"condoning" poems
Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?
It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The **** of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!
Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off
In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm ***** and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.
It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.
The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.
The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,
Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!
The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.
How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.
The man with gray hands smiles --
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'
Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
7.8k
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
the robber sneaks into
my space of illuminating
sadness
trying to piece together
the things that make me
tick
soon enough he thinks
he has it figured out
placing screws in the abyss,
knowing that if I tock he did
something
wrong
i want to tell him that
nothing will work
no matter how hard
he tries
my hands are broken and nothing
will ever
make them tick again
as much as they can try
as much as i'm already turning my
cogs to start again
the robber takes my broken hands
but just for a bit
"let me borrow them" he says
when he brings them back they are
rusty and used
i want to tell him that it hurts to tick,
how just because i was condoning
the robbing; i wasn't accepting it.
but i don't say a word
i just croak a broken tock
and let him rob me
all over again
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.
The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.
The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.
Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.
Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.
The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.
The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.
The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
grand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
giggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.
The Decider
decides.
Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone
Oakland
3/3/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Edited by Maple, because mine was a rant nobody but she was supposed to indulge. Hahaha. See. I wasn't intending on trending.
I knew a wretched person once. And then. She died.
Now. Condoning death is the fastest method for becoming THE social pariah - for future reference.
But my god. I hated her. I really did. Not simply me; most of our peers felt similar. At least, they did till it was no longer appropriate.
See. Morgan was a ruthless psychopath.
And then she was dead.
Now. As a stranger, if you were to lurk her Facadebook, you'd think she'd been some ethereal messiah. Her web page is now trampled with laments. Kinda like the stampede that killed Mufasa. Her present facadebook now marks a day the devil became synonymous with our homegirl, Momma Teresa.
In what world, right?
The details of the fatality remain insane. Ranging from Ketamine to ****** But I won't illustrate them. Go see it yourself - on Doctor ******* Phil.
And they call me crazy.
Anyways.
I'm sorry, but she was a maniacal parasite with love like shrapnel. She destroyed her lovers, her family, her arsenal of friends by habit. And she did this for fun. So, again, I'm sorry. Sorry I am hardly sorry she died.
That's a lie, though. I'm not sorry at all.
Karma is candy. I'm happy she's gone. Never again to crumple and crush her loved ones to mush as mere eggs to her morning omelette.
And our world is a happier place.
Sue me.
for whatever reason this will not publish or save this particular recount
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Conservatives cannot admit
that the White Nationalists were wrong
"But what about Black Lives Matter.
But what about the Alt-Left.
But what about what Fox News said.
But what about what our ******* cartoon of a president said."
Think for yourself.
You are feeling bad for Neo-Nazis.
They killed people.
They have a history of killing people.
They would **** everyone that isn't white.
This country has become disgusting.
A large portion is defending the actions of terrorists.
White Nationalists, ISIS--
They are, literally, the same.
You cannot be peaceful
when it comes to Nazis.
By sympathizing with them,
you are condoning them and creating more.
The only good **** is a dead ****
Be a ******* person,
think for yourself,
recognize true evil
when you see it,
you brainwashed *****
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
How ironic to not seek the tools yet drool on them
To see the instruments and break down like a phlegm
How naïve of us to use the gym as an excuse
To prolong it, as if it were drug use
Some call it dopamine others call it clarity
Most see an opening to showcase their barbarity
Called less of a man to those "better off"
Called less of a woman to those showing pictures with their sweater off
Lust driving companies to show children compromised
We see these plaything while revenue boosts the enterprise
Anime, video games, novels and Tv
Nothing seems too extreme for these mediums
Beheading, shredding, **** and made "Dream-like"
Topics have been explored beyond their tedium
**** is accessible and Ai makes your dream man
Merge yourself with your idol beyond the imagination of a regular Stan
Be praised for wearing Japanese *********** and condoning said behavior
Treat somebodies feet pics like your very own savior
The beast wins not with wit, but with a pattern
To catch us in the act frozen still like Saturn
Internet connections show us the milky way
And your hands remain adamant, your mind filthy
The beasts doesn't care of November, nor valentines or about your crush
It waits to clamp you, and turn you into dust
Too ashamed to seek humanity, too far gone to find morality
Repeated until insanity, Your mouth blurting profanities
And yet we blame the beast when our relationships end or we cant break a ***** habit
Then try to pray to catch up to the Sabbath
Why Lie to the beast and to ourselves?
