Claustrophobe poems on Hello Poetry

Miguel Diaz May 2016

In the bain marie of life
The boiling,
evaporated
water underneath,
Scolds untrained fingers and hands.
Unscathed are the extremities of workers who serve:
Little Hitlers and Maos,
awaiting to have their egos inflated, and their endowments stroked.
All so they can perpetrate atrocities in a world craving for more, entertainment.
All so they can penetrate their
animosity
towards girls craving for more

containment.

Prepare ingredients in metal tray, made from
Futuristic technology. Erected steel, carved and shaved,
moulded to perfection.
Finesse in
Postmodern civilisation,
Allowing hungry
Delinquent to stuff
cake holes with garbage.
Gruel, bangers, tripe and trotters, spotted ****, black pudding, haggis, bulls testicles.

Plastic.
Gum, and wrapper.
Thrown,
in bin.
Mess and stink.
Perforating orifices and permeating nasal passageways.

Kitchen sink,
The end of day arrives
Sanitation process occurs.
The end of shift awaits.
She takes off sweat filled hair cap,
Takes off juice stained chef pants.
Kicks off steel capped boots.
Pulls out
Smelly,
Sock.

Rest in bed,
to awake for new day.
Gravity raises the sun.
Rinse and repeat
bain marie
reheat.

I like science fiction, futuristic civilisation. I like the mundanity of a canteen worker, of the "tuckshop" lady (Australian colloquialism). I love the imagery of the ugliness of school. I like the ugliness of bullies and teenagers with pimples,
harmones, oily skin, body odour, sun burnt skin, socially awkward nerds,
cliques and cool kids, everyone lining up to buy unhealthy food.
I wanted to enhance the ugliness of all of this with imagery of typical British Chacuterie and offal, as well as the term gruel, it sounds so ugly and rhymes with druel. The ugliness in the poem is also juxtaposed with ****** ****** imagery.

The poem is a mood piece, a slice of life.

palladia Jun 2013

wanderbrass

a hammerhead percussion box:
          an inert crystalline cymbalist’s gong.
          a confession of tined tuning forks
          of perhaps a familiar keyboard?
                    the siren sphere rings of a chime—
                    brittle yet consciously polite,
                    composed by nature’s ragged pen:
                    plinking injections; stymied to tin.

! let it all reduce the klang to mere cacaophony !

a descent of bells, i am in plume,
          a riddle delivered in aged runes—
          evenheaded shots of ******
          cut by the lotto wanderlust:
                    fractal prism, stormy rhythm,
                    thunder’s din to rainy hymn.
                    up those tulip-eared scales, so brisk,
                    the glugs and gurgles of cosmopolis.

! let it all reduce the tolling to glorious symphony !

          a vagabond melody, no metronome,
          a metallurgist’s claustrophobe,
                    an orchestral performance at home,
                    where i am absolved in the entrancing drone...

This was written after strenuously listening to Björk's "Hunter Vessel" from Drawling Restraint 9. It's my interpretation of the looped horns and exaggerated crescendos found on the tracks: the astir brass sort of made me think of travel, thus the title "Wander-brass". It could also be a play on letters of the brass ensemble Björk toured with during Voltaïc.

Larry Potter Jul 2018

The Goofball's Protocol

Keep your friends close
But your enemies closer,
So you can punch them whenever you want to.

Fool me once, shame on you
Fool me twice, shame on me,
If you can still fool me thrice, you're really clever.

Success is 1% inspiration
And 99% perspiration
Plus a thousand prayers, just for good measure.

There's a rainbow
Always after the rain
Just make sure you don't look at the clouds at night.

It's always darkest
Before the dawn
So set your alarm to six or seven in the morning.

There's always light
At the end of a tunnel
A claustrophobe has two things to worry about.

Benjamin Jun 2019

Exile, For The Truly Deserving

Stale air, claustrophobe—
a terrible fit for a coffin,
this person—
he can languish here.

A good warmth, the kind
you feel after bourbon
deep in your chest, yes,
a very good warmth—
the kind you won’t find here.

Here, is where, as gentlemen say,
“the wicked rest”
as there is, indeed,
no such rest for men like that.

I am wicked, I suppose,
wicked in my own way, so
I deserve the test.
I will languish here.

Barton D Smock May 2014

(object permanence and co.)

******

god the claustrophobe

clean

as rainclouds
pause
beneath
the disoriented
heaven
of our
beloved
thinking woman’s
fireman
a cat
grooms itself
in the manner
we’ve been
to vanish

object permanence**

rabbit
named
vertigo

Nazdeep Gill Nov 2014

ESCAPE

When night comes wearing it's black robe
When pain encloses me i struggle to breathe because i am claustrophobe
When regrets clogs my throat
When my mind is like a blank note
When suffering in my blood starts to flow
It kills me once, but then I grow
A pen and a paper with words, my thoughts who shape
Out of this feeling of helplessness, this is my only escape.
#nk

Tanya Chaudhary Jan 2015

Thank you

Memories, few I have now.
Which is better, if you think how?
I do not think it was planned.
I pray it was never intended,
I hope it was destined.
I would love to believe,
that it was a bad timing.
A result of mixed up,
wrongly fused confusion.
I knew from the beginning,
or should I say from the ending.
This love of mine won’t work out.
And so you left.
I burned out.
And you couldn't even see the damage.
My hot tears scaling down and leaving scars on my skin.
The noise that your absence left behind.
The clutter, the mess, the chaos and the scrapes
and the caramel taste
of the days gone by.

You rejected me.
I rejected me.
Until, I was a claustrophobe
I couldn't breathe.

But, then I cracked open.
And light seared through my aching, contused soul.
I stitched my unbolted ends.
But the flowing thread faltered.
I erupted.
I detonated.
Leaving myself weak and disrupted.

So, I laid in the sun and I allowed.
The wind, the storm, the rain came,
and I weathered whatever they gave.
I stayed open and empty.
And finally opened my eyes.
I discovered, you ruined us
but you hadn't ruined me.
I was glistening, glittering, shimmering and glowing.
My aching soul that was burnt and pressurized
had now, crystallized.

Dear, you whisked away the love.
But, you left behind a diamond.

So, thank you.

© TanyaC. 2015.

Barton D Smock Mar 2017

breaks

my seven year old son keeps putting his hands in his diaper. evangelist.

worry is no teacher. birth no language and mouth no age. I tell you there is a comedy passed among the lower whites and I’ve heard them boast of taking blood’s coffin to the grave. I moonwalk in a poem about violence. am abused by animals for buying local

from the claustrophobe
her neglected

astronauts

— The End —