"chock" poems
my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to strip off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
What is that reality that appears to me in dreams,
chock-full of misgivings and doubt. I counteract my fear of life
with my fears of slumber,
dust in my eyes and stiff as lumber.
In truth - I'm not stiffened
by fear,
by nausea,
post-pubescent sacrilege,
or all of the above.
I'm not up-kept,
grizzly with ennui;
I'm dizzy, confiding my loss.
I feel the lips that kiss
but can't be drawn: from mind,
stencil
paper
pen,
on sheets of thick
pale and
cellulose,
for the heart to mend.
My unsteady hand
is my fearful friend
A soft embrace
from a warm mind
Somber
and so full of Life
clung to by the scent of Death
Endowed
with an eternal promise and regret
from veins of plants
or the glow of stars.
Cold, mechanical debt.
(my heart, so full of...)
(my mind, so hot with...)
(my body, trembling in...)
I am gulf-like
a stream full of trees and glass
echoing a promise of shattering wind.
Will I be published
after my death,
asleep predating, a life conceived.
Will I live to see myself alone,
and to discover
that which I'm not?
Or will I stutter
and wallow a curse,
Up towards the sky,
Until the final verse.
On a boast
or chasing the Rail,
pale as dirt, and shallow still.
Will my true love abandon, break, strain,
Burn away the wax,
or hurry to blame?
Omit my evils from the star-charts,
then just to vacate the void.
From the half-broken corridors of rocks,
nooks, crannies.
Carry laughter through the night
burn the effigy bowed-down,
before dawn's courageous,
ever-splaying light
Angels,
of Carlo and Marx,
plenty by noon
festoon,
again by day
thus replay,
Endeavor to infinity, fair child.
Remold the light by Day
and remold the Day
by Night.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Alone with this desk,
And a notebook chock-fulled with paper;
Endless.. he chomp everything away.
Things truly aren’t easy,
The silence makes it harder.
Hey music, fill the air;
For not all truths,
But laughs of frauds may break out.
Just like the old days.
Just like the lady boss,
Just..maybe.
There should be dancing all around,
Where crowds should chip in
And take things in stern.
Errands were not decors –
Trespass! Like mini ciphers,
Digits, letters, they knock the drill out.
Only a couple more days left,
But in ignominy,
This generation may fall;
How pitiable..
With such marks and inkblots,
The source remains unrecognized.
They’re used to seize papers like that,
Although such are committing theft already.
Left were words,
Can’t spell it unerringly;
Yet the hearsays divulged its address,
So now, it’s time to slam this tome;
End the toil that has always been the crook!
Go outside,
For the sun’s rays are there!
Goodbye to this aged chair,
And to this notebook full of nicks,
With new freedom,
We shall embrace..
Everything.. “Ciao” to what’s new,
‘Coz this is the real world!
Oh college days!
(7/25/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Oh, how could I have been so careless with time?
Trying to catch hummingbirds with a hula-hoop.
All the un-watered whims,
planted in subconscious deep;
inside great empty tiger cages
that capture only the echoes,
and photographic negatives of dreams.
With a knapsack chock full of stars,
and clouds, fully reviewed then abandoned
at random. I have been spinning separate
from the world; wearing time capriciously
on my wrist, fully reviewed then abandoned at random.
Maybe only clocks are careful with time . . .
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
I wonder if my late night plays
Will ever be relayed
To a generation that is slayed
In my play every black home
Has two stories, a fence
and a dad that won’t roam
Their cars ain’t all chrome
No bars on the windows
No grandmas saying lord knows
When cops shows
There are more colors than grey
No dope boys on the corner cliche
Or dogs on chains barking to get away
The colors blue and red stand for a flag
The black youth aren’t in a body bag
And pants never sag
Black men aren’t scary and mean
The system isn’t their adversary or
The silver screen
They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase
The color green
Black women have a name
Not ***** or **** used as shame
No fakes buts for their fame
The son has more hope
Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope
He aspires to use a stethoscope
The daughter is strong and free
She can either write a song or get a PhD
Her future is whatever she wants it to be
Their ain’t thugs on tv our color
Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother
Or get drunk and fight one another
Gun violence is a joke
the police don’t chock our folk
Our music don’t promote drug use
And Gucci don’t ******
Drivebys are now hi’s
Every family is woke and wise
It’s sad to know
That this world won’t ever exist
Because the world outside
Is to nightmarish
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
I wonder what would happen if i bleached my skin
What kind of twisted world i would live in
If one day i decided to do what the world demanded
And strip my melanin
I wonder what would happen if i burnt my hair to a crisp
If barbie doll hair was on my birthday wishlist
If one day i suddenly looked like
Taylor swift
The problem with this fowl dream
Is that it’s forgetting one thing
The thing in which i live and breath
My sanity
If one day i bleached my skin
And society decided to let me in
I would have tarnished God's creation
For equality
unnecessarily demanding humane unity
And Maybe if i bleach my skin
An officer wouldn’t shoot me
But What should be happening is me taking a stand
And saying it’s not him against me
But us against the hatred that makes individuals choose me
Single me out because of my skin
Fearing me because i’m chock full of melanin
Saying #allLivesMatter instead of #blackLivesMatter because if we let one house burn the rest of the town wins
But at the bottom of this is was and always will be hatred
And just because your side of the boat doesn’t have a hole doesn’t mean we’re not all sinking
So i suggest you do something.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
in the backs of cabs that reek of stale *****
blue salt specks are dragged against their will to rest in the ridges of the floor mats.
fluorescent confused cubicles of light flashing by-
your mind fighting to make shapes out of the blur.
it’s january, this is everyone’s mood.
fingers folded into fists, stuffed into nylon pockets,
catching your breath and watching the scenery swirl past
like the entire horizon is made of melting wax.
you’re replaying day old conversations, analyzing cryptic eye movements
and body language of those people that strike you so suddenly.
those strangers that have pushed and shoved every defense and nestled themselves
into every fiber of your being. you sicken yourself with these sappy adolescent romantic bouts
but they’re the only thing keeping you alive.
you don’t know these people.
you don’t even know yourself.
the cab driver mumbles something over the radio and your attention is brought back to the present.
he’s on the phone-
that’s illegal.
you’re a little concerned-
your life does lie in the shivering hands of a stranger who boredly grasps and curves a wheel, after all.
but you play it cool, you turn to nihilism- it’s easier this way.
death is fine.
the cab driver is passing your house while you’re swatting at questions.
you uncomfortably raise your quiet voice for a few hesitant notes.
“Here is fine!”
you urge to the driver while a fumbling hand shakes down your pockets for a twenty.
there’s your house- standing just as you left it
through the white mystery patches on the back window.
chock full of memories and problems and decay and warmth.
everything seems to rest so calmly in the palms of the bittersweet.
tell the stranger to have a goodnight.
he returns the favor.
everyone needs to hear these things-
it’s january, after all.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
A world chock-full of desolate,
To pride of supposed joy I scurry.
A world plenteous of seclusion,
To hubris of felicity I secrete.
A world so stuffed of vain,
To narcissism of hope I scamper.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
Gunga peas calypso
Madly
in my cooking ***
gradually I pour canned coconut milk
into the swirling flavors
of cilantro, garlic and onions
Staring into the rich brown
stew
I can see my Mother grating
coconut meat and hand squeezing
the milk like teats from a cow
(Too much work for me)
creating a traditional coconut rice and peas
dish
She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth,
Jamaica
early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural
for the family which included nine siblings
Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul
with ample soft *****
perfect for children
to lay their heads upon
and skin that always seemed
to smell of curry
Burnt sienna Indian complexion
wavy black river hair
and colorful patois accent
painted a portrait
cavorting over the dandy, rolling
goat hooved hills of
Jamaican village peasantry
The Moravian church of England formed
beliefs woven inextricably through
the fabric of her simplistic
innocent existence
our Mom instilled a love of
God in us that was pure and hearty
"Sonya stop your daydreaming"
my Mother's clarion voice interrupts
my avid reverie
"Bumba!" I cry aloud
"I haven't had bammy in eons"
Quickly my fingers Google
Another tasty native recipe
chock full of memories
and cassava root
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
I again got stuck in the bridge today
In the Upper Plateau bridge-
The bridge across the lagoon.