To those who use their hands or run to cheap hotels
Is *********** more worthwhile than redemption?
The beast is with me as I type this, judging my every move
It laughs, uses slurs and denying my attempts to improve
It lives in you, no matter how content you are with your sexuality
And does its all to destroy your Mentality
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 8:41 AM UTC
People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments
Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need
And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
it was tragic day in glenelg adelaide when the beaumont children were killed
and i can say, when greame thorne was thrown to the sharks and killed
he was reincarnated as grant beaumont, the youngest of the beaumont children
who was a bright little kid, who loved to catch the bus with his two eldest sisters
and glenelg was the place they went, and they loved the beach there, for it was
very nice to swim in, but on australia day 1966, they disappeared and were killed
and they were seen no more, and despite me saying, grant beaumont was reincarnated
into the body of myself, brian allan and since that day, i have thoughts of those kidnappings
from greame thorne and grant beaumont, and brian allan was locked in a broom closet by two
stupid bullies and i hear voices of people condoning bullying and i hear voices i might kidnap
brian in a minute, why am i grant beaumont and greame thorne, because in 2004 i was psychotic
saying 60s music has satanical messages, which were these two tragic days in 1960 and 1966
i remember when we were taken, but my mind was a blur, when we were murdered, you see
i was suffering when grants feet were tied up in this man’s shed but it was hard for me to get out
you see brian allan used to tie himself up around canberra worrying people around canberra
and started to tie himself up again after going to adelaide for the second time in 2012 and
and a year after, i was sent to the psychotic episodes and i had voices of greame thorne being thrown
to the sharks and i entered glenelg beach which was the woden psych ward, and that was a vision
of grant beaumont entering the world and in 1966, he disappeared and was killed, and the soul of
cronus became scared of the world, yeah, i was scared that everyone was going to tease me and kidnap me
i know these kids are dead and yes, i want the world to remember them, but as far as the soul goes
greame thorne and grant beaumont is now brian allan and brian allan is suffering since these kidnappings
forcing the former life of albert waldron who was a famous footy star, but because the soul needed to understand
the criminal sides, but brian allan hates the idea of being a bad guy, he prefers to be a good guy
but i hear voices from australia of strange people looking tough and evil, the sixties was a tough year for
the soul of cronus
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
Forgive me.
Forgive me for not asking your forgiveness.
For not accepting you as a savior.
For not believing the mythology
embedded in the narratives.
For not condemning the subsequent religion
as inattentive to your instruction.
For condoning the charlatans
who steal money wielding your image.
For tolerance of the spiritual quagmire
permitting no advance.
For passiveness at the psychological torture
and centuries of persecution
performed in your name.
All in the name of an individual
who taught the simple supremacy
of Love...
Your memory deserves
a better testament.
-fr
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
Subsequently you resent thee,
for the loathing that you hide.
No condoning, just corroding,
as it's spiraling inside.
Subsequently you resent thee,
for the answers I sustain.
Condescending, your pretending,
that your mending hearts of pain.
Contradicting and deflecting,
all your negligence in vain.
While I'm condoning without showing,
beneath I see where truths remain.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Helpless
Cold
Shaking
Broken
Untouchable
Hardened.
Do you see what you've done?
You have
Premeditated
Considered
Lusted for control
Desired
Executed
Attacked
Left.
Her intoxication is not an excuse.
Her skirt did not scream
"Yes!"
The fact that she is passed out
Does not mean that she hopes to wake up
With you and your friends on top of her.
Silence does not equal consent.
When will these big shots in the government
Stop preaching about "legitimate ****
And other ******** that has to do
With a woman's ****** rights?
The church needs to stop condoning
Men giving into their whims
To dominate and control their wives.
Whether they're dating, married
Or freaking connected by a body part
If she says no
That ends it.
Period.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
a miniscule voice to work with
and a classic heart longing
for an audience to captivate
with its tales of crumbling
by the shots made from games she play
when the time dissolves ease
and words that keep a mind numb become disease
tears from our destinies flood the earth
the skies entice us into a departure
we're leaving the earth with congesting and dissonant waste
often in haste
we jump into anything promising to take us
a distance from here
issue a plan contingent
with a broken scar healing
in a sense, we all long to be heard
but noone can know what we mean
when our motive veils our words
when this time dissolves ease
and thoughts that keep a mind numb become disease
tears from our destinies flood all of earth
the skies entice us into a departure
we're leaving the earth with congesting and dissonant waste
often in haste
we jump into anything promising to take us
a distance from here
tragedy will condition our beliefs
designing a new path
into nods condoning the beauty
in destruction of self-inflicted progress
into tomorrow
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
One cannot
simultaneously
'follow' One
who taught the sacred virtue
of kindness
and the discipline
of empathy
and the wisdom
of compassion
allthewhile condoning
a hateful
and stratified
system.
The penultimate,
infinite,
impalpable,
ineffable,
immortal,
transcendent,
conceptual,
conscious Divinity
needn't a Temple;
for t'is existence, itself,
that is the Temple.
Further, I venture,
that t'is we:
the Mortal Divine,
the blinded,
muted,
deafened,
ignorant,
schismatic,
fractured,
lost,
material,
incredulous ephimerality
who seems to so need the Temple.
Who are we
to be so arrogant?
Why can't we just respect diversity?
What the ****
Life is sacred.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Skin
Too much skin.
Too much space.
Too many flashing lights.
Epilepsy.
Too much skin.
Carnal wishes without discretion.
Killing me.
Too much skin around me.
Too much skin for me too see.
Smoothly.
Lights pulsating under the layers.
I want to feel skin other than mine.
I've gotten tired of wasting time.
Coliding and condoning myself for not looking better.
For not making other layers of skin want mine the way I want them.
No-one particularly.
Tonight I just want to feel loved and I just ain't enough.
Skin.
Kilometers that my fingers want to run over.
Skin stretching over structured bones, taking the hues of the blood passing through.
How does it feel you fool?
To have someone love you thoroughly?
From your veins to nose cartilages ?
How does it feel tell me?
Incoherently I'm thinking if I can find love in my own skin.
Too used to it so negative.
Tell me how does it feel?
To have skin touch yours that is not evil?
How does it feel to not hate the skin you're touching?
How does it feel to love feeling?
Skin.
Too much skin.
Too much space.
Epilepsy.
How would one's skin ever survive loving me?
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
A neat disjointing:
Frost pricked by heat
melts; the rut of stone
jags at the eye no more.
A universal harmony
creates unnumbered stems:
the earth was never ******
Condoning the green
mutability of things, he corners
baby pheasants **** and hen calloohing in the scrub),
twists at the neck. Their eyes
pop with surprise. The good earth
will maintain this spawn gone wrong two ways.
He does not hear the clapping wings,
the hawk big with the misery of things.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
How could this have happened?
How did it first start?
I thought you needed a service,
Then go your way.
You, a man of honor,
A Manager of well-known Bank of Kamulu,
Well respected by everyone in town,
How could you fall for me?
I have never heard a man whisper to me,
Any word of romance or love,
They only come for a satisfaction and go,
But why you?
Do you remember when you came?
You promised it was just for an hour,
And never will I see your cute face again,
Neither will your feet lead to me again.
Have you gone, mad Sir?
To claim your love for a woman like me,
A woman whose reputation is much dented,
And her acts viler than a snake’s venom.
Don’t you feel ashamed to love me?
How will your colleagues and friends see you?
Do you think they will honor you again?
When they see you with a *****
Have you analyzed the loss you are creating?
By falling in love with me,
Have you foreseen what your boss will do?
Since the other day, I rejected him.
Imagine what your parents will do,
When they hear their only son,
Is getting married to a ***** in the city,
Do you think they will bless our marriage?
And what of the village elders,
Your Pastor who loves you so much,
Will they propose our marriage?
Since they are number one in condoning my business.
Will they really understand?
When I tell them it was not my wish,
To lead this life of immorality,
To treasure this life as if it was my only way to heaven.
Will they accept when I explain to them?
That I did this business for the survival of my family,
Will they really listen to me?
That life pushed me into this after my Dad rejected me,
And no one was there to fight for me?
Are you ready to stand firm and ignore the gossips,
“How can a whole manager marry a ***** like her? Uhu!”
While we walk down the aisle as couples,
Will you withstand those whispers and blows?
Have you given it a thought Sir?
How our children will feel when they hear,
Their mother was a ***** in the city,
Do you think they will respect me again?
Do you think your neighbors?
Will allow their children to interact with ours,
Since they hate ****** for taking their husbands,
While they spent nights lonely in their beds.
I love you and that’s the truth,
You have made me know what love is,
Though since my childhood love was a fairy tale,
But am sorry, marriage can’t work out for us.
It’s not that I am afraid,
But I fear you will lose your reputation,
You will become a laughing stock in town and in the village,
Not even your juniors will ever respect you.
I’m sorry Sir,
Please just make another choice,
I am satisfied with my life,
I don’t want to be another doom to your path to success.
I love you.
Goodbye.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
he wants the parts of me
that you covered with dirt
that you attempted to bury
as you sentenced my worth
↣
back when i would carry
the weight of your delusions
opening my heart
to a torrent of pollution
↣
and I have righteously concluded
that I don’t need to be a victim
of asking for permission
and condoning such convictions
↣
any more.
always working with precision
always living for your visions
and seeking your revisions
↣
i won’t walk around your shells
to stay as a guest in hotel hell
anymore.
↣
there’s no chance for our revival.
you're not an element to my survival
your presence was never vital
look at my face - now watch it smile
Goodbye, child.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
I have stood for
And witnessed
Arm up with hand raised
And a delicate finger hell bent
Like a Pope placing compassion
On an aging head
While he weeps
And tells his secrets
To someone he should consider
Only a man
Only a man
The nights have stood for it
They had taken their stand
With eyes of a moon
A crescent
In their part closure
I was told they would weep as well
And so I raised my hand
For the world
He was only a man
My hours wander
I trail them
And turn my head
To minutes past
Each tick emptying seconds
Into waiting
This hope holds anticipation
In my belly
Once the foreplay to lust
And wild ambition
The purgatory in it
A tremendous heaven promised
But only Hell
Only a man
Only a man
My thoughts dwell in the Nin
I read her desires
And find...
In his eye
My hair
And the extent of it
Into the stars
And their restlessness
The volumes of dreams
And perverse reality
Hold my comfort
blooming my confusion
Little FLowers
My lost home
The Delta of Venus
It might just be okay
My love
Wherever you go
I might be too
Even without you
You are only a man
It can be lonesome
In the wilderness
Once again
And you will not be alone in it
without my track beside you
You would like to hear my footfall
stop to bend
And ****** into me your river
your might gripping my hip
To have me plead your name
To beg for you
And pant you are a God
But I shade myself now in these thoughts
from any condoning
Of your deity
You are only a man
And I am my own woman
You do not hold my sensuality
Or my hand
To put it up
To lift it over your head
Without sight of me
While digging into my parts
You forget a disembodied soul
It's longing and need dismissed
No shelter in you
no home for it
I am only a woman
And with you a shell
Of pink and golden arching
That curved you a dynasty
And place to sleep
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 8:38 AM UTC
Unbeknownst to me if royal
gilded crests comprised
my rusty dust caked coat of arms
hence, I take liberty successfully farms
productive crop to contrive fictitious
Medieval Age forebears
with favorable charms
strong agile hands
hurling crude accouterments
centuries prior to invention of firearms,
which weapons (of mass sieve construction)
privy to proto gendarmes,
this inventiveness of mine conjures
courageous knights in shining armor,
perhaps monogrammed,
hammered chain metal,
nonetheless such endeavor quite a chore
where love's labors not lost,
viz hub bully accepting, condoning,
and employing embellishments extempore,
whereby solar rays alight,
flickr, and glint glore
re: us astral motifs, the stellar
craftsmanship one (even a poor,
indigent destitute beggar
like yours truly)
could not ignore
exquisite baldric, exotic, and heraldic
trappings incorporating magical lore
aesthetically pleasing
fascinating, and appealing to one poor
uneducated disheveled rhapsodic bohemian
incumbent jibber jabbering, hallucinating,
and fancying deplorable basket case to restore
himself, the legitimate true heir,
who could double as
courtly jesting troubadour,
whose slain grand papa Aaron Harris
violently ousted during Uber Vodafone War
constitutes dreamy gotcha your
attention fabricated and
facilitated to Zoar,
an actual ancient city
anachronistically inserted here
thanks to Lot, whose Biblical reference
Google made me aware,
which ye probably care
nary a fig about, but
placename linkedin mere
to allow, enable and provide bare,
lee tenuous appeal dare
ring me to trump
poetic formality near
rolly returning full circle (one tough Job)
manufacturing prevarication
recounting "FAKE" heir
essentially envisioning, imagining,
and jimmying gallant
high in the saddle career
timeless lifeline chess piece
of centuries gone by
enshrouded with reverence by this air
rent considerably less provocative
then missives by Baudelaire.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 10:07 PM UTC