I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.

A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered

In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,

Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
Jacob Resendez Jul 2014
In his life he had twelve pocket knives
He carried them around with assurance
But not once did he use them—
In Colossus City, the knife used you.

A cold memory it was once for him
To sit on the ground and appreciate life
Colossus City had left behind years of happiness
But no one wanted to leave, sometimes not even himself.

The rain was a friendly stranger
It occurred to him in dreams
Only now was it in Colossus City
Sending raindrops the size of hail.

In the woods lay a deserted mountain
It waited for a tormented man
You could drop everything else
Just to live there, covered in happiness.
You, the monster on the bus,
strike terror into hearts,
your trembling hands
counting out your pennies,
your skin draped loosely on your bones,
like a mouldy cloth on a painting.

Your wisdom has since left you,
leaving a beast in its place,
lashed and chained
by routine,
scared of the screams of the city.

You grasp at the traces of your memories,
like a beggar to change.
Don't bother.
You'll only waste them
on liquor and smokes.

What did you do, beast?
To deserve this,
this wild sentence,
to be trapped in a failing body,
inept in its age.

Time is a mugger on the street,
that spins you around,
and takes your youth at knifepoint,
while your knees knock,
and your head swims.
Father called again.
I listened to the message, as usual.
Listened to the scratching of knives on plates. Listened. Listened.

It is noise.
The words, the words you have owed me
for twenty three years, father: they do not come. What I want is for you to be sorry.
For the epiphany to f
                                      a
                       ­              l
                                       l
upon you like rock.
How could you, for all these years, feel alive,
when so many nights I waited,
crying, at the door,
my young hands clawing at the glass?
You lied, you stole from me, by omission.
And now, I wander from man to man, 
filling your bitter shoes with dissapointments,
tar-black, and weather-worn.

Daddy, why must they all love like you love?
Why must they all stink of you
and wear your clothes and talk
as though they are gods?
I survived you, but evil, too, has a thousand faces.
The anti-hero.
It is you, isn't it? Underneath all those masks?
It is you,
with your bloodshot eyes.
It is you.
raine miller Mar 2017
for my mother*

“...This morning I came, I saw, and I was conquered, as everyone would be who sees for the first time this great feat of mankind”.
- President Franklin D. Roosevelt

her sides are bruised from holding back rough waters,
yet she still opens her arms to receive the floods;
my mother is stronger than the Hoover dam.

she built herself up from rubble to curl around my life,
bending and breaking herself to plug up the cracks.
the river of people thundering through my life see her as overbearing;
i see her as the guiding force pushing me towards open waters
that she could never empty herself into.

i describe my mother as a national monument;
she describes herself as a pile of rocks.
my mother wears humility like a nine-year-old raincoat
fraying at the sleeves,
because she spent the money on my brother and i instead.

i believe the softest smiles stand resolute
and conquer.
AJ Pearson Mar 2013
This giant silhouette
blocks the rays of the sun.
Two burning eyes pierce through
the frightening black shroud.

With every labored step.
Darkness descends upon
the serene, lush valleys
masking the solace of the sun.

How I yearn for the light.
The warm touch of the sun.
Being trapped under the shroud,
the shadow of this titan.

I fear the beast's fury.
To be crushed under it's heel.
Ensnared in the abyssal black.
of its infernal shade.
Scott Nixon Aug 2011
The Lizard King drinks from his goblet.

The wood sprites flitter and flit from tree to tree.

The colossus eats his fill.
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
a lover of movies sets a chair in a field. sits the pillow here then there upon it.

his daughter her new trick is to bell the head of a spoon to her nose. to move is grotesque.

up close their house looks merely bigger.

her strange shoulder he sees it same as her fall down three steps. sees it without looking.

the spasms, the dormant minutiae of curse that by their accident of suddenness have killed held mice, continue.

mice the minions of mute thunders; the exiled scars of clouds.

the deaf curvature of your knee,
the low nod behind you of a humble balloon; these I address that I have returned the lover of all things made

his chair might the monstrous pass.
Overwhelmed Nov 2010
I keep seeing the image of a giant
looking down at the world
fearful to walk for crushing those
he can barely see

It comes to me
as I walk to class during the week

It comes to me
as I talk to friends on the weekend

It comes to me
as I think of anything and everything,
and for the sake of god,
I cannot shake it

It comes to me
as a whisper
nibbling at my ear
then
a screw
that burst my eardrum
telling me to
write
Write!
WRITE!

write for the sake of all that is holy,
all that you value, all that is good,
of the giant that you see in yourself,
and the ants you in see in others.

and I cower to its yelling at first,
but then I grow firmer, taller, bolder,
rising bit by bit to face the monster
living in the back of my mind

by the time I stop my growth
I am the size of sky scraper

Everest looking cowardly below
and my beast looking a microbe
at my feet.

this is when I topple

I do not aggress my shadow
for I know it poses no threat

so I fall
down
down
down
my back moving
forward
my head not seeing
where
I am to
go

I fell down
happily
hoping
for the warm covers of my bed
and a good night’s rest
to greet me
on a roll, but I think this is the last of the night.
Bronze giant, you angelic beast
oh! how you stand there.
When we, the people, so small,
gander in awe at your
mortality.
Stand upon thy vacant river,
stand there in your never-changing emotion
a heroic, stoic state of pure awesome.
Be wary of the wind and the ever-flying gull.
May he regret the moment he did drop on thy limb.

Stand there, oh great one, and let us hear your secret!
No?
Never have your words been spoken,
never will they you speak,
but thy message, by all is known.
At first I've thee known by word of mouth,
but now am taken aback.
The greatness before me stood before many,
as Rhodes did you erect.

Yet
now bewildered we stand,
as I have of thee grown fonder,
just yesterday, here you stood
and now you have but
wondered.
Overwhelmed May 2011
he rises out of cold sands
stone eyes give way to stone
faces
his teeth are rare jewels
yet lack value
or
desire

he disturbs the dunes

silently

he tears cacti
from the ground
by their
roots

he lets
scorpions
hide in
his grainy
skin

his music
is the chirping
of dying
insects

his movements sound
like the evening wind

he travels to the rock pillar
in the desert somewhere,
seeking his answers like a
dog to his home

for years he travels,
shifting through the
sands,
and the desert grows
upon as if he never moved
in the first
place

he will find the place he seeks,
one day,
and he will talk with
snakes about things
snakes do not know
about

his rough lips will quiver
his hard eyes will well
his soft mind will bend
his old hands will clench

he will talk religion
with souls full of
deception
and
make decisions
on the advice of committed
liars

he will go from that place,
head full of answers,
and wander through the sands
until he wears away

and where he finally rests
his mighty shoulders
for the last time
there will stand a simple mark
to say he had once existed
and that he never once
suspected his
murderers
Lei Hopwood Jul 2014
Tinker,
Blightsteel cast,
Infecting,
Correcting Realms,
Trample Past,
Indestructible,
Victory incorruptible.
11/11
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