Stuck, with no breathing space to manoeuvre
All three lanes facing forward, chock a block
Cars of all sizes and costs strewn around
It's always like that, faced ahead on the wheel
Neither space to turn left to see anything right;
Nor to the right, for anything left...
When on the steering wheel
You are responsible, not just for your actions;
But the whole world around.
For the car in the front, back and the
Sides, who cannot move until you move.
Slowly you realise, 'it was never a
Bridge across for ever"
There has been this urge,
Many a time, to break out and run, though
You are stuck in the bridge, no room to
manoeuvre
Often it's like a circle eating itself;
Beginning losing the end and vice versa!
But then comes the thoughts of the school fees, the maintenance, the rent and the upkeep
You are stuck on the bridge, mate
Stay put, until the snarls open its own
--------////
All rights reserved (c) A K Kalesh Kumar 2016
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
Sometimes I think
I could really like
Someone,
but then 2 to 3 weeks
go by,
and as I get to know who
Someone is,
I remember Someone
isn't You,
and my heart is
so chock-full of
like for You
there ain't no room
for Someone,
for someone else.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
I tried kale once I suppose it is like medicine if it tastes bad it must be good for you I am not swayed by that logic.
I don't know much about kale
could they make of it an ale?
I'd consider drinking that
crushed into liquid inside a big vat.
I'd give it a shot, maybe two
if I didn't puke when I was through
can it be any worse than hair tonic?
wouldn't that be a bit ironic?
Other veggies I love to hate
seldom make it to my plate
I taste them with a finger
then let them alone to linger.
Like chock boy and collard greens
I leave them to my putrid dreams
untouched unloved uneaten
even when they may be sweeten.
That's my take on kale
I'm still hardy and I'm still hale
take it i you must
but the others I don't trust.
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC
looped layers linger on
terraces as terror takes
form in bandaged brains
chock full of deranged
discernment
****
climb into the cabinet
find fear washed away
in dead eyes that
shrivel and shrink with
each passing moment
squirm, squirm, squirm
stomach walls suction cup
one another as sludgy
slime slurps between
cracked crevices
bile belches amidst
odd laughter, an onslaught
of imagery, insecurity,
and imagination
not a sound in the world,
but every sound in the world
slip slowly through
diversions from truth
mad man or master?
monster or magician?
a circus of dark circles
comes rolling into town-
come one, come all!
certain death lurks
around every corner,
shrouded in shadows
between daylight
and dreaming,
daring you to look
away as it steals
whatever it is that's left
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
There are ladies on the internet
Who are offering me joy.
They say they can transform me
To a man instead of a boy.
Another guy has promised me
A massive ***** size.
I’m not sure I am comfortable
To that talk from a guy.
Another woman from Nigeria
Said her husband has died
With a bank account chock full
Of Krugerands inside.
All they want from me they say
Is a check for one grand
And they will put half of the gold
Into my greedy hand.
Now, that and the ***** ladies
They say live near my place
Are part of what the internet
Pushes daily into my face.
But I have become smarter now
And I fully understand
That buxom comely lass is really
A fifty five year-old man.
Bill Gates will not be sending me
A lifetime Disney Park pass.
And there are no fifty dollar diamonds,
They are all made of glass.
There is no secret bank account
In Nigeria, I truly feel.
But that pill that makes my ***** grow?
Now that, I am sure, is real.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
you know
just as soon
as i'm settled
here you come
crashing in
like a trucker
asleep at the
wheel while
driving back
and forth from
coast to coast
my god do i
welcome these
collisions full
of rainy phone
conversations
and hopeful
hints of something
beautiful to
come my way
i'll come see
you in a dog
pile and we'll
find ways to
figure out
how to make
the unworkable
work because
we can and i
want you more
than i want
anyone and,
jesus, that's
what counts,
isn't it?
so what if
we're chock
full of fights,
fears, and
fantasies?
we're both
just children
looking for
a hand to hold
and yours
feels better
in mine
than most
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
to that one girl over there
chock-full of intimacy,
i can't stop looking at the wrinkles in your hair
and the way they caress the curvature of your ears.
every smile drives me deeper into insanity,
and as your upper intersects with your lower,
i heave a sigh of pain.
waltz there, waltz here - your every move is like a dance
God Almighty choreographed himself.
My soul is like a bird - fluttering to the unknown,
but every season I come back for you.
your thighs were sculpted my Michelangelo,
your voice was crafted by Ella Fitzgerald,
your grace was gifted by your parents,
and my love burns hotter than the passion i have for you.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
A flash, a glimmer
Dreams o' Dreams
Everything you wish
A storm in my head
Chock full of
Cloudy memories
A dash of sunlight
It's now clear
What I want is here
It's all in my head
Dreams o' Dreams
Not just in the bed
My deepest wishes
Here they are
Swirling in the mist
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
You're not the only one
Who wakes up feeling stuck
and hoping seasons fall asleep
to dream you up some better luck
When you and sidewalks talk
It's not an argument
They like to conjure up old wraiths
from when you stood in better stead.
So what's left now but one more Fall?
And after that, it's more of the same again
Seasons come and go, that's how
the mountains get so tall
Too easy just to chock it up
to thinning blood
and fast failing memory
Hard to say
that each year's still weighing the same
We'll paint the town
with a broad brush
in brightest hues
But that won't change a thing.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
Ever since you came along
their light has dimmed
you are the sun.
My mind is chock-full of
love and literature
of music recommendations
of sleepless nights
of happiness and admiration,
and you
oh *always of you*.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC
Fool me once shame on me
Fool me twice shame on you
That's the saying right
But it's wrong
The jokes always on me
I'm fooled by the everyday laughter
Thinking it's with me
Not realizing it's against me
It's the silent joke
An inside little laugh
The kids around me have
Could it be their laughing at my scars
The way the blade laughs at me
When I try to hide it
The jokes always on me
I'm not the comedian
I'm the comedy
A simple commodity
They sink their teeth in just for a smile
Am I less of a man
Because of the scars
Am I less of a human
Because I don't smile properly
I have a crooked smile
That's always upside down
The jokes always on me
Because I am the joke
The laugh of the town
The little **** ****** disregard
I'm a human yet you all make me feel
Like the jokes on me
The shadows over my face
Are the shadows of your backs
Turned and whispering the joke
Giggles turn to laughter
Laughter turns to glares
Glares turn to open wounds doctors can't stitch
Yet I'm always the ******* joke
Think again
The jokes on you
I'm the one laughing
All your lives are in my hands
I have 40 pounds of C4
This mall won't stand the explosion
I'll **** you all
I'll be the one to disappear first
Laughing because the jokes on you now
You're too stupid to realize
The joke became the joker
Chock on the ash of my laughter now
I'll tear your world apart
If you survive
You'll be the one with the scars
A perfect reminder of the joke I was
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Your love is an ocean
and I am drowning.
Saltwater stings my eyes
and burns my throat
as I desperately cry my S.O.S.
You pull me down in waves,
my lungs aching for air.
Who knew it would be you
who has me struggling to breathe?
The water somehow calms me
with its silence.
I find solace in your murky depts.
An introverts daydream
all alone in 145 million square miles
of torrential rain
only to share my final moments with the sea.
I sink
deeper
and
deeper
I stop fighting
and let go.
For a moment
I may not be breathing.
The pressure against my chest is undeniable.
I open my mouth to breathe
but I only chock on saltwater.
My lungs fill with tears.
I swear I hear a voice,
be it my oxygen suffocated mind
or you
whispering to me.
You break the ominous silence
with seven simple words;
"Some love is to strong to fight"
and with that
I close my eyes
and
give
in
to
you.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC