"casings" poems
I.
I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.
II.
You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.
III.
I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.
IV.
Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.
V.
I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.
VI.
Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.
VII.
I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.
VIII.
The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******** you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.
IX.
Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.
X.
Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.
Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.
They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.
But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.
I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 9:24 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
"We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance
We have come to be danced
not the jiffy ***** shake your ***** for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance
We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance
WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance
We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance
We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME"
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
the first time i felt like a woman
the ends of my fingers polished, lashes crusted to the sky, and sticky gloss that glued my mouth shut,
cotton bullets on strings in cardboard casings and demonstrations of crushed
flower petals—feminine virtue
defined by the presence of a *****
the first time i felt like a woman
fingers curling around the rubber fetus in
my pocket, nine year old hand
pressed to my nine year old womb, as
my classmate’s mother, donning culottes
and the armor of God, issued
Psalm 139 bookmarks to the class
the first time i felt like a woman
the stain of Life, wine dark and blooming
across my blue Fruit of the Loom’s
during fifth grade band class, at home
my mother demanding to know why i didn’t tell her of my first period, she asks if
i am a compulsive liar and leaves the
Wal-Mart bag in my room, unaware she
bought me the wrong bra size
the first time i felt like a woman
my first love said “I’m not putting it away until you touch it” and i hear his voice
when i check for ankle slashers
under my car before i climb in
the first time i felt like a woman
in tenth grade the chapel speaker’s mouth saying “the most precious thing a woman can give to a man is her body” to a room full of teenagers, i wonder if
my future husband sits among us,
and if he wonders what i look like naked
the first time i felt like a Woman,
my girlhood had to die.
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:27 PM UTC
This is not atrocity
This is the basement
This is the sea receding like lips to reveal tooth-like shells
Amongst the bullet casings and corpses felled leaving the boats
This is the sand like an inverted moat around the
Kingdom at sea, and this is the Remainder.
Yet they remain jubilantly-
Is this what being jubilant means?
Chamomile anklets adorning a hanged child.
This is not atrocity,
Ignorance wielding pitchforks and fire.
Anger alight and hostility riled
This is not atrocity.
This is not far from this reality;
Remember this child-
And the mob piled like tinder on themselves
Convincing carrion feeders
And unimpeded breeders that
Halt the march of science that
This is not atrocity.
The certain hot song by which Earth is greeted
Has an immediately recognizable tune.
And
This is not atrocity;
It sounds more like ****** ******
But I can't hear it
And I have no fear anymore
I open my eyes to another routine killing, and I know-
This is atrocity-
But a necessary one.
It's hardly enough to stay alive
And as I and we strive for
Money and coffee and love,
I and we let
atrocity
enter us.
Climb into us like a hand does a glove,
or a puppet.
It is not nature;
Nor fate;
And one needn't be dead
to appreciate the ability to open the senses
and actually sense.
And this,
I am certain,
Is not an atrocity
May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_______________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
Awakened in a strangers bed
by a breeze through a skylight
dusting traces of rained-on geraniums
and newly cut grass across my face.
My lips taste like salt-rimmed margaritas
when I lick them and the flames
from giant candles that danced
and flung our mad leaping shadows against the walls
the night before have all blazed out,
cried themselves into waxy puddles
overflowing into a stolen hotel ashtray
full of half-smoked cigarettes.
The comforter slides off,
silk whispering as it pools on the floor
and I am naked beneath,
hips dotted with tiny bruises from fingertips,
hairy belly still sticky with release
and I wonder what possessed me hours earlier
to so savage the worm,
that ridiculous prize
lying at the bottom of a tequila bottle.
I could die of thirst.
I spy our spent casings on the night table and remember.
Thrown clothes, then skin.
Reloading during the battle.
The hot breath of secrets over a white-flag pillow
when the cease-fire came.
Then no sounds at all.
Adrift in a shamble of blankets,
sleepy kisses till dawn.
I hear the shower turn off
and remorse sets in
making me wish hard for mints,
a better memory than this,
the removal from my chest
of that hive of angry bees
grieving a dead queen,
and God only knows who’ll walk
through the door so I brace myself.
Wrapped in sheets, I wait.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
All intellect is dissected
Through the tunnel visioned perspectives
Stretched thin
In a stream of feed
Producing the illusion of need
Projected from old men
Who grin
Below the suicidal idols
Of the rivals
And glutton in the maniacal sins
Commenced
By brain dead Americans
Painted in the amens of the dense
Commending the hymns
Of spent casings
Atop the blood of babies
And maybe
One day
It can be better
Than the clever endeavours
To sever the head of the predators
Washing our hands of their sedatives
And delivering the skulls to the slavers
But we are pay dirt
Shoveled into trucks to work
For a leafless tree
Ready and wanting to believe
In anything
That doesn't see our deeds
As we
Are manufactured with the greed
Of sleeved wisemen
With five of a kind
In the fight for life
Putting our souls
Upon our rites
We bet
Despite the path of right
Infringing on the height
Of success
In excess
Of the tests message
We are the blessing
Of a warning
Within a forgotten story
Historically denoting its anointing
We are the disappointment
Of the warrior
Defeated in a court
Of corrupted consorts
Sorting out the blueprints
For a new fort
Distorting the borders
Of moral disorders
With orders to ****
The hoarders of will
We are the shrill screech
Of a dying world
And we are alive
But dead
Born to ****
Batteries of a shield
Building hell
To sell heaven pills
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community
Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,
I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face
That place is reserved
In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe
and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.
If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?
I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and
erasing my body chemistry
I can see it
if that is it.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
There is an emptiness
inside me
consuming my peace.
we are.
abandoned shoes
in the middle of the sidewalk.
rusted metal
car casings,
ribs
where the washed clothes
dry.
painted graffiti
in a hidden place,
whispered secrets,
bottled letters
to the ocean's waves
we are the ocean
the ocean inside the seashell
discarded pencil shavings at the nearby starbucks.
Unsteady hands
coarse, rusty locks
we are.
the staring blank spaces,
the screaming questions,
the tired voices,
they who do not speak.
we are
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
Heroes, processed in baths of blood,emerge spotless,
Oaths lanced on battered helmets and dirt dusted fatigues, the Hand of God upon the lawless,
Never let the barrel lay its head to an enemy, the shell casings remain fixed and fearless,
One solitary act propels man to sacrifice, it is still, timeless,
Remember the mark is invisible, carried on fitted sheet flags, to us, faceless.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
A vehicle rumbled along a sorry excuse for a road,
A convoy trailing behind it
A soldier looked out his window
Watching the dust swirl up in clouds beneath the
Heavy vehicle's tires
He said nothing to his partner and they rode in silence
He, thinking of his perfect baby
Whom he had not yet gotten to feel the warmth of
In his arms
And his partner, he was sure
Had nothing but the image of his fiancée racing through his mind
She was all he ever talked about
They were close
As close as a pair of friends could possibly be
But rides were becoming increasingly more solemn
Unspoken yearning for home had become almost unbearable
These days the soldier missed home so much
And longed so badly for his wife's warm embrace
That he swore he could feel his heart aching
The solemn silence was broken as something caught the soldier's eye
"Stop!"
The convoy came to a halt
The soldier jumped from his vehicle
His boots making a hard thud on the ground below
He called to a group of Afghani children who had been
Collecting shell casings they would later exchange for food
In the middle of the convoy's path
The children looked up, alarmed
And scurried away
The rumble of the military vehicles again resounded
Through the desert
And the convoy continued on its way
Looking back
At the men in the strange uniforms
With the huge trucks,
A little Afghani girl
Caught a glimpse of the sunlight
Bouncing off of something
In the middle of the road
She rushed into the street to collect it
Thinking only of how pleased
Her mother would be
With all the money they would earn
From her painstaking hunt
The soldier saw the young girl
Dart into the path of the convoy
He shouted
And leapt from the vehicle
The girl looked up in terror
As she saw the big trucks
Getting closer
And closer
The soldier leapt into
The path
Of the oncoming sixteen-ton vehicle
Toppling the girl to the ground
As she sat up, out of the path of the convoy
Dusting her self off and
Trying to comprehend
What had just taken place
She looked into the road searching for her
Treasure
And saw it
Reflecting the desert sunlight
Just inches from the still form
Of the soldier
Who had just
Given her
His life
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
.As I sat here all alone,I thought about 'ol Al Capone.So I got some water to fill my gun--and I commenced to shooting everyone.The bullets dripped off of their faces and hair.Bullet casings were scattered-- everywhere.Oh, how silentthe sirens would wail,just like the waggingof a puppy dog's tail.I was shootin' from the streetfrom my safety zonefrom my long, black Lincoln--I was Al Capone.Somehow, somebody got a hold of my gun,and I'm tellin' ya, I ain't no fool.No copper is ever gonna take me alive--so I ran and I jumped in my pool..
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Wispy angel Children embedded with
Sparkling fibers of light
Danseuses blanched
Paper doll trails honeycomb drippings
Shedding casings
Hollow cast offs coiled gaunt carapace loom
Ominously floating in sea of shadows
Byproducts of incessant motion
growing thin
Fading away with the glow of dawning
until moon wakes from its perpetual sleep
Awash in an ocean of night
and luminous constellations of
Twilight gloaming
Elysium
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Meter lengths of pink satin ribbons in twenty different shades from fuchsia to dusty contort my organs temporarily back into place.
Tear my chest apart as I lie down with the open single blade of a pair of scissors, score me like a parcel.
Frayed inch lengths and 20 cm lengths and edges of ribbon scattered on the floor.
You slipped your hands down the back of my underwear, like it could be perfect for an evening.
Take the pieces apart neatly, unfold me like a lady geisha. My Chest is willingly emptied for you.
Do what you want with the casings that make up my lungs. I'll cut them into confetti pieces so you can spend them on someone else.
I want to feel the heat melt off the pool chemicals in your breath. Then let you use my bare wrists like towels.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Careening moonlight
You show me what I once
Thought was right
I drink now for the sake of mankind
The bullet casings reflect the
Sun as the wine in my cup
Sloshes from right to left and
My own life is not my own -
A price to pay for theft
I love you
You make me
The way I am
And I press my mind
To these keys
And realize everything and
Nothing in the end will
Be alright
In solitude
I pray to creation
Seeing that life is merely
A bottle
And when its empty
It ain't worth a ****
Tasting the stars in their
Brilliance of absence
I recollect my own upbringing
And remember my hallow mother
Singing her nightly hymns
But to begin with memories are
To step in the backgrounds of
Imaginations personal horrors, own borrows,
The lonely tunnels of a city long since dead
That instead of exhaling we try
Inhaling; pressing Death right back
I am young
I am old
I am a story
That has already
Been told
Yet I
Live on
I smile
I smell the scents
Of a world gone and
Past and taste at last
The current of the river
The wind of the crass
A life that has
Already ended
But has no ambition
To Pass
Self held in my own vices
The upstate prices of page to brain
Makes me shutter as the gutter
Winces in its realizations of the brandishing
Blade of the horses with their war
My existence presses Her finger upon
The broken page of the unstoppable cops
Where I stop to think where then my
Life - though good - has spoiled quite abrupt
Oh to obey in sun struck love
Where the only thing that is real is above
But anything I recall I forget
A smile that says to me "not yet"
I once thought I was close
But see now
I am so far away
If asked to stay
I don't know what I'd say
Each countless pride
Has its side
Just like the ocean in Her majesty
And unseen tides
Again
I slip into a smile
A false breathe
As I take my body back
In high stealth
Asking myself
*What exactly
Is the matter?*
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC
Tired static over old A.M. radios, voices like ghosts, slurring Slavic,
the faded label on a bottle of Stolichnaya
Burnt embers on the tip of shaking cigarettes, flicked into open space,
falling like snow flakes
Tired eyes half shut, dimly replaying a far away song behind flickering
eyelashes
No smiles, no laughs, no interruptions of voice or spirit to dislodge this sublime
apathy
Quotes from Mehmedinović on crumpled pieces of paper, jammed into pockets or
wallets
Blue bands around the arms so his comrades know who to shoot
at
The laughter of children, who have seen so much sorrow, to laugh is
to cry
These children become men, to pick up their guns, and join friends
as corpses at the base of Lapišnica
"This is the way it's always been, Sasha." hollow voices repeat, thin as
reeds, breathing the phrase many times a day
Overturned like a cup of bad coffee, lives spilled on the floor and left
to dry
Boot prints in the mud, one after another, someday they'll collect grass
and we'll all forget
Shining brass casings among the lilies, someday they'll be covered by weeds
and we'll all forget
The walls will be rebuilt, plaster spread, lives sewn together like ripped
clothing
Someday we’ll all forget, this blessing of
silence
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Gunshots of realization,
****** clothes that once bore meaning strewn everywhere,
Dirt on the subconscious,
Bullet casings on your consciousness,
Sweat drips onto reality,
Facts are blasted from tanks,
Feelings pour down like rain on the battlefield,
The air tense and hot,
It is dry and *****
The war wages on,
In your mind.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
When winter comes, the game is over
Until then
I’m tilling the soil, in preparation for the final score
Cordiality
Before the fertility of an ordeal, which grows into the bigger picture
Displayed
Splayed open in awkward moments, momentum picking up
Dust
Doesn’t this dirt, do something… creates… With no need
Of creativity
It just becomes… Nativity bourne… Energy from the stress, stretchin
Gravity pulls
Subdues the aborted missions… Missing the survivors
One
In a million, peal through the milieu, and skews
This present
View of manure, that manifests in the festivities that brings out
The most
Beautiful black rose in spring… Arose from the black
Beneath
Neither I nor you can undue, growth… Destruction just makes room
For something
Bigger to become… Cometh the comets to renew the stigma…
Butterflies
Kiss the bees… Better fly before the sting… Before the sting…
Stung
Death becomes the unlikely pair… The pear drops, to its own despair
This pair
Dies… as the flies, cover the corpse, cadavers and carrion
Carry on
The merry married marred, and in the spoils, spring new life
Young maggots Detested by the world, enters ignorantly blissful, and springs…
Underlings
Lingering beneath the grips of hatred, when it grows, with its
Hundred eyes
It still wont see the picture… distorted kaleidoscopic optics stops it
From seeing
The whys, the wheres, the world, the web
The spider
That sits beside her… and ***** the life out her
The outer
Casings, the crust, the crevice, the crack, the core,
We see
Explore, excavate through the dust of adam, and reach the hot magma,
The lake
Of fire floods the land… and destroys another civilization
“Welcome to earth…”
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 3:18 AM UTC
wispy clouds
on a blue sky
and a blood-
less sunset, lost on all for now
some despised boys in
cowardly mens bodies
have more bul-
lets than teeth,
yet the chickenshit bites
and mark and
grief they leave
behind, spent
casings litter the
halls of learning
peace, pieces, seething, see the thing
is now, lost on all for now
so how much hate do you have to harbour, to ****** a child?
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent;
no, not the common
man, the common
women, who have
in common with you and
I, tears falling from, my eyes
our eyes, there is
horror, there is shock
there is mouths
open and no air is
getting to the lungs,
a silent scream for
justice, as no one
can bring the children back, memories do not cut the loses,
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent; those
seats of power
must be real com-
fortable at this hour
eschewing respon-
sibility, for there
is no gain by get-
ting involved,
the ultimate of pre-emptive fear,
how hard can they be to find leaving a yellow streak
wherever they go, crawling on their yellow bellies.
this is not to be read,
out loud for even the
sound and rhythm,
from anywhere in
world, would break hearts, my heart
cannot make rhyme and reason
about this crime, see there is
an evil scaramouch, no credit
the pantywaist
deserves, takes on flesh and
payment is required.
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all Africa for now..
The value, the energy,
the beauty, the potential,
the future, there were
musicians, there were
geniuses, there philan-
thropists, there were
artists, ** there were poets,**
they were children and
grandchildren, they
were going to be parents,
they were going have
children and that is
lost on all for now and forever.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
my moral metabolism escapes me
trapped in decaying flesh
these combustible meanings
and disarming thoughts
it's like seeing the word in greyscale
through canine eyes
translating the future into wet dreams
and false disciplines
we move mountains but see only jewels
brainwashed societies block out sun rays
and trap beasts within walls
eat my heart
I no longer want it
make me a tin can
program me
create an automaton
I'd rather see in greyscale
it's pale I know
but it doesn't hurt
to lack feelings when they should be present
depend only on my metallic casings
become indifferent to this worlds meaningless agony
my notions and emotions
these eyes will be void of consciousness
lost in unoccupied nothingness
believe me
delete me
reformat my existence
I want to see in greyscale
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.
When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.
When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.
When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways
When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.
When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.
When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.
When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.
When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.
When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.
When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.
When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.
When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.
When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.
When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.
When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC