I know
she’s pregnant and they have no place to go.
I switch channels. It's an old song by Madonna.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
life is an irony,
A place where non-living things tends
To live longer than the living
Life's too short
The dust beneath your feet today
Might be your roof tomorrow!
Life is a battle field
The survival of the fitest
Then palm wine for the victors
Seven virgins should be waiting,
My soul groans to give in
Am a wounded worrior,
And my cartridge is empty of bullets!
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Ive watched you weap
Bemoan in subtlety, without reason
Attempt to give light on an obsidian subject
Ive seen you bicker and cross swords
A struggle felt for miles
Have our confrontations meant nothing to you
Does venom foreshadow death
Ive seen you pass away
Day by day, its all the same
But am I the mad one?
Questioned by clans
When all I see is taunt discourse as if we're docking on long suppressed dreams
If it had been somewhere else, we'd hide a fixed eye to the occasion
Load the cartridge
Pull the trigger
Ignite cannons
**** the innocence
Have we lost our minds
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
In my short time I've realized
That there is so much more to life
Than getting older
And getting mine
This is my ready, set, let go attempt
At finding who I am
And I'll be brief
So listen closely
I've learned not to talk through movies
When I still don't know the lines
I've learned who not to ask advice from
When I can't make up my mind
When times get tough I've learned
That breathing is the best thing I can do
And I've learned letting go of friends
Is something I won't get used to
I've learned a fair amount about the world
Of women and of love
I've learned that money doesn't always mean
Deserving one or both of the above
I've learned it's hard to be alone when you're alive
But somehow I have learned that we won't be alone
When we all reach the other side
Something in my heart is telling me I've learned to love
Oh, I've become
I know my learning isn't done
But oh, I'm afraid I will never quite understand
The way I wish I could know
Everything I would ever need just in case
I ever lose my way
I've learned not to lie to people
Who know me better than my words
And I've believed I've learned to filter out
The voices in my head (But I'm still not sure)
I've learned failure's not an option
It's frowned upon and rude
And giving up before the bell
Is something I've learned not to do
I've learned how to keep my head
Above the water line in desperate times
I've learned to swim when someone lonely
Ties an anchor to my leg in spite
I've learned to fight
The difference between wrong and right
How to sleep at night
You know I still don't have that cartridge
But I'm learning how to live in black and white
But oh, I'm afraid I will never quite understand
The way I wish I could know
Everything I would ever need just in case
I ever lose my way
Golden
We are golden because we're alive
We are nothing without our goodbyes
Illuminate our own way from inside
We shine so bright, we shine so bright
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Two weeks ago, on a day that I'm making up for this story,
I was in the city.
I don't prefer the city, because you can't see the stars.
They are being snubbed out by streetlights
and to me it makes everything seem uglier, without the stars.
Anyway, I was sitting on a ***** riverbank.
It wasn't actually dirt though, because people in cities
have forgotten
what dirt smells like
and tastes like
and feels like between their toes.
It was the city kind of *****
spent condoms and cartridge rounds
syringe needles and bags of brown
scraps of metal and wrappers of plastic
gooey globs of gum and broken glass bottles.
I won't lie, I had a glass bottle to call my own,
about half full of the Good Stuff
and I was feeling mighty fine about killing it alone.
When I looked skyward and off to the right,
I noticed a city bridge, what with its' running lights
and dangling cables and roaring traffic,
it was standing in stark contrast to the
quiet county bridges of my home.
At this point, and it may have been the *****
but I could've sworn I could see someone
on the bridge
clinging to a tether
swaying in the swift city breeze.
I had only just convinced myself
otherwise, that it would actually turn out to be
a bag of fast-food garbage hastily tossed out
by a careless city-dweller,
that the man let go
and
he
fell.
he flailed his arms and failed
to gain traction
and kicked his legs but
they abandoned him in midair
and
he
fell.
I was close enough, and listened
and I heard him go
splat
against
cold water.
I was jealous of his bravery.
I envied his resolve.
I admired him.
I lusted after his finality.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
Light steps sound from the basement stairs.
A case of home brewed liquor in his father’s hands.
Bizarre, cancerous bulges from cap to bottom.
Plastic explosives from corrosive neglect from stow-away rooms
in white neighborhoods.
His father with a bronze idea, all of them with a destructive mind
A twenty-two saloon rifle bottled up too,
like a maniac gone off his reds and blues,
ready to fire out
with remorseless recoil.
High octane, high explosive, high art.
Cartridge clicks into the chamber.
Son like father, his aim is true.
Like twelve year olds with cherry bombs
we blast a hole right through.
******* boom! Rancid swill rain
staining the biting bright snow
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
"My head's a whirlwind" you said.
And I was at the centre.
Blown apart by gale forces, we were,
Without escape, rendered
Crippled. We had to be
Euthanised, so you say.
Whatever happened to
A brand new page
To the chronicles of us?
There was no ink
That blotched this page.
Who was to think
A whole pen cartridge would snap
And spill tar black paint
On this clean white page?
And then you hesitate
To wipe away the river
On the paper, and streaming
Down, from your eyes,
Tinged like the ink, screaming
At me, no words being spoken.
Your salty cheeks
Were never neat. But the eye
Of the storm, is a quiet place to be.
It wasn't the decision that hurt.
It was the reaction of inaction.
And the now set in feeling
That I was never more than a distraction.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
the moon looks a lot like porcelain tonight
but not in a superfluously verbose kind of way--
more of a telekinetic fragility kind of way.
where the plaid shirt hanging on that semi-open closet
across the room faintly resembles
a picnic blanket that belonged
to a midsummer day sometime in March--
some memories as such now only belongs
in a film cartridge//
or on post-emptied bottles of Prosecco on your nightstand.
I now understand--
why hurricanes are named after people
but to make people--
fleeting, paper people--
your universe
is to trail further and further away from land.
we're too inlove with chances;
too fixated in the idea of emancipating the uncertainty from the "maybe".
lie your flimsy bones on your pillow-invaded sheets darling
and call it a lifeboat.
it's a fragile night
and so are you.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
Folded into this numb-husk of unknowing,
undeveloped eyes, wrapped by distressed skin,
continue to peer, unseeing, accustomed
as they now are, to a feed of distant
Telegenically Dead. These short lives have been
socially shared and mocked,
as morgues overflow to floor;
impromptu fans recirculating mournings hot air.
There is little chance for grief on Day 13;
rage has to be spent like a brass cartridge
or slung stone, or drowned in red pools
mixed with the water of collective driblets.
Meanwhile a politician says something else.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.
The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.
'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.
Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.
Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.
An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.
The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.
The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
deeper
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock
Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
so i did.
i bit down the shaft,
as if it was my morning whiskey,
feeling the way the cartridge gave up under my teeth.
Every time my back ached,
i pressed down harder.
The bullet became my Achilles heel.
My life —> the arrow.
Until one day i felt the gunpowder on my tongue,
it made my mouth crackled and my tongue sour.
"Shhhhh," it said.
Calm and reassuring.
Bite the bullet they said,
I bit until i felt my molars grinding,
and my tongue blackened.
‘Til the bang marked the end.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
I am smoke from a discarded cigarette.
I am a dogeared page in an obscure novel.
I am rain on the ocean.
I want to be a sunbeam dancing in a glass of pink lemonade.
I want to be a tall pine's love whisper to the silvery moon.
I want to be a baby's first smile.
I am the dark side of the moon.
I am a blank cartridge.
I am a penny on a train track, waiting.
I want to be yeast bread rising in a warm place.
I want to be newly poured concrete growing firm.
I want to be a toddler's prayer.
I am a schoolyard after recess.
I am a Saturday matinee.
I am mist dying in the mourning sun.
***
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
Madeline had visions of you falling down the stairs this afternoon. She was sipping her coffee and reading a scrap of paper that had materialized on her table from some article about a meteor somewhere and it hit her like a ton of feathers or a ton of bricks.
Doesn't really matter which.
She gasped back into the present and fell out of her chair spilling the tar-black grog she had been pawing at to the oaken hardwood and sat staring at her hands there for a minute or more.
They were pink against the tan-ish floor.
Pushing against it she regained her footing and reached for the home phone her friends chided her for owning and called me crying you won't believe what I just saw I can't believe what I just saw I think we need to call her do you think she's alright?
I had just gotten off my flight.
I don't know I said I don't know who you mean where are you are you alright I just got back into town I was going to grab my bags and catch a taxi do you need me to pick you up
She finally noticed the fallen cup.
Catching her breath he slowed her pace and started to stammer how she didn't know it didn't matter never mind I need to go and make a call I'll let you know when I get out.
I still had no idea what she was talking about.
She hung up the phone and placed another call after a half hour no six hours no six weeks of ringing someone picked up the line she had dialed and she wept and laughed and asked if everything was okay and if she needed to go and if so how far she was a primed cartridge in a loaded gun
Everything was silent and the room spun
A voice replied something inaudible and Madeline laughed and cried not cried and laughed and wondered how she could have been so rash to believe a daydream like this
She rose and gathered all her bits
And together they walked her down the hall from her sun room to the kitchen down the stairwell-
And she fell.
And for two point five one two three seconds everything stood still but her and the world stopped turning she couldn't hear her own gasp or whether she screamed or laughed or cried she just hung in the balance she hung from gods fingers she hung above a pool of sharks and a pit of lava and everything she had never done she fell far and fast and hit the ground
An no one knows whether that made a sound.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Alive, alive—I own several masks
to hide what is dead inside.
I keep it hidden
in the heart of the dark
where nothing but fake bravado lurks
and I am a prisoner confined
in my own ribcage.
Surviving on consuming myself from within
eating my guts to have 'more of it',
a massacre of glory and gore.
My blood glows and hardens
when i hear my name being screamed
and with their words
I stab myself repeatedly
and plant in myself the seed of remorse
until I bleed a garden of crimson blossoms
to which I proudly smile at.
I forgive and forgive others
but never bothered to erase my mistakes
with my soul penned in this writer's curse
continuing to write in permanent ink
pouring from the fragile glass cartridge of a heart.
I smother myself to sleep paradise
and wake up beautifully paralyzed
adorned with their disapproving stares
that look down on me.
An endless cycle of unraveling,
even when there is nothing left
to pull out and shred to pieces.
Unlike the trees in the seasons
unraveling themselves bare
when their leaves die and resurrect.
This tone of farewell sings
salutations to the perfect
as i see the skies above turn glassy as my eyes.
It's hard to keep an image
of yourself to please everyone
and even yourself.
I lost parts of my masks
when I let other people wear them
for them to see how it's like to live so cautiously.
Too many a crowd has used the masks
and they are slowly being shattered under pressure,
turning into a mirror,
a reflection of inside
—no, i must be careful with them all.
I almost freely gave one blue mask,
my heart and my entirety,
to someone who did not collect masks
but collects sadness.
Neither of us must not fall prey to the other
and I will do what it takes to chain
the kaleidoscope of beasts pulsating in me
to protect that person called my salvation.
I conclude:
I must not let anyone wear my masks anymore
to avoid hurting them
from the shards of the broken me.
I wear my masks quietly
a different one each day
that no one would notice me.
Only I hope they will never forget
I, who owns these masks—alive,
to hide what is dead inside.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Sniffing magic from a Pokemon cartridge can be so fun
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
The barrel’s of water in the yard
filled by run-off rain
from corrugated sheds
washes the wellingtons,
the calving jack and
purges pests.
Otherwise, I’d have to waste
a cartridge.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
I've been sitting here so long i cant tell the difference between ribcages and coffee tables.
And the blood vessels in my eyes are starting to look like my family tree.
Made friends with my shadow that only comes out in the night time and with the dusty books I'll never read because I can't invest myself in things that have a certain end.
I can't let things end because that means the ones who got away have won. And even my shadow has now left me too. My hands turn calloused trying to hold on to ink cartridge people who have run out of time.
Our hands intertwine as if we were a clock, always on the same hour but never on the same page.
Of these books I can never read.
I swallow everything including my pride.
How long have you been afraid?
And why can you read palms of strangers you can't let go but you can't read those god **** books in your closet?
And why can you clean out your junk drawer but you can't wake up with clear conscious?
Why are you blowing your whistle when your lovers have already died?
Your childhood isn't slipping away stop clenching your fists.
Where does lucid dreaming really take you when you can't see straight?
Why won't you stop shaking?
You're afraid that these stories will rewrite your own because you could never get it right the first time around.
If they could get it right your skin wouldn't be stained with regret and emotion
Who's scratching at the walls?
Who's crawling in the attic?
Who's scratching at the surface of this panic?
Who the **** is knocking on your front door and why can't you let anyone in even when you send them an invitation?
Step right up
Guess my fate
Why does it even matter what those books have to say?
And why could I never give myself a break?
Hiding under my covers when my parents turned into earthquakes
Those stories don't matter
The only one that does
Was Christmas Day 2010
When everyone around me finally gave up.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
I shoot dead dogs
who savage my flock.
250 pellets rip open
**** this little kids pet.
Sometimes, I have to use
another cartridge
to finish what Fluffy started.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
this is bigger than the end result.
you found a way to hold the papers together:
a necessary tool, matte crimon, reliable by brand,
but what happened to those before?
have you forgotten?
small, ergonomic, stark white against teal--
designed to stand tall and upright on any smooth surface.
it seemed so promising, potentially the one that would
glue together the edges of paper neatly at a crisp corner.
then mishap.
a human error, as every error really is,
and the staples lodged themselves deep within a tiny cartridge, immobilized.
an enigma.
and it was on for the next source of solidarity and office supply strength
I keep them near, every failure, every disappointment, every almost was,
never will be
because when I am alone I am surrounded by family
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC