"clanks" poems
Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'
Ankles dry, calloused thoughts, skin peels to reveal oozing flesh. **** sinks in and swallows floating zinc; immune. Consuming ex-cadavers in mall parking lots and pushing the crippled in shopping carts, an ankle twisted, a mother swallowed monetary ***** the stock market became the shelf market, and creation wondered if we were okay with frozen pizza for dinner.
Life dragged on and on, the world swirled on twitter feeds and Facebook statuses, the streets completed laps around our better judgements and our better lives, we sank to scheduled escapism and believed that one day we would find the light despite our never left-look.
Massive intention swelled to disjointed shark search. A witch-hunt to burn unhappiness in it's own angry passion. Bones; cost efficient at the least and designed in the weirdness of erosion-return. Miniature intention swelled to grabs solidarity. A manhunt to freeze stillness in it's own endless silence.
What complete? What shatter-tastic ******
Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the ********* who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.
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Shinchan, Shinchan we are his fan
He’s a tot but swanks as a man
He is too minute and he is so cute
Shot in the arm can put you in dispute
He pranks and clanks with pals or alone
Be it his school or be it his home
Mitsy his mom shouts as a norm
Harry his dad scouts to reform
Pranks and clanks both gets flop
When Mitsy gives him a pop on his top
Our fun gathers when he does not stop
And another one goes on top on his pop
Pops and shops is what he gets from his mom
We never go sad be whatever his form
Shinchan, Shinchan we are his fan
We will love him as much as we can
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Tell me
That gun that you're so proud of
Why does it tremble so much?
Is your hand following your unstable mind?
Is that the same hand that holds your child's?
Your emotions
Fragile enough to be crushed with a hug
Insecure enough to attack a compliment
Corrupt enough to endlessly reload on lies and deceit
Are those the same emotions you shoot into your wife at night?
Your bullets roar so loudly
What voices are you trying to drown out?
Your heartbeat clanks at the speed of the fallen shells
What are you so afraid of?
A man armed and ready to go off at any moment like you?
Tell me
What can you manage to defeat?
With those trembling hands
Uncertain of what to take aim at
You shoot down anything that moves
Uncertain of where the trigger is
You pull at anything you can reach
Uncertain of how much enemies are left
You forever stay in the trenches
I now know that when you bow your head at church that it's not for prayer
Then hoping to nullify your senseless you refuse to leave the battlefield
And take no-mans-land everywhere you go
You wear your bulletproof vest and rifle to the supermarkets, schools, offices, dinner tables, churches, and funerals
Forever firing
Forever charging
Forever defending
Forever fighting
Yourself.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 8:28 AM UTC
understand
make it stand
let it in
grasp it tight
find the heart of the light
give it water for more
hear it beat and sweet
release the flow throughout
seeping doubt
squelched in blackened drought
listened under moonlit ponds
broken by lingering clouds
shrinking
growing
morphing
exploding shrapnel hits
the streets in domino lines of
clings, clanks
against pavement
green with feeling
tentacles outstretched
grabbing downpour
more griping
a wiping the slate clean
a new approach to a one way road
sweeping away the swept under
forgotten
the last day, a cleansing
sweaters donned for greater betterness
less impressiveness, bored aggressiveness
regressing
to under intelligence, minor importance
broken vases line the halls
flowers gasp soaking last remains
crying death
its toll rising infinite forms
everywhere
everyday
every
second
this moment
emptiness
misery’s hand clenched tight
suffocating life, energy bound
and wound so small and tight
bound to explode any moment
epiphany epiphany
epiphany
ephemeral projected instance
prism hemmed answers
nullifying yourself
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:32 AM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The -isms and the -anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The Fates are subtle girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What come of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
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My soul clanks when the hammer of Truth hits
And beflats my whole existence, that rusty one sits
On the anvil, there I lie half conscious, half sleep stricken,
My Smith hurls and my soul clanks!
Had I been plastic rust wouldn't dare to touch it!
I would be perfect to be moulded into a dummy,
A gentle lifeless creature, dancing on the notes of their fingers,
Loved and longed, and the sleep's harbinger;
In a sick fluke as metal I was sent,
Strong against storms yet vulnerable to the wind.
O my Smith! Would you make a tool out of me?
Or am I long gone? An useless fish out of the pond?
Are my pores too many? O my Smith! Hit me
Until I be the sword of a king's pawn.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The--isms and the--anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
1.6k
in dishes made for food
in cups made to drink
***** hands will hold them up to block the sun
like people forced to work
to soften clanks against their plate
a stair rail forced to break
sits kindly beside it’s well
exactly almost where it’s meant to be
like mom starts her shift
beneath her wheels will turn
and turn and turn
a worn down walking cane
pushed through door handles
assigned to keep it shut against the wind
a woman limps across
with all her weight she leans
between the handles, against the creaking crane
exactly almost where it’s meant to be
like when i go to work
the pull of chatting with a friend
you feel the forming group
exactly almost where i’m meant to be
exactly almost
exactly almost where I’m meant to be
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 2:51 PM UTC
Her bare feet and palms are the shade of half ripe maroon dates.
Her strong silhouette, a gazelle at sunset.
Eyes are dark brown granules of coffee.
The clanks of gold jewellery on her forehead and ankles,
her sweet aroma of roses fused with jasmine saturate air.
Her fiery soul - a wild Arabian horse yet untamed by bedouins.
Her sun kissed skin glimmers under sunlight;
falcons are constrained with the touch of her fingertips.
She stands tall as she carries her pride,
tall as she hums with the gentle birds.
We ancient women, are an unbroken chain of tribal ancestry,
interlinked by blood and soul. Our lineage, a mother's lullaby,
carried by the wind that disperses sand,
wind that shakes the core of oceans.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
The skies are strown with stars,
The streets are fresh with dew
A thin moon drifts to westward,
The night is hushed and cheerful.
My thought is quick with you.
Near windows gleam and laugh,
And far away a train
Clanks glowing through the stillness:
A great content's in all things,
And life is not in vain.
1.3k
They say we have two halves of a whole brain.
Two sections that govern our actions
Like tyrants that ride horses with reigns made
Of nerves and weald weapons that shoot out sparks
Of neurons across our synapses
The lands of our minds that dips and rises like the Andes mountains
Amoung cerebellum fields
Where nervous horses hoofs trample
Nervous systems flowers and bend their stem
Into an L shaped pendulum that swings
Unevenly over corpus callosum oceans
That separate left and right.
Art and reason.
Two separate sets of war torn warriors fighting,
One with methodically measured maps
Marked with red flags between concurred lands of logic
And one with holistic metal armor that clinks and clanks
Around soldiers making music for them to march to
They fight over proper ways of reason
And creative formulations
Of treasons that ought not be crossed
Their trenches the rivens in our brains
That wet rot their feet with slimy blood and
Membrane juices
The left speaking in tongues
That right cannot hear when not
Set on staff lines
Or painted onto animal skin canvas
That once covered similar brain battles
Between right and left
Only to be cut and sectioned off
In improper fractions that yearn to be whole.
If only the sides would sign treaties of peace
With pens that pinch fibers together and bind
Halves into wholes.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
Nights are are quiet and cold to the touch
Gloomy lights in dusty rooms cast spectral doom as whirr and clank.
You took.
You pulled and ripped our love apart at the seams
Now powered by steam.
Dashed and splintered
So I Labour late and long into wintery nights to build from scraps of wood iron and steel.
A semblance so that I can once more feel and care.
A shiney gift to pull from
my chest. An offering.
Something that tics and clanks. Cold and dead ouside
Instead of pumping love
My Steampunk heart can only cry and scream .The loss of flesh and love for a loveless lifeless thing...my offering
The Steampunk Heart.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Here’s a locked box of anagram shazam
(Don’t open it
The crazies might come out)
There’s a sealed sack of angsty crank-clanks
Take it, go away
I’m simply not myself today
** Yes, it’s true
I am sinking sads for you
Letting drinkies drown
My Anger Banger frown
Cryptic? Klik-kwik, and no, no
I was never there
Avaunt, begone, beware
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
It’s 9 AM and I’ve been drinking
since before the sun came up.
The sound of the rain outside hitting that patched up window is nothing but an echo
of the liquor splashing its liquid into a never ending glass
until yet another empty bottle clicks and clanks in the trash.
It’s 12 PM and I’ve been drinking
since before the rain stopped.
The light from the warm sun peaks through the cracks in that window that broke
the last time I drank and reminds me of the day
leading up to that big fight when everything changed.
It’s 3 PM and I’ve been drinking
since that night two weeks ago when you screamed about me buying that new sofa
and walked out on the only thing that was keeping me
happy, alive, and sane.
It’s 6 PM and I’ve been drinking
since after the door slammed and you walked out
on me, on the little country house in the woods, and the little family we’d been
planning late at night after the sun set over the tree tops.
It’s 9 PM and I’ve been drinking
since before the sun traded places with the moon and illuminated the outline of the scar
on my left arm from the night we drank too much and drove too fast
on those road we didn’t know were dead ends.
It’s midnight and I’ve been drinking
since I knew where those roads took us.
All the twist and turns I thought were just part of the fun
ended up destroying us like they did that car when we hit the tree because we didn’t see the ice
below the new blanket of snow that was only interrupted
by the wavy tire tracks from what we thought was just innocent fun.
It’s 3 AM and I’ve been drinking
since I learned that being innocent and having that kind of fun is nothing more than a joke.
It’s 4 AM and I’ve been drinking
since I realized that the rain leaking in through that smashed window won’t ever wash away the things that we’ve done
or the regrets I can never take back.
It’s 5 o’clock somewhere and I’ve been drinking
but I’ve never felt more sober.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
I knock on the door, mellowing around the porch
Wondering when the clouds will turn over
With their distant display of arduous flight
Will they fall out of the sky? I wonder
The door opens with clicks and clanks
The seconds have passed and so the sky shatters
Not by some cataclysmic or destructive force
But by the woman operating the barrier
A spectacle of gold catches my eye
Emanating from ten earrings and a nose ring
A greeting that far exceeded my expectations
But a worthwhile one for it is my sister
She greets me warmly and leads me inside
Her Egyptian style hair flapping around her head
I look through the open gateway
And step into the ominous black
Into my old home where fear strikes me
I measure my distance continuously from the door
Each step treading against the cold, white tiles
Hoping the cold and white stays in the ground
Tiny taps welcome my sandals
As little Jeremy's wet nose sniffs my toes
A curious little ferret he's always been
And my sister's favorite furry critter
My sister examines me, reading my expression
Gifting me with peace by assuring me she is not here
I relax at being spared reliving those memories
They were always inflaming or violent
She would battle with me, screaming and fighting
Push me into a chair, claiming "the truth"
Shove a white door into me and my grandmother
Drive me to the point of sprinting away in the night
I'd battle back, fighting and screaming
Defending my will, my right to my being
Holding back against her "loving" strength
Breaking enough to throw a fist at her once
This whirlwind of a home...
"Mami turned over a new leaf, sis. She changed a lot"
My eyes grew wide as I turned to my sister
I could say nothing to the lie but close my eyes
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
A space casino painted on its sides
Its airbrakes hissing and spitting against the wheels
The charter bus clanks to a ***** stop
Its hatches open to discharge aliens
Optimistically rattling their walkers
And dragging their oxygen machines along
Spongy shoes challenged by the parking lot
Knobby white knees all rattling through the dawn
The moustache in his cool gas-station shades
Admires himself in the big West Coast mirror
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
First the signs and then the noise -
Insistent, honking, grinning boys
Announcing City snow-ploughs
What's this raucous clarion call,
This four-note trumpet klaxon?
It's the boys who tell the world
To move its Ford, Corvette or Datsun.
A snowfull truck on squeaky chains
Creaks off to dump its ***** crystal load.
And four more trucks parked right behind
Sashay one notch along the road.
Truck number two clanks up beside
The blower which spews salt and snow
Into its built-up box beside.
See, grinding now, a baby plough,
With red-faced driver tucked inside,
Trundles bundles of frozen stars
Into someone's shoveled drive.
While upon this clanking ballet
Lacy snowflakes lazy drift
Lightly swirling fluffy piles
For moving by tomorrow's shift.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.
The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.
Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.
Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
The verdency has long been bleached from the grass.
It is now hollow straw and chaff.
It soughs and rattles it's
sorrow in whispering distress.
The livestock, ***** smudges
of skin and bone.
Stand listless, under the stick
bare branches, of the ghost gum .
Waiting for the rumble
of the feed truck to come.
The dust swirls, red fine
and irritating to skin and eyes.
The only creature to thrive
are the buzzing horde of
flies.
The bore pump clanks to life
and the water allotment
flows.
The sheep arise and drink
the trough, bone dry.
Before resettling into hungry
repose,
under the white ghost gum west of Gundagia.
This is drought, this is the
wait for rain, this is the daily
struggle, the farmers lonesome refrain.
All but the sturdiest stock
sold, shot or long gone dust,
to the unforgiving heat. Nuturing the best,
saved from starvations
questing hold.
To rebuild the farm
and complete Job's test.
After the rains have come,
all will be good again.
And if they don't come.
Doesn't matter, soon we'll
all be dead.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Take center stage
in this play called life.
where the script is
lost to you
The main act
is your self destruction.
For all the world to see
Your dagger held close
scars spanning every inch of skin.
Should I end it? Should I stay?
The ****** of this life's play
Bring it down to your wrist
the pulse rising as your delima grows
the world holds its breath
everything slows down
The turning point
throw down the dagger
it clanks to the wooden floor
Stand on this stage
look life in the eye
I quit it with the suicidal recital
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
it was exactly a week ago but it feels like
Waters have paused to ask directions from air and lava
And lava, in it's lost hots, slinking its way down Mount St. Helens
Couldn't hear water
yellin'.
It's still as if
there were no Mexico
and as if
you ceased to swallow the clanks
of arachnid 'where'd-ya-go's'
in favour of
where the wild river flows
This oval prose is not a rose
It's cheaper
and I'm tellin ya
Count the rocks connected on the second front of sidewalk and that's how you might forget
how much
it costs
to miss you.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Sometimes I drag you down.
Can't handle it when you go out
because your freedom unintentionally mocks
my caged-in state, clanks a mug against the bars
of my prison. I didn't pick this.
Didn't pick an age that came with limitations,
but I guess I'm stuck with it
and **** you're stuck with me,
stuck with my shaky words that come from
shakier hands. Stuck with breathy phone calls
when I'm sad and don't have the heart to tell
you that no one actually has the power to fix it.
Stuck with these eyes that imitate thunderstorms when I'm being just
a tad bit melodramatic.
What do thunderstorms look like
through those kaleidoscope eyes of yours?
I bet they look like depression in a bottle,
ready to be forced down like shots of anything
that'll make me forget.
I'm beginning to understand why people
become alcoholics and that's terrifying.
You're stuck with everything I've ever been
and everything I'll ever be. Truth is I've ruined
every good time you've tried to have since you
got together with me. And I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for being a buzzkill. I'm sorry for worrying. I'm sorry for wishing I could just go with you and I'm sorry I can't.
You swear my age doesn't bother you but I'm
afraid sooner or later it might begin to.
Your age means freedom, mine means
nine o'clock curfew on school nights
and eleven o'clock ******* bedtime.
I'm an adult in a child's body. Betrayed by the number of years I've been alive.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC