"concussed" poems
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.
the concussed ****** of booming youth.
omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.
son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.
his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.
blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.
son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.
he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
i really do wish you no harm.
i hope you don't get pocket lint on your dum-dum,
because that would be tragic.
i hope the next girl you date doesn't bite.
even though, you deserve a gnarly girl
who can get low down and gritty.
i pray you don't fall going up the stairs
and slide all the freaking way down.
i wouldn't want a concussed friend
now would i?
i cross my fingers and shut my eyes,
wishing you a pretty girl with perfect teeth
and pale skin
and an american accent cuter than mine.
in bar. or no- in a basement.
i would never wish you the worst hangover that
you've ever had
with a headache so bad
you feel like you tried to go out with a bang (literally)
like kurt d. cobain, and survived.
if you aren't an uneducated swine and know who that is.
i hope you never feel heartache like this.
feeling your chest tighten with anvil heavy memories
and sun-kissed, barebacked truth because
you had to let go what you love
and love what you let go.
crying when you see "message me i get bored x"
in their bio on a tuesday night, for the first time in six months.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Since I could remember
My heart has balanced
Along such a thin line
Of right and wrong
Love and hate.
The line already stretched
To the extremes.
Taught with fear and uncertainty.
Tension reached its maximum
When that day came 'round.
Ever since that day
When I learned the truth.
The day my eyes were forcefully
Peeled open by dull razors.
That day the line faded
And the tight rope snapped.
With no line to follow
My heart fell.
Now concussed,
Delirious and confused.
My heart wanders between worlds.
Never certain of who it is
Where it was or
How it should be.
-Kevin Robert Rose
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Jet sets all corners
Neither here nor there
Touchdown low profile
Flashy car speeding past
I use to live there as a delinquent
The sounds of the sirens got them hooked hopeless wanton
The incantations echoes in minds
That feeds the Insomniac
Our new hellos And goodbyes
Are only apparitions
Partly clichéd partly prodigal
Until we see them concussed
shredded in colours of shade and shame jolted by our own pain...
Slain into a state of compassion
Our hearts prepare a banquet
On a budget of prodigious love
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
i love you so,
i am reverent to every poorly healed broken bone
the ones that click
and never quite fit
i respect your dark memories,
because though they haunt
they made you what you have become
i am awed by the way you cloak your emotions
it makes every escaped smile much more potent
i am relieved by your insecurities
because they fit well with my impurities
i adore the way your palms sweat
before any sort of test
your ADHD,
fascinates me
i love you so,
from your concussed head to your ugly toes
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
me me me all me ** **** HOho ****
this the nature of the snowmen snowing
Peruvian wind blowing, hoping hoping
wonder wander with an all-night eyes-
-play-trickz and shout strange figures
peripheral dandruff / cigar / concussed
mental image of an addicts bloodied
scabs
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Something great is happening for me,
regardless of the situations I see;
my Lord is working behind the scene
and I have been spiritually weaned.
Walking by faith and not by sight,
insures that I sleep well at night.
Happily I enter daily into His rest,
knowing that I’m divinely blessed.
I’m often filled with peace and joy,
when sacred Scriptures are employed;
with a heart of a believer’s trust,
I overcome the pain of being concussed
in all aspects of my humble existence.
Despite hardship, I’m going the distance.
Elevating faith with a spiritual upgrade,
I pray with confidence- having been swayed
by the absolute Truth of God’s holy Word.
With a poetic voice, my soul is spurred
to write Christian verses unto my Lord,
as His strength, from my spirit is poured.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Mark 9:23; Acts 16:31; Jam 2:23;
Rom 15:13; Heb 4:3; John 11:40
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Nourish the minds all around.
Yours may lack a strong foundation
easily withered
Easily shaken- concussed.
But nourish the minds all around.
They will give your mind reason to thrive.
They will return the favor.
But if it's too late , the wisdom given to the minds will not perish but enter the everlasting cycle of apportioning to other minds.
Wisdom is knowledge.
lack of wisdom is lack of knowledge.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
it starts with such innocence
the roles of nurse/mother/babysitter
always have i slipped
into far too easily
it starts with a drunk man
a hurt man
a problem child
with giant man-child problems
it starts with a text
‘can we talk I’m lonely?’
‘can we talk I’m concussed?’
‘can we talk I need comfort?’
it starts with my answer.
‘sure let us talk and walk.’
‘awe don’t go to sleep.’
‘yeah I’ll be right there.’
it starts with small talk
small talk moves inside
inside moves upstairs
upstairs moves to a bed
it starts with sleep
simple chaste sleep
back to back sleep
under separate sheets
sleep
it starts with a roll
“you’re comfortable”
"you calm me down"
wrap me in strong, gorgeous arms
it starts with arms
arms and legs and faces
all tangled up and groggy
groggy with sleep and alcohol
it starts with awake
I am now awake
man-child kissing my face
still wrapped in his arms
it starts with surrender
surrender and melting
melting into man-child
all his beautiful problems mine
it starts with passion
sculpted chest heaving
hearts racing
lips and hands groping
it starts with leaving
now sober and guilty
satisfied and exhausted
handsome still
it ends with alone
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 10:10 PM UTC
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two, is:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/
The music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtube_gdata_player
~~~~
Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes
In vanity,
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:
Did not Mary
have her cherries
by command?^
But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"
June chilled.
But not chilling
Today, on a overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters
Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution
Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my
labors past and future,
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots
Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more
Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied
In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine
This note,
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute
Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold
Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated
Though the reign of the heavens
doth suffer violence, and
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
I
"*We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you.*"
–Erica Jong
ah, this side of paradise!
there's no comfort in the wise,
no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was
taught to, half cancer half plant,
wait around for the next one.
*ever feel like a ****** I'd asked her
once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.
no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.
I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?
it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,
stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.
she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a
case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.
Right?
I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.
I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?
You need to tell me what's wrong!
I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?
You are funny if you think I responded.
I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.
My silence was a story in itself.
II
"*You loved a man who spoke
like greeting cards.
'He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.'"*
– Erica Jong
It was ultimately guilty,
this time removed from pleasure.
The whole situation, blows to the face
and little slaps of course,
I felt the need to send myself into
a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot
but then would wake up again
because that would mean they won
and this is why I concussed myself once.
He tells me he cares and it's not
that I don't believe him but
it's that I don't believe myself.
I apologize for my being a burden and
he asks me why.
I suppose I am used to it
and if I could stare at him
it would be the same old stare.
*"We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues."*
– Erica Jong
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
You are like a moving poetry and I am the poet.
You are the dark cloud and I am the little sunshine.
You're the cliffhanger that hit my head.
You're compelling me to write.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
.your jealous words
will make a fool of you.
unstable.
creating that bubble of security.
talked into it.
talked out of it
concussed and confused.
the truth lies south.
the world changes and anger ensues those whom have lost themselves.
in losing what i thought was a drop of serenity, humanity, singularity,
i found what i had been missing.
i found the most profound feeling in my mind again,
reazlizing what i was supposed to be filling my life with.
it was the most beautiful of temporary spells.
descrete in meaning,
overwhelming in form.
i reached that treasure in my heart that i had lost to the pirates of time so many moments ago.
reached out my palms and let the time flow through my fingertips.
the unatainable love for life had been captured and caged.
my reality is full and quenched.
so rare,
i describe to you.
silken petals drawing in all the waves of the world,
the things ive lost create the realization of what i really have inside my cup.
im jolting through the golden fields,
swimming gracefully through the torrents of the sea.
calm.
breathing seems to calm the harshest seconds passing through.
emotions sturred, whipped, beat like the yolk of desert.
in the end it rises.
the last ingredient in realization for the now.
this is the most beautiful day the world has ever presented my entity with,
and tomorrow, well the morrow shall wait up for me and give the next gift for mine eyes.
exitement inhales.
my words spill as the paint on your canvas.
i am my reality.
possibility.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
You tried to stab me in
the back, but your blade
was dull, but even though
it didn't cut.
You never the less kept on
stabbing I was bruised, concussed
from the impact of your lies,
whispers behind my back
but friends knew you were
a wolf hiding as a lamb.
Your knife was blunt but it
still left a scar..
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Now you may be thinking
Nero? why are you attacking TV?
why can't you let it go, let ratchetry be ratchetry?
well I'll tell you in this well planned verse
I hate reality tv, go ahead, get the hate mail out and curse.
I hate reality TV because it isn't reality
just a bunch of talentless people fighting, setting impossible standards didn't speak to me
now if the show is a competition then I'll let it slide
at least you have to have a skill and not just be easy on the eyes
But love and hip hop, Mob and Basketball Wives
should really be dead by now, I'm really surprised
that they've lasted this long what's wrong can you see they're about as smart as a rotted log or a concussed king Kong?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
It's treacherous to believe that a person is more than a person
I never really understood this line
till now
It really is treacherous
misleading
feeds your thoughts
that person loses her identity
she just becomes an idea.
and you my dear believe in that idea of her
so strongly you forget who she is.
don't
Because one day reality would come along
and turn the switch on to bring gravity back
leaving you waking up on the concrete floor
concussed and crying
bleeding and dying
cheated of feeling
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
I collected the currency of my failings inserting voices
into the deluge of my figurine dancing on the precipice
of my tainted visage.
But I was short of necessitates, fraudulent reimbursement
was reincorporated, and I was woven unwept as the distresses
of what I had done wove upon my silhouette.
Blank verses were woven on my pools of sky blue, now vacant
only snow flakes of nothingness fell on my perception.
I was not as before I was whole but concussed in creation.
Interwoven, incomplete essences of me. I wasn't that which
was reflected outwards, all that was now interlaced in an
abomination of false reflections and I paid the ultimate price.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
Why you...angel--why you...to peep through
the finality of white walls?
To overspread the concussed skull that bangs
against them to keep time...why you?
Why were you born against a spillage of air
in a freefall of wings?
Nothing...absolutely nothing... between your
wings, save for what you will embrace in that
freefall...why you?
Schooners rounding earth's violet aura--
dissolving into the transcontinental bestiary
of souls...why you?
You are what shone through the breakage
of humanity--you are the emanation of our
breakage...why you?
You...legions of you...fence the Romantic's
chimerical stead...only to retain the character of
what implants itself face first...as so you.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:05 AM UTC
Suave, Brave Knight! Lad's Sun lifted from the Kings
Fast-prone be-take adjust to your Bold's End
Or Barker, at least which your Macho sings
Tug-post the Ladies grieve their Virtues spend
Shall I sift your Flour? Else compile your own
Fold and Stir beneath such Dough's Lot about
Or whistle the Dogs; Howl their Silence blown
Feed-off the Bones which cannot live without
Yet somehow, still, restrict Themes to discuss
Purse through Wares involved then reveal his ***
Might as well, be Everyone's Chains concussed
Absorb his Wrongs; Then divert his own Hex.
Makes un-sense, doesn't it? Such as your mind
The Swan's Install; Of Verbs perverted find.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
to the moon i went skimming all the
puddles piling!on the trunks o
f
the
floral ocean bending passionately waxy
devotions to a silken sphere
dazzling pearl sharp littles
O, how cleanly stubborn the ridge concussed
velvety brushes salt the earth iridescent,
dreamy sky cream pillow the brows of all the upturned
lashless lids craving your milk blood
silver it like a:
s
i
n;
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
i give up
seems like
i've been using
that line more
and more recently
the fight is no fun
anymore
old bones don't move
like a butterfly no more
and it seems the bees keep
swarming
while i've run out of stings
too many blows
to the head and heart
severly concussed
and fading fast
there are
other young bulls
sneaking in the ring
where i wish to escape
let them breathe in
that spotlight
see how many fights
they can win before
they're out cold
wish them the best
i need out
i need out
but it aint easy
you live the ring for so long
you don't know the outside
anymore
where the women aren't
throwing jabs at my head
heart like a punching bag
as i grow older
grace is wasted on the graceful
now i'm nothing
but a beat up old man
with no wife and no lovers
out of the ring and into the freezing cold
a world i can't seem to remember
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
we two are architects
building, forming one silhouette
laying the foundations of our future
and we transfer these unspoken plans
through our clasped hands
two beings of mass pressed close
and I can feel your warmth, how most
of your soul leaks through those eyes
and tries, to funnel me in
although I'm already running
the world rotates around our stillness
it cares not that we've found fullness
in each other's hold, but it sees
and it believes in our treasuring of the other's parts
and so spins quietly while we still our hearts
some people walk by and wonder
how two humans could be struck asunder
by the need to be together
for our lifespan, for forever, and how concussed
we feel by love
we two are architects, building something pure
forming something more
than anyone, even ourselves can understand
as we transfer the connection
through our hands
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC