"curtailed" poems
1260
Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute,
May overlook your Track—
Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality—
Significance that each has lived
The other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate
Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live—
The “Life that is” will then have been
A thing I never knew—
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you—
The “Life that is to be,” to me,
A Residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer’s Face
I recognize your own—
Of Immortality who doubts
He may exchange with me
Curtailed by your obscuring Face
Of everything but He—
Of Heaven and Hell I also yield
The Right to reprehend
To whoso would commute this Face
For his less priceless Friend.
If “God is Love” as he admits
We think that me must be
Because he is a “jealous God”
He tells us certainly
If “All is possible with” him
As he besides concedes
He will refund us finally
Our confiscated Gods—
28k
may the way that gives way to this accord of may be in awe of truth and not the fruits of disarray
I shall be meditating upon the roads travelled and many discoveries gather that I have unravelled
I shall curl my high excitements and misguided ambitions to unfurl what the calls of the wise unfurl and admonish
In the mist amidst the tricking twists of fits and false gists, may I hold up fists that will seize to desist and delete the disease of fallacy in curtailed wit
In the shadows dark, some pale
may I not fade into the tales of lies and manipulative games
In the guise of dames so modern and fabulously inclined to fame,
may I guage and carry my animosity into the mystery of my identity where only the genuine and real can relate
In the encounters with material and all that deters from the mystic and ethereal,
I hope to remember the real surreal to surmise the reels of fantasy thrills in graphic frills and euphonic trills
However the gigantic systems of the world in money, greed, vanity or lust, may doctor sickness into the souls of the lost and weak:
may my heart remain meek and my vision bright and led by the lens of the soul....
With or without I pray not as a religious pilgrim but a sage seeking neverending Light... ever the more grateful, harnessing the grapes of creation, worshiping a servant's code in humility.
hustling about this rash hassle of life overshadowed by pyramids and castles
remaining true to the cause even when temptation is endlessly bustling about
remember remember the hustle when you were down and out without
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
it is an traditional
afghan dress
look at the bodice.
encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.
i can visit, touch
and take photographs.
the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
stop me
liking.
sbm.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Memories of when
time itself was left curtailed;
the neurological pathway derailed
disjointed collections of moments
the remains of another life contained
like crystal clear components
that built a honeycomb
for monochrome bees
from broken homes.
The defiant silenced
by stolen snapshots
woven in between
the glow of her brilliance
and the blaze of her radiance
her cape of accidental rainbows
like the forgotten colours
of painted dreams left out to dry
and the midnight sun
drained by the bitter taste
of late last goodbyes.
The unfulfilled testimony
now on its own trajectory
summoned from depths of history
fades once again into nothing more
than a fruitless distant memory.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
my actress, who
sweated blood on Broadway each night
off Broadway too
said, on a long stroll
through Central Park. she was successful
because she did not like herself
on the stage, she proclaimed,
she was never herself, and she fell in love
with every character she portrayed
every script was a better bio
than her own, and the playwrights knew
her better than she knew herself
and when our walk
was curtailed by a downpour, she dragged me
into a crowded cafe
where she knew half the patrons
and the wait staff, and they all knew the different
personas she had owned, on the dry stage
rain now forced her to choose
which selves to keep, and which to lose
while she sipped scalding tea
with me, on a grey wet afternoon,
only hours before she would again be under
the spell of the hot lights,
and read verses from the pens of prophets,
poets--those who purloined her soul for the price
of admission, to a place without self loathing
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
em...
what's the difference between
refugees, economic migrants...
and ex-pats?
not much...
esp.with regards the latter...
who are ex-pats?
immigrants,
from a de- host nation...
English women sipping tea
with Mussolini...
ex-pats:
out of, what? patriotism?
maybe my latin prefixing is
a bit rusty...
ginger amy adams...
by god....
if a rose... that...
that is a rose...
strawberry blonde...
mmm mmm...
kentucky fried chicken...
f'now i wish for an ***
i can ***** all day long in
Manhattan...
and be like:
yummy and **** me three ways
sinister...
because? why not?!
ginger ninja...
nunchucks up the ***
to replace the ****** or
the cucumbers...
bridegroom of
Bruce ******* Lee...
makes up for a degenerate
market...
slurp an oyster...
bargain on clam economy...
point being?
self-harming of girls
replaces
the tattoo industry...
of girls...
and the world continues
its carousel "enterprise"...
then the world dies...
and then the world revives itself...
self-harming text books...
and then comes along...
tattoo -
the spiral,
deficit woman -
her due, her, own,
her: albatross swoon -
dive into the curtailed unknown -
a woman hindered -
a woman governed by the hinterland -
a scrap of,
what became the scoop of
what later became -
the crown of Poseidon's
scavenger
ushering in...
the last, of what remained:
a peeled onion.
St. Basil -
came the crow,
came the cathedral,
came the gauged out eyes..
came the croak...
came...
the span of wings...
came...
the labors -
a mind, a lost digestion...
came...
a vision of a future...
without the fiction
of an immovable past.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
I stare through the binoculars that border my world,
my life,
my mind.
The steel rims,
walls which encase me,
limiting my sight,
my thoughts,
my knowledge.
I yearn to reach out,
to push them away,
but without them I fear I will no longer be able to see.
I feel blind already,
stumbling through my darkened doorway
to the conclusions my narrow mind rests upon.
Stumbling to the same perch,
although the route has changed,
although the facts are different.
The same limited view.
I wonder; when will I see other dazzling landscapes?
And, if I do, will I be brave enough to relinquish the safety of my curtailed vision
for the bigger picture,
a bright overview,
instead of my fuzzy focussed spot of knowledge.
Oh, binoculars, your safety is hindering.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
We sat on the carpet in the bedroom
and I pulled between us that family heirloom,
a sea chest belonging, at one point, to some
grandfather or another, and we began
an apparently curtailed version
of the usual routine.
I wondered if that meant dire things
for my fate; as if all the events of my life
would be half as eventful, or if
there would be half as many of them, God forbid.
I can’t recall a particular atmosphere,
except that it was dim, and I guess
the old sea chest contributed
a bit of worn charm. And that same afternoon
I did burn some incense, but it could barely be smelled.
She asked, occasionally, for my involvement.
Tap one of these. Lay your hand on that.
And, uniquely in my life, I got the semblance
of controlling my destiny.
Soon enough, a picture began to form.
The five of cups: miserliness, a bearded man dressed royally,
alone atop a treasure trove, his children and former lovers
elsewhere, in loving penury, without a thought
for dear old stingy dad. The two of swords: some duality
out of the past, a war - always - between reason and love, and
how much I cherished them both. An awkward young man
who loved casually, without forethought and almost
without reason, and the brain he was far too proud of having
to use responsibly.
Finally, we reach the one in the center, and once again
I am required to invest some of myself in this card.
I hold my hand on it and am asked to imagine what it might be.
It is the Hermit. Her favorite, she explains.
He means a journey, alone. How alone, exactly?
Under normal circumstances, alone is a metaphor.
One can be alone in spirit, being not understood.
But you and I have been having arguments, and so
the implication is not lost on me.
How alone? And what journey? And to what end?
I imagine them, these arcana,
major and minor. They are collected
around a coffee table, for their weekly tea.
The Hermit holds up a pair of worn sandals
and a volume of sad amateur poetry -
the price of certain journeys -
the Lovers, their backs turned to one another,
produce a pitiful summary of a joint bank account.
The High Priestess takes from her tea cabinet
a samovar full of old dried blood, and pressed flowers
(lilies and lovers’ thistles)
and they all laugh and laugh and laugh
because they are not mortal, like us.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
freeborn mustang lopes
unchained throughout curtailed life
fur snared in barbed wire
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
When you gonna put my separate selves together
When you gonna make my disparate children gather
Such a silly mind, say the opposite of what you really mean
Just to get a rise, wanna make me rise to the wrong occasion
M-M-M-M My Pleroma
My Pleroma strikes a mystic chord of memory
Better angels spark a dream, get the better of me
Nature takes hold, goes bold, breaks cold sweats we wake up from
Scatter brained by upside two-by-fours keep score struck dumb
Gotta fill it up, fill it up with cuisine
Gotta take a pill, **** it! (Know what I mean?)
Big pet peeve bug drives a crazy fix-it man sane
Till the time ticks past the track, misses the train
Gets back to the place to where we once belonged
Waterloo derailed, revolution curtailed, narrative sing-songed
Everyone repeat after me: Eat a great meal, feel good with friends
Put your arms around loved ones, make means meet ends
M-M-M-M My Pleroma
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.
0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
The edge of my soul is unsilenced
by the youthful glove of lust
Curtained wonders and curtailed tales
our songs recited and memorised on saddles
Sandals of certainty , candled yester years
My soles dared to tear a form
eyes roar in beats of a sinful stare
affixed sensations, the aesthetic nightmares
the cyclic eventful roller coaster of want
The padded faded jeans and cotton shirt
A fluent code of the cold wonderland
steers protons and affluent electrical neurons
Exploding zips