"concussive" poems
This world we live in is terribly cold
Stone hearts will chill your bones
**** your soul or so I have been told
By experiences of varried tones
If you could travel through
A mile or two in my shoes
You would lose your mind
And leave reality behind
Just like I did in a devilish bid
To try and find hope,
And a way to cope
With this life so morbid
Dealing with years of abuse
Each time I would reduce
And shelter my mind away
Blocking out the violent foray
The constant concussive ridicule
From parents with a wrathful rule
Their constant battery to my psyche
Has left me with barely any sanctity
Of mind, soul, and heart
All piles of rubble before I could start
So when I wander yonder, I cart
Around my dead childhood
Through this broken neighbourhood
While I wear an obsidian hood
So people don't see the real me
Enough said, it would fill you with dread
Because if only you could see
The face behind the mask,
You might finally know me
In a deeper sense, my task
The method to my madness
That I am acting under duress
I might impress upon your life
What it means to go through strife
You may have done worse deeds
But you didn't have to live your life on Speed.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony
the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows
****
*****
*****
all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion
once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ********** had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women
if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support
don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty
riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist
it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
slut-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance
either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete
in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like
****
*****
*****
and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term
feminist
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Seldom am I so direct,
Like Wayne, Parker, Kent,
I prefer my subterfuge.
But these words are penned
(figuratively speaking)
by the penultimate,
tumultuous,
and often callous wordjockey
yours truly.
As I've said, I'm seldom
more than the sum
of my company kept
*[let slip,
reacquainted,
self-righteous reconciliation,
regret, repeat]*
And today, I find
myself
writing thrice,
twice toward pride,
once of consequence.
Que sera sera.
I'm lead like a horse
who had to drink -
or perhaps imbibe?
your softly streaming sentences,
words which kicked like a mule.
Remember, I was hoarse,
parched.
On that parchment, I find these words:
I am a cause...
Truth at last, truth at last,
Thank God almighty...
...you know the rest.
I stand on this principle -
that I cannot stand at all
sin ustedes
your words the salve,
my words the therapy.
"Progress."
Just Cause.
Now, waxing on
toward the triumphant,
anthemic Aye!
If you are the cause and the casualty,
then each daily account
of what might be made martyrdom
should be cannon.
Am I eliciting allusions and assumptions?
Inadvertently, but then precariously so.
So the pieces fall,
the causality, literary
the eventuality, progressive.
Aye, we are naught but what
we are made of by others.
So each concussive consonant chips and chisels
off the ol' block.
To a good Mister John Henry,
my gratitude.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
(i am my only captor)
i've missed possibility
and the 3.15 to ecuador
won't quit its wreckage
nor its descent, a mist,
wistful through glass
i'd rather shatter
in a fit of impulse
in a fit of anything
in the fit of a blue bottle in your hand
or mine (either way i'd feel concussive)
and the fit of a moldavite splinter
in the palm of the kneeling woman
accepting your absinthe-stilled rage
so her little ones' heels wouldn't
and every time you walk through my door
i'm tempted to say welcome home,
but the way you hit the pillow at night
itches my fingers to report abuse
and none is meted but to you,
so i write my greatest love-letter
upon your thoracic vertebrae
and whisper security through
your cell window pajamas,
and wait 'til hours before
first light to do it all again
when you wake.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.
Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.
Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.
At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.
No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.
I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.
But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:
"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******** burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"
He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.
And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
We blew into bars
like we had nothing to lose.
Disco ***** & ***** tonks,
beach clubs or The Ritz,
it didn’t matter,
we were oblivious
to the surrounding action.
A brotherhood of unknowns,
we were usually drunk,
ready to strike
anywhere,
anytime,
we could even
drop in from the sky
on command,
sober.
Like cobras, we
had venom running
through our veins,
our hearts pure,
but mess with us,
heads would definitely roll.
I was good with
concussive-devices too.
Once I threw one
into a pit of vipers,
heard it explode,
saw the aftermath,
so drinking in bars ain’t ****
I love cheap perfume.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
The vile gas in my ***
would create a concussive blast.
Similar to the cast,
"Go Squirtle, Hydro Blast!"
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC
Crouched by the lakeside I grasp
a small stone, same as all its neighbours:
no jagged cliff-shorn shard of concussive weather
to be sent pounding across the surface,
but a smooth, round pebble, who traces a single arc
then vanishes from sight –
and the growing ring of ripples
the only testament to its passing.
As I wander on,
the waves of my lone effort are fading.
Yet, as each passing stranger
adds their own voice,
every wave harmonizes,
compounds upon its predecessors,
and once still waters accelerate
towards a resonating crescendo.
And my pebble rests below the surface,
unaware of the exultation above,
until wandering currents sweep it up,
back onto the lakeside once more.
I arise from my idle contemplation,
and pour myself in.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
The Last Doughboy
went marching home
mustered up to heaven
to rest in perfect peace
never went over the top
when he was over there
drove an ambulance to save
the last dying bits of humanity
excavated from the craters
reeking with mud and blood
the turgid stench
of blessed death
wafts through the
muddled labyrinth
a ghastly kingdom
of rats and men
intractable mazes
of hate, hope and waste
led by inept generals
vainglorious politicians
promising triumphant victory
while begging disastrous defeat
bold shouts of advance
lead to routed retreats
global trench warfare
the sweet earthen coffins
empathy's last gasp
compassion's last stand
gurgling lungs
gagging on gas
imploding on
clotting blood
liquid ammonia
sears sensitive retinas
wafting flash of fire
burns eyes forever shut
concussive bursts
bludgeon eardrums
ripped bodies of friends
splayed onto comrades
the macabre rouge
a terrible war paint
liberally applied
with stunning result
by the industrial rattle
of cantankerous Gatlings
better minds thought it
the war to end all wars
the horrific scenes of waste
the pleading lips of starved children
the last Doughboy saw it all
a lucky Johnny who marched home
he thought the horror of WWI
would be enough to end all wars
yet all is not quiet
on the western front
Johnny's still got lots
of gruesome guns
distressed humanity
remains very busy
carting away human rubble
from our apocalyptic trenches
go to your reward
valiant Doughboy
*"leave us citizens
of death's gray land,
drawing no dividend
from time's tomorrows."
Siegfried Sassoon*
Dedicated to
Frank Buckles
(February 1, 1901 – February 27, 2011)
Godspeed Beloved
Oakland
3/1/11
jbm
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
A group of friends,
A gathering,
Overlapped
And away,
Persists
Where all know all
With,
"You think you know me?"
In the all too honest background.
An answer to the above –
Our assumed empathy exists,
When truthfully
It truthfully eludes -
"You think I know you?"
"I"
Or rather the
"We" in the "here"
And "now" -
A lesser form,
And not our truest,
Hides the "real" and deep within.
Each has a pain,
Relatively at least
And perhaps our only concrete notion
Of who the "other" is.
A non-biological truth
Founded upon
A shared organic ancestry
Where
The skeletons in the closet
Translate as -
Lacks of ambition,
Ambiguous futures (at best),
Swept away addictions
And tears in the night,
Torture.
We shed our daily frown,
For a fake smile,
A facsimile
And play for the pains we do not share.
It’s a place
Where the hidden words,
The bad words,
The blasphemous words
Slip -
"Help me!"
And just as quickly
Retract -
"Never mind."
We hide it deep
And hide it well,
Because it's when it's
Shared
That we become what we try to
Avoid -
Attached
And in fear of losing
Each other.
Thus remains –
The ********** of perception.
As we hold to this
State of confused,
Or concussive,
Happiness.
And only later will we all cry,
As we've all gone home
And alone.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
Inflection detection in wording circumspection.
Emotion induction from sentence construction.
Thinking,reckless, breathless.
Intrepid interpolated meaning interpretation.
Conclusive concussive membrane concussive.
Paranoid, panoramic, irrational.
Dogmatic denial Vexing act servile.
Divisional divisive delusional decisive .
Thinking,reckless, breathless.
Paranoid, panoramic, irrational.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC
Burn the one that flies with the raven of midnight hair,
Words in concussive form. altering thoughts of those
Fed syllables of meaning who were under the influence.
No longer a puppet, they are now consumed by what
Expels those corruption. Fire cleanses their body, mind
Purification of the soul of impurities of word.
She was the whisperer of old moments forgotten, but
Spoken in her diluted tongue, but those of uninformed
Words, silence their saviour, a weapon against word.
They rallied before us, language of hand silent words,
She spoke to no avail, her tongue mesmerizing, but
Weakness to the silent tongue, shackled, sealed, silent.
We were of weakness to even a whisper, but they watched,
Governed over the wordless power. She did burn that night,
And as did so, ravens feathers fell like ash upon the floor.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
On a cold winter’s night with the streets dark and still,
We converged at the Pillar with a plan and a will.
We placed sticks of dynamite Around and inside-
enough to send Lord Nelson upon his last ride.
In the wee hours of morning The fuses were lit.
We ran like mad devils so we wouldn’t get hit.
The concussive explosion made Lord Nelson fly.
Many windows were shattered, But nobody died.
It was fifty years on since our brothers in arms
Had proclaimed the Republic For which so many died.
The skyline’s been altered To reflect Erin’s pride.
The might Brit hero Will never again
Lord it over our Dublin Or free Irish men.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
so exercise is the logical conclusion.
illogically, my matted lack-of-a-
shower and my swollen lymph
node to the point of painful
swallows speak nothing in
the way of 'yes' or 'no.'
At this point,
I'm just lonely and jealous of the worlds
'okay,' and can't be bothered with little
touchies like- oh, perhaps she meant it?
we meant it, by any measure. concussive
doubts rain on my soul like laughter,
intention; lymph node aches as I chew.
time to call a doctor. time to call a dr.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
The mass vascularity is finally revealed as the voice on the phone beckons
"are you ok?" & "im scared."
Lifting yourself off the tile floor
It was once a harsh stone white
it's stained with sanguinous face prints
Your weakened, concussive reply
"if you're not scared what are you?"
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Sometimes there’s nothing left but the wolves.
cornered
confused
concussive silences
broken by howls
rivers of bile
iron filings
choked upon truths
landslide mind
sleep apnea
retinal scan
unidentified
alone
rivers of isolation
mercury tears
that don’t fall
they well
stay in the sockets
waiting for the next wave
numbness
sterilized
mechanical
depressive state
mauled.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:07 PM UTC
Sheltered under a tree of naivety.
Family failing to exist.
Each eye gazing above.
Dwarfed by clouds of misfortune.
Little flower holding on tight.
Doesn't seem to surrender without a fight.
Trickling leaves brush away.
Thunderous roar, bark decays.
Swarling winds with cyclones around.
Dancing words twist profound.
White fades to black.
Situation echos something nil.
Ending with a concussive shock.
Hands retrieve a golden watch.
Time sits still, unwilling to move.
Though, it's over; it's nothing new.
Argument interrupts tranquility.
Child left speechless, wondering "why?"
Shadows doom them all.
Together they cry.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
curl up on my floor with me
and tell me who you want to be
and wish that you and i were eternal
like we did once before
curl up in that chair with me
and hold onto me while i read
about the problem i cant rid myself of
like we did once before
curl up on my bed with me
and make me to feel endlessly
with the magical way you've taken me
like we did once before
i hate to miss you but you know how much i do
you're the only reason i even want to write
and you're the only reason i even want to try
and you know you're the reason i wake up
and you know you're the reason i get up
and you know you're the reason i'm sitting here
and you know you're the reason that i smile
but you don't know exactly how many times
you've been just stupid enough to save my life
and, darling, i love you over a billion times
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
*** one measly **** sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
We are martyrs of deaths breath,
concussive retribution for living
in the light of decay.
Matter is a virus of consumption,
exhausting the filaments
of extended fulfilment that will never
be quenched.
But death is the saviour of existence,
collecting on the overture of a
living rhythm, what sang to loudly
now nullified beyond continuality.
The martyr did linger in disparity
for life was a creation, but existence
is but greed. So let all ponder the
expenditure of self and repercussions
of what existence brings to all.
Death isn't an enemy,
its the saviour of existence.
Coalescing the need for continuity.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
I would take a walk
Through lava flows and rapids raging
Take a look to the sky
And grab the furthest star I see
If the hand offends you
Cut it off
Cut away
I cut out
I am not afraid of death
I'm afraid of life
Like this
And modern battle fields
Next to my head the bullets singing
Concussive blow
My vision weak, my ears ringing
If the belief you hold
You live for it
You die for it
I am reborn
I am not afraid of death
I'm afraid of life
Like this
And I jump off the edge
Into the great unknown
I would close my eyes
And let my spirit lead me on
And I would gladly risk
No thought of a reward
I would close my eyes
And let my spirit guide me home
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Black clouds rage nearby.
Concussive flashes thunder.
Milk and tears rain down.
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 2:00 PM UTC
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 3
Bad Morning, Viet-Nam
No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay
No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not **** Mortars do not crump.
There is no rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;
They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC