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Third Eye Candy Jun 2013
teething on the knick in your lip, mind blinded.
seeping through dragonfly wings like syrup sunlight.
you emerge without an egg-tooth. draped in moist.
you loosen the nail in your coffin
with drowsy crowbars
and scones.
jad Sep 2013
There are places I have found. There are places that I have gone. People give strange looks with laughter in their eyes when a child walks off on her own into where the ground is not covered with cigarette butts and nothing is paved. Because of them, I go more often and I laugh louder. I have many of these places that are just for my brain and me to inhabit for a while. When I find a less temporary escape from the sickening truths of my own humanity, probably in an UFO, I hope to find others like me tagging along with the aliens that comes to destroy us. And we will all be laughing our ***** off; we saw this coming and packed our thoughts in airtight containers. For now, my thoughts are packed in a backpack with music, a hammock, and some seltzer water. I am walking to get out of here. I find myself getting lost in cornfields and peeing in the woods. It’s rejuvenating. Fresh air and headaches are a perfect match.
                    I am sitting, swinging, hanging from the dancing trees of the crack ******* forests. I think about how every time I chase a squirrel it attacks me. They are fluffy and cute but they want to get inside my house; they want to pry away at my poorly assembled pieces. I’m so unused to that attention and curious affection. I think about my subtly strange mannerisms and my lack of cautious paranoia. These things have had a tendency to intimidate, to make people leave the crowbars in the basement and eliminate any sort of prying. My attributes are intimidating to all but the squirrels. They only seem to see them as weakness. I am still swinging, but my hammock is slipping from the branches now, clinging onto them, a child to its mother. The instructions told me it could hold up to four hundred pounds but even I can hardly hold the weight in between my shoulders. Heavy thoughts are pulling me down. Ropes are slipping more and I can already feel my *** getting sore from this drop. But I do not get off. I keep swinging. My brain is telling my legs to move, my heart is screaming “Save me,” but my legs are not replying. I stay on this hammock, praying that my legs will pull me off before I fall to the ground. I am afraid of being even near to this littered ground. I want the heights. I call for help but only a sigh leaves my mouth. There is no one around to save me anyways. I chose a place in the woods; I chose a place that could grant me the illusion of seclusion…an escape from the trivialities taken too seriously. I cannot wait for someone because this slipping will not even wait for me. I will crash if I do not save myself. I try to coast and the swings get shorter and shorter until they have stopped and I am stationary. In moments I will have more broken parts than I can count.
                     I lie there silent, unmoving, not thinking any longer. Only waiting...finally, I hear snaps of the branches falling and breaking. The ground came up fast. It punched me. It crowded me. It abused me like a misguided lover. I do not wish to be in its arms any longer. But the ground is holding on to my bones, pulling me in. I hit it hard. The drop was farther than I expected. I have no feelings anymore. My nerves have shut off. I am scared. Someone take me some place safe, some place sound…no, take me some place wild. Lying on my back, numb and careless, my eyes are glued to the blueness of the sky above me. I am so relaxed. I hear screaming. I see blood, but I don’t feel pain. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I keep my eyes staring straight up at the view. I ignore everything but the wind-shaped clouds. My mind is gone, lost like all the rest of time. It wore away because I remembered too many times how my father’s hands smelled of sawdust and how they felt like the sandpaper he that used to make it. I try to avoid addressing the situation at hand, things are turning redder. My eyes are filling with blood and it is hard to see. I think about life and the lack of it. All it is really is just memories, without those the only thing that exists is right now. Which doesn’t exist anymore, it’s a different second, and now another. Life is nothing but the time we are losing. Maybe this view of the tree tops framing the sky will be the last thing I see, or maybe I will lay below them again tomorrow. I am glad that everyone must die. It is more beautiful that way.
                          I gulp, a gust of air fills my stomach and it feels like floating. I am still lying down. The smells of illegality, fire, and cut grass fill my ears just like music. Everything mixing together, all into one entity. I am the only thing alone, still lying on my back in the middle of some trees. The same trees I have been crowded by for all of these years, but dug up and replanted on the other side of the country. All of a sudden, I hear something pop. It is the elevation still stuck in my head, the headache I couldn’t defeat. The pain persists and all throughout my head the places and the people that I had made my home were telling me to stay. I am glad that I did not. There is no place or person who could carry my weight. I am my own constant. I am on the ground, just another fallen leaf,  and I am finding a place inside my brain in an attic of ideas where I can peruse the shelves and maintain my insanity. No matter if I am here or elsewhere, I must maintain. They will not make me sane, I won't have it.  Even the pain I feel now, sticks jabbing into my ribs and fear everywhere else, will not be enough to dull me.
                     I had dipped off the path to find myself away from what was familiar and now it pounds in my head, the lack of altitude. Without it my brain doesn’t know what to do. I am worried what I will become when I am alone here. I hear the chapel bells chime in, four rings and then they fade away. I still hear it ringing in my ear, though minutes have passed since it sounded…
                  Ringing…
        Ringing…
Ringing…

“H­ello?”
“Finally you pick up your phone, I’ve left three voicemails today…are you okay?”
“…”
jad Sep 2013
I am sitting, swinging, hanging from the dancing trees of the crack ******* forests. I think about how every time I chase a squirrel it attacks me. They want to get inside my house; they want to pry away at my poorly assembled pieces. I’m so unused to that attention and curious affection. I think about my subtly strange mannerisms and my lack of paranoia. These things have had a tendency to intimidate, to make people leave the crowbars in the basement and eliminate any sort of prying. My attributes are intimidating, but the squirrels only seem to see them as weakness. I am still swinging, but my hammock is slipping from the branches now, clinging on to them, a child to its mother. The instructions told me it could hold up to 400 pounds but even I can hardly hold the weight in between my shoulders. Ropes are slipping more and I can already feel my *** getting sore from this drop. But I do not get off. I keep swinging. My brain is telling my legs to move, my heart is screaming “Save me!” but my legs are not replying. I stay on this hammock, praying that my legs will pull me off before I fall to the ground. I am afraid of being even near to this littered ground, I want the heights. I call for help, only a sigh leaves my mouth. There is no one around to save me anyways. I chose a place in the woods; I chose a place that could grant me the illusion of seclusion…an escape from the trivialities taken too seriously. I cannot wait for someone, this slipping will not wait. I will crash if I do not save myself. I try to coast, the swings get shorter and shorter until they have stopped and I am stationary. In moments I will have more broken parts that I can count.

I lie there silent, unmoving, not thinking any longer. Only waiting...finally, I hear snaps of the branches falling and breaking. The ground came up fast…it punched me. It crowded me. It abused me, like a misguided lover. I do not wish to be in it's arms any longer. But the ground is holding on to my bones, pulling me in. I hit it hard, the drop was farther than I expected. I have no feelings anymore. My nerves have shut off. I'm scared. Someone take me some place safe, some place sound…no, take me some place wild. Lying on my back, numb and careless, my eyes are glued to the blueness of the sky above me. I am so relaxed. I hear screaming. I see blood. But I don’t feel pain. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I keep my eyes staring straight up at the view. I ignore everything but the wind-shaped clouds. My mind is gone, lost like all the rest of time. It wore away because I remembered too much about the times my father’s hands smelled of sawdust and how they felt like the sandpaper he used to make it. I try to avoid addressing the situation at hand, things are turning more red, my eyes are filling with blood. I think about life and the lack of it. All it is really is just memories, without those the only thing that exists is right now. Which doesn’t exist anymore, it’s a different second, and now another. Life is nothing but the time we are losing. I am glad that everyone must die, it is so beautiful.
I gulped, a gust of air filled my stomach and it felt like floating. I was still lying down. The smells of illegality, fire, and cut grass filled my ears just like music. Everything mixed together, all into one entity. I was the only thing alone, still lying on my back in the middle of some trees. All of a sudden, I heard something pop. It was the elevation still stuck in my head, the headache I couldn’t defeat. I had dipped off the path, away from what was familiar and now it pounds in my head, the altitude. Now without it my brain doesn’t know what to do, I only worry what I will become. I hear the chapel bells chime in, 4 rings and then they fade away. I still hear it ringing in my ear, though minutes have passed since it sounded…
Ringing…
Ringing…
Ringing…
“Hello?”
“Pick up your phone, I’ve left three voicemails today…are you okay?”
         "....."
Alyssa Jan 2015
It was 3 o'clock in the morning
and everything hurt.
There were ads for some movie I now vowed never to see
because I saw the freckles on your face in every dot above the "i",
I saw your arms spread eagle
the last time I saw you yelling
in every lower case "t",
I saw myself in every capital and lowercase "P"
because I can't remember
how many sentences I started or ended with "please"
and just in case
I wanted to cover all ground.
Not like spreading myself across the cement
because I don't quite want to jump,
but you were the only rooftop I've ever visited
that I haven't felt the urge to leap off of.

You, with the soft heart and heavy tongue,
you with the debatable blueprints but wonderful execution,
you with the kaleidoscope eyes and binoculars in hand.
I saw the potential of how much I could fall in love with you;
you didn't have to be the building with the most windows,
you didn't have to be that small flower shop
with the butterfly stickers next to the bank,
you didn't have to be the mistletoe
in the middle of a dimly lit street.  
You just had to be the rooftop to show me it was there.

But when the depression hit,
you locked the door
and I was stuck in the stairwell
staring through the windowpane,
trying to remember what the streetlights looked like in the dark
but you were so certain that everything shut off when you did
and you didn't want me to be sad too.
I tried to remind you
that when the sun comes up again,
everything will still be there,
everything will come alive in the morning
you just have to stay intact long enough to see it.
But I couldn't stay awake long enough to stop you from crumbling.

I woke up to rubble,
yellow police tape and detectives,
crowbars prying your locked door open.
I got invested
and now I'm being investigated
and interrogated
and "WERE YOU THE ONE WHO PUT THE BOMBS HERE".
No sir,
I only told him I couldn't stay awake for him.
I didn't mean to make him think
that I would rather be unconscious
than watch him self-destruct,
I just meant I felt comfortable enough
to wait until he opened the door for me again.
But he can't now.

And I can't lock my doors anymore.
"Aren't you afraid of what you'll let in?"
I'm more afraid of what's being let out.
Your ghost follows me around
and is far too large to fit through the dog door,
and I don't want to look at you when you leave.
So I stay right where I am,
sitting on top of my roof
but your cement blocks will never feel the same
as my slate shingles.
I would rather be made rubble by your ruin
than made shelter for someone else.
When I shut down,
the streetlights are still on,
that means the sun will rise
and I with the heavy heart and soft tongue,
I with flawless blueprints but too anxious to start,
I with the color-blind eyes and microscope in pocket,
will try again in the morning
to not look so much like the police lines you left.
Gabby Apr 2019
Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.
Big Virge Aug 2015
I've Heard These Words ...
... SO MANY TIMES ... !!!!!!    
    
"Virge, you've got,    
some, Radical rhymes !!!"    
      
I'm Really Beginning To Wonder WHY ... ?!?!?    
      
Could It Be Because I Speak My Mind ...    
And Am Not Shy To Speak About WHITES ... !?!    
      
RADICAL Can Mean ...    
Fundamental Inherent And ESSENTIAL ..... !!!    
      
But Use of My Mental ...    
Through Pad And Pencil ...    
Or Better Still .... PEN ....    
      
CLEARLY Causes Some OFFENCE ... !!!!!    
      
I'm Wondering When They'll See The TRUTH ... ?!?    
And Face Problems And STOP Suggesting ...      
That Guys Like ME Are .... " RADICAL MEN " .... !!!!!    
      
They Seem ... FRIGHTENED ... ?!?    
of Messages Sent That Feed The Truth To Our Children ...    
      
They LUST CONTROL And Think They'll NEVER ...    
Pay The Toll For Lies They HOLD That Are ... " UNTOLD " ...      
      
Well The Day WILL COME ...      
When Their Heads Will ROLL ... !!!!!    
      
Times Like THESE Are DANGEROUS ... !!!!!    
When We Have KIDS Shooting BULLETS ... !!!!!    
      
NOW Acts Like THIS Are TRULY COLD ... !!!!!    
      
But I'm The One Who's ... RADICAL ... ??!??    
      
I Guess That's Because I'm BLACK and TALL ...    
And Have REJECTED .... " Basketball " .... !!!!!!    
      
But Use My Voice To Make The CALL ... !!!!!    
      
BUREAUCRATS Now NEED TO Fall ... !!!!!    
      
Even If  I Am ... " Blackballed " ... !!!!!    
      
I'm ALREADY BLACK ... !!!!!    
      
I'm Used To That ...    
As I Am ... " Exclusion " ...    
That's A FACT ... !!!!      
      
RACISM Goes SO FAR BACK ... !!!!!!!!!    
      
That People Now Think ... Men Like Me ...    
Should Just ... " CALM DOWN " ...      
      
"I should be Grateful !"    
      
"May I ask, what for ?"    
      
"Some black people, are now adored !"    
      
"But, what about those who remain poor ?    
or those like me, who still can't walk through certain doors !"    
      
"Young man, you have some Radical Thoughts !"    
      
Words Like THOSE Within My Prose ...      
Simply Show .....    
      
It's NOW About The Way I THINK ... !!!    
      
NOT About My ... Darkened Skin ... !!!!    
      
But THAT For Certain ...    
Does NOT Help ... !!!! ...    
      
I'm Deemed To Be A RADICAL ... !!!      
      
Because My Mind Is Clinical and Quizzical ...      
And Questions Things ... " Political " ... ???    
      
Why ... !?!    
      
Well Because Otherwise ...    
I May Start Being ... PHYSICAL ... !!!!!    
      
I've Made My Choice So Now Scribble ...      
My Questions Keeping Them Simple ... !!!!!    
      
Of Course I'm Somewhat Critical ...    
of Groups Who FEAR ... INDIVIDUALS ... !?!      
      
Such As ME ...    
They FEAR My Speech ...      
And YES My Style of Poetry ...      
And Keep On Saying ..." I'm SCARY !" ...    
      
THEY Choose To Be Pretentious ... !?!    
And Say I Am ... CONTENTIOUS ... !!!    
      
THEY Really Are ...    
So ... " PRECIOUS " ... !!!      
      
About Their Use of Letters ... !!!    
      
These People Are Pretenders ... !!!!!!    
      
And Probably Had Forefathers ...      
Who Kept Slaves In ... Their Cellars ... !!!!!    
      
Well I Am An UPSETTER ... !!!    
Just Like Lee Perry's Fellas ... !!!    
      
And YES No Matter WHAT THEY DO ... !!!    
These Snakes Will NEVER QUELL US ... !!!!!    
      
See I'm NOT LIKE ... " Marcellus " ...      
Pulp Fictioned' With ... " THE GIMP " ... !!!!!!    
      
Bent Over ... ***** ... !!!!!    
And Watched By ... " HIM " ... !!!!!    
Who's Sitting Waiting .....................................................    
      
...... LICKING LIPS ...... !!!!!!!!!!!!!    
      
Now THAT To Me Is ... RADICAL ... !!!!!    
But Seems To Be ... " Acceptable " ... !!!    
      
Well CLEARLY I'm MORE DANGEROUS ... ?!?    
Than Those Who Do THIS Kind of Stuff ... !?!?!?!    
      
Come On Now Folks ... !!!    
Your Record's ... BROKE ... !!!    
      
I Don't Take Coc'... !!!    
And Don't Believe In Guns That SMOKE ... !!!!!    
      
So How Am I ... ?    
A ... " RADICAL BLOKE " ... ?!?    
      
Views You HOLD Are Such A JOKE ... !!!      
      
I SEE Of Course ...      
It's Things I Say About ... " POLICE " ...      
      
CORRUPTION And The Lies They FEED ... !!!!!    
      
NEVER MIND The Men They BEAT On Streets ... !!!!!    
Then Cop A Plea of ... " NOT GUILTY " ... !!!!!    
      
THESE Are Things Requiring SPEECH ... !!!!!    
Life SHOULD BE In Poetry ... !!!!!!!    
      
REALITY ... or FANTASY  ...    
My Wordplay REJECTS ...    
      
..... FALLACIES ..... !!!!!    
      
But Talks About ...    
      
Humanity ... Tragedies ...    
Profanities And YES The Things That ...    
      
.... " ANGER ME " .... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!    
      
But Don't You See ... ?    
      
My Poetry Is NOT ABOUT Me ... !!!    
      
It's Looking For A Place Where WE ...    
CAN All Be FREE And Live In ... " PEACE " ... !!!    
      
Of  Course ... THAT'S IT ...      
I've Been SO THICK ... !!!!!!!!    
      
It's NOT ABOUT These DUMB RACISTS ...      
      
... " Divide and Conquer " ... !!!    
....... THAT'S The TRICK ....... !!!!!    
      
I'd Be A STAR ...    
If I Spoke of CASH And FLASHY Cars ...      
And ROBBING HOUSES With CROWBARS ... !!!!!      
      
I Guess THIS WAR Will NOT BE WON ... ?!?    
Because of Those Who Are The Ones'  ... !!!!!    
      
HYPOCRITES ....      
Who FEED The Wheel of ... " SEP-AR-A-TION " ... !!!    
      
They NEED A LONG .............. SABBATICAL .......... !!!!!    
That Would Be So ....................... MAGICAL ......... !!!!!!!!!!!!    
      
And Then A Guy Who Speaks Like Me ...    
      
Would NOT BE SEEN As ....      
      
.... " RADICAL " .... !!!!!!
I always found it strange to be labelled as such, when the world has so many more people who, for want of a better word, are REALLY Radical People ... !!!
The crowbars are counting on me to save.
You're leaving me angry now.
This bottle of bleach is going to take me low.
Lower. Lover.
Vanish into the holes of my skin.
Trapped below the scars you've caused.
Skin it all. Regrow with plant life.
The pharmacy disasters.
Tattoos on the throat.
Room enough to bloat.
one three five.
four five six.
The doctors are counting on me to live.
You've listened to my favorite songs.
Listening. Living.
Vanquished into the heart of my heart.
Protruding little by little now.
Soak it up. Renew with your tears.
Definitely now.
The hospital's procrastinators.
I'm keeping my word. But the rest you can have.
Tragedy
Sophia Granada Sep 2015
I know you always saw yourself a knight
But I did not realize for a long time
That I was a page.
You were my sparring partner
Who taught me to come at the world
Gun drawn
So no one could out-shoot me.
You told me,
And I know,
That Justice wears a blindfold because
She slashes her sword indiscriminately,
And looks at that scale
Never.

You always saw yourself a lawman
I always saw you as a fool.
I never realized I learned law
At your feet.
Fallacies and ways of
Drawing out argument and diatribe,
Loopholes of morality through which
We spin.
You taught me to be technically correct,
The best kind of correct,
Always exploiting but
Always within my jurisdiction.
I only know now I was a deputy
To a sheriff of ridiculous stature.

You taught me THE ART OF WAR.
It was engraved in stone for me
Like an all-caps Roman monument.
THE ART OF WAR
Is sprawled across a stone archway in my mind
Where you came, and you saw.
It marks your conquest.

You made it my way of loving,
Of relating to the world and the people around me.
You made me a martyr and mercenary,
Standing atop a hill in golden armor,
Sunlight behind me and wind in my hair,
An avatar of Durga,
A disciple of Joan of Arc,
A four-year-old poses in chainmail
You wrought for her.
Illusions of grandeur such as your own
Come with this territory.

You taught me
As your mother and father
And grandparents
Taught you,
THE ART OF WAR-
That love is just begrudging words of sweetness
Issued only after ruins lay all around
And both parties are sufficiently vulnerable,
Their bricks having been pried away with crowbars.
Love is only an apology given to mollify
The wounds you have already wrought.
The only privilege loved-ones are afforded,
Is the bandage that covers up the customary
Destruction
That is your normal face.

You and I only ever knew love as
You clipping my wings
And I breaking free to spray
The shrapnel of those chains
Into your face.
We added to each others' pile of scars.
It was so rare for us to run into battle together,
On the same side,
Voices as one in a battlecry.
I don't even know how long it's been since
Us soldiers-for-hire got hired
By the same team at once.

You cast me out of steel
Like a sword.
And now I am the legendary blade
Destined to clash against you for all eternity.
We will only ever know ceasefires
Of a day in length.
We will run through the flame,
And we will practice the art
You taught me.
When I was five years old, my father's favorite hobby was making chainmail. He made a coif sized to his head, and put it on me, and had me pose fiercely. He took a picture because it was so cute. Now he doesn't make chainmail anymore; he has built his own forge and learned to cast metal.
My father and I are both fond of writing poetry. He once wrote a poem about anger management problems, the first line of which was "beware the page whose master is rage."
He has a tattoo of a soldier of fortune skull, whose empty eye sockets I used to poke with my tiny fingers.
He has worked as a combat medic, and as a corrections officer, and as an EMT, and as a security guard, and as many many other kinds of people. He was an aimless shiftless jack-of-all-trades before he was my father, and he knows it, and he very much sees himself as a soldier of fortune, a knight, a contractor of combat.
He knows the law well, from his amateur studies of it. He is very much "up" on law that concerns guns and all other manner of slings and arrows. He knows the penalties for assault and battery and homicide and manslaughter and countless other things. Because he likes to argue law so fiercely, he often takes the same knowing and devious tone in personal arguments. He has read "The Art of War" by Tsun Tsu. He recommends it.
His family was not kind to him growing up; I don't think they knew how to be kind. He is not kind with others, because he does not know how to be kind. He is always fighting and struggling and feeling himself pursued and oppressed. He is his own prisoner in a string of meaningless personal battles.
When I was ten, he and I made an agreement that we wouldn't argue for that whole day, and we would be kind and gentle to each other. And we were. And we knew that one ceasefire of a day in length.
He is a Scorpio, and I am a Sagittarius. There is a myth about the great scorpion pinching the centaur's arrows out of the sky; he clips the only wings the centaur knows. He steals the only way he sees to fly.
My father the lawman, the soldier for hire, the knight, dressed his page in armor he wrought himself. He cast a sword to fight back at him. He clipped the wings of his celestial neighbor. These metaphors are so personal. You can't know what they mean unless you've lived in my house.
Don Bouchard Jan 2022
Eastern Montana Badlands
1930s....

Coal where one found it,
Scoria hills,
Layered lignite
Waiting near the surface.

Burning lignite beds,
Smoldering centuries old,
Scarring and turning clay to scoria,
Crumbling rock,
Testimony to lightning fires
Beneath the hills.

Crude mines backed into cliffs,
Pick and shoveled coal
Free for the risky taking
Heated homes.

Coal caves,
Low and gaping,
Horizontal shafts.
Wagons first, then
Trucks backed in.

Crowbars and picks
Brought lignite ceilings
Crashing in rotten shatters
Mounding, sometimes burying
Trucks below.

My father told me
How he helped
Chris Ginther,
Deaf coal miner,
Hammer holes,
Insert charges,
Long fuses, trailing.

Old Chris packing holes,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping...
Lighting fuses,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping.

My father said he'd yell
"We need to go!"

Old Chris
Seemed never to hear,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Until finally...
Sauntering out
Before the rumbling Thump.

I can see the two,
Chris and my father,
Just a boy,
Lost in lignite clouds,
Coughing.
Funny how even 10 years gone, I can hear my father's voice.... He told us this story many times while we were growing up.
Kevin Eli May 2013
Zombie dreams and zombie scenes
Why do the zombies come after me?
No matter where I run, no matter where I hide
The zombies always come and eat me alive.
Axes, bats and crowbars, knives, guns and cross
No nation nor religion can stop the pain and loss.
For when zombies eat your friends, your friends will eat you too.
Unless you're lucky and survive.
Then what will you do?
Kill me slowly Nov 2015
acid snow
falls down upon a perfect world.

droplets of
broken
bottle
happiness
sit on your roof
and
drip off the
brains gutter
into the
dopamine sewer.


im talking about the place i call home
where
rainbow
kerosene
puddles
lead into a perfect paradise
if you close your eyes

im talking about that feeling you get when you
reach that milestone
in your life
where you finally hit the bottom of that bottle your mom keeps on the highest shelf
when
your fourteen and your head feels a bit fuzzy
and
for the first time
you lose your sense of feeling
and
they have to open your tired eyes
with crowbars
and your parents laugh when you stumble the sad city streets and you fall down the stairs
on your way back home

you saw things for what they really were too quickly
and they tried to **** you for it

so you packed up the bags from under your pupils
and
with your sad little
blueberry eyes
you left in the night
and ran barefoot through the
snowy woods.

you know in your heart
that it doesn't get any better then this.

the faces of friends
and city signs are already
        being washed away

       **we are all
just melting against the
   back
       drop
     .
just a matter of time.
Pearson Bolt May 2019
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
Simon Obirek May 2014
How I miss those days
people going in and out my flat
as if it was a train station
or perhaps even
an airport.

People would enter and leave
at their leisure
talking to me
smoking with me
******* me
those days went by
rather quickly.
The stream of folks
would never end
and my door
would never stop swinging.

These days I just sit around
sip some cheap boxed wine
and lament "The View" on TV.
The only words I say
are caused by pain
or alcohol.

A sound of a near silent knock
then burst hinges
they wanted me to pay
for all the coke.
They brought their crowbars
and they wouldn't stop swinging.
NeroameeAlucard Jul 2021
A megaphone is a device
Used to amplify sound, most commonly speech
Into the ears of the masses gathered around
Usually in an act of protest.
It's an electrically powered portable amplifier
But I don't possess one.
Not yet, anyway. But I know someone who does.
Someone who's shouts of frustration cause pity and anger at the same time.
The person I'm living with, isn't that divine.
I'm stuck between sympathizing and bewildering blind fury
Her condition is not through fault of her own but surely
She can stop taking her frustrations and misplaced aggression out on me.
I wish I knew how to stop her pain, stop her anger.
I wish I could do that without it destroying me.
And, mother I doubt you'll read this but on the off chance that you do.
I love you. But I don't know what else that I can do.
I'm learning to carry a house hold on my shoulders, and I can't do that if you keep taking crowbars to my knees.
But, I fear it might be too late that that fact is what you'll see.
Matthew James Apr 2016
Rebuilding the home

After nearly a year trying, I moved house
The house was tired
It had dated
It had lost the sense of who it was
It had lost all its character
Too much time with someone not attending to its needs
And it, tired and unloved as it was,
Didn't provide much of a home
Frustrated by its loss of self

I started by pulling down the ceiling
Get the structure right first
Dust and debris fell,
I wore a mask to keep from breathing it all in
The dust toxic with a touch of asbestos
I wrapped it up in the carpet that smelled of an old mans dog and threw it out

This weekend I knocked down a wall.
There were sledgehammers, crowbars, chisels, saws, hammers, electricity, falling timber and plaster, screws and nails.
I didn't even get a scratch on me.
Tonight I picked up a cardboard box and got a paper cut and it hurt like hell.
Sod's law!

Breaking down all the bad parts of the house nearly broke me
Pulling out the guts of it
Taking away all the unloved furnishings
The trappings that were there to make it a home but actually just held it back
Searching for the hidden character underneath
Everything was ***** - a building site

Looking at the beams
Wondering "would they hold?"
I needed a break

Eventually it changed
It started with the fireplace
I smashed through all the fake brickwork
Stripped the plaster
Needle gunned the paint
And there was the character
Beautiful, strong stone mullions
Aged and flawed but beautiful

I pulled up carpets and sanded floorboards
Changed the bathroom for one more in keeping
Painted, varnished, wallpapered
Added in all the things that I loved
The good memories
The hobbies
My artwork
My children's photos and toys
Filling the house with fun

I took things that were broken and made them new
Changed their form
A garage door to a bed
A smelly sofa to a garden bench
Made the broken new and beautiful
Seeing them in a new light
Making amends with the past

Talked to the kids tonight about me dating. They were really interested and happy about it. Told them I don't want to date at the moment and Tom and Hazel both said "well, when you get your house finished Dad, girls will like that" They're so sweet. I properly love my kids

Just before Christmas, I got the carpet and the laminate down.
When the kids saw the house all done up they said this...
Hazel... I love our new house!
Tom... It's the best house in the world!
Jake... I think the reason it feels like home is because of all the work you've put into it Dad.

We're home now
Jordan Salcedo Feb 2015
Peeling and falling off- we are the walls of this old house.
Crowbars to the floor boards.
We’re being lifted up, to lay new ground. 

Many people have forced their way in, to only destroy the beauty of our own abandonment. 

They marked our mirrors and painted over our insides, with words that hurt while we stood here motionless. 

We are the heart of this place. 

Our valuables taken, used as a one night place of shelter- we were useful to others for a moment.
Gutted and empty, we were alone. 
Unfixable. Condemned. Useless. 

We built a home that someone else set flames to. 

We are the building someone passes everyday only hoping one day to own it and make it alive again. 

We were so beautiful once.
The vision of someone else’s perfection and I swear, in the perfect light, the cracks between what we were and what the world makes us, lets in the most beautiful shade of serenity. 

We are the recovery of that pit that never seems to be fulfilled. 

We are the people we’re trying to fix
Somewhere between moving on and finding peace
Vivian Grace Apr 2017
sugar and ****** are the same thing
minus one clean curtail:
the breadth of the crystal is a lame liquid
the flower is self-aware
one knows the power,
has never braved a shower
the other has the breath of a child
heavy ignorance pooling in the air

which one day corrodes with realization
but the other has been
known
always known


to opal opoid Poe traces can be found in down trodden spaces
they caved to impermeance and the ultimate tempter
****** outlining a safe haven for injection
to escape the wind of the winding helicopter wings
by words


the uprooting of the white sand cube crumbles
easily
as though it faked the illusion of beating,
being
and the waves lapped it time after time
making an imprint impermanent to becoming numb

did the classics have it right?
or did they fear dismally to stray from the unearthed crack
something that would unviel multitudes
a seam that would bust and be confused
unleash madness
it only looked as such
but touching a pinky into the ripples reveals
busted seals and phony penguins
curling around their fake egg for sixty days
keeping their minds out of reach of those
who yearned for ebullience
and pretending they contained the very essence of it
they didn't really know

only a small few
in a field
on a sunless day did
or in the middle of a bell jar with cyclones
spinning around the globe
wiping raw the temporal portions
lobes sorting right from wrong

or did they all have it skewed because their sheets were never torn
and they never had to witness what it was like to go to sleep on
a cumbersome cloud and wake with their lips to a puddle in India
poor and cold
both young and old
noticing nother other than what could be
and seeing logic as a spun out drunk
the one in the puddle who has no opinions for others
or flowers or mothers or god

not slicing themselves with invisible butter knives
or asking nicely for advice
but cracking their skulls in sleep
with the cackle of crows
and rusty crowbars

i just know this
the sugar, the plainness, the liiiiiiiiiies
are nothing compared to the lilies seen after getting burn blisters
from black rains produce; poppyseed planes
i know the sugar-coated croaks were toads
diluting their world in no's
afraid to change it
to change it to yes
to say something else
something far away
but attainable


and maybe coughing and once noticing
that no matter what

we are nothing

and doing it all the same
Poetria Jun 2020
to the guy with muted lips--


you eat words,
crush them with your teeth,
til the syllables
break down
into meaningless letters-
a crowd of singularities
bouncing on your tongue...
altogether,
filling the corridors
of your throat--


just crowding there.


and when you part your lips,
words sink inside you
like residues
atop deadbeat decibels.


your emotions
act like rusty crowbars,
digging what's left of the mess.


my love,
I wonder how you sound.
but it wil never make me...



love you less.
Steven Jun 2020
In the vernacular. Early 1980s.  New York City.


Some parts -
well, some parts
were third world countries really
not like the glitz in the advertising charts.
Unpolished banquets
of flea markets on blankets
selling broken light bulbs,
a bumper,
watched over with a bagged liquor gulp
and a mutt by the side
that when lucky was fed a slice from the corner.
Chain link fencing behind the stench
dented, climbed,
hubcaps displayed on ‘em.
The broadleaf weeds,
the miserable trees
their only nature’s gem.

Yeah,
some parts -
some parts
were cruel and shifty.
Far from the jewel presented
on a postcard and a 15 cent stamp -
wonderfully ******.
The city back then gathered up
washed-up teens or young adults
on the Lower East Side
not even knowing why they were there.
Misfits really
not fitting into a family or town -
no money.
Perhaps once church-going girls
who knew more than the native what a pine tree was
and plus, this is the place where stars are born -
now working,
squeezing,
cocking,
paid to do what they were disgraced to do:
parloring to get the moan,
******* to produce the white honey.
And this was before the crack
and vials crunched on the steps of the subway.

Men would squeegee for cents and cigarettes -
Marlboro or Kent.
A mix of Lincolns, Jeffersons
throw in an Eisenhower, a Washington.
A decade before Broken Windows
and a lord mayors attempt
to take back control of parts lost
to appease the nobility.

Yeah,
there were sections -
sections that you brought a gun to deliver milk.
“Protection.”
And people carried things:
broomsticks cut down,
crowbars in a city in neighborhoods with the motto:
“Do what you gotta do.”
“Wrong place.  Wrong time.”
Where grandmothers would be mugged on the subway
in a city on the verge of Chapter 11,
a city of pushbacks and organized crime
where everyone seemed fit,
gang patches
before Angels wore red berets
and offered a hint of safety
in light or dark
and guarded a canvas
of moving steel plastered with graffiti and grime
and the cement crime sublime.
Where one could still dream in a city of bleakness
before,
good or bad,
it all went theme park.
louella Apr 2022
there are brats and rats and scumbags
crowbars and cheap cars and phantom stars
in the town of denial
down by the frothy beach
in the middle of a place called insanity

there are temptresses and trespasses and messages
phony ploys and bloodthirsty boys and aimless joys
in the dust-accompanying countryside
the place that silver wolves and pistols occupy
in foreboding high midnight sighs

there is loneliness and helplessness and acid
soda cans and grunge bands and peculiar bans and queer vans
all inside my throbbing heart
in the space i refuse to stay
in the place where it’s never “ok”

down by the frothy beach
in the middle of a place called insanity

me.
this is when i like rhyming

*holds hands up to face like a villain in a sci-fi movie*

4/21/22

— The End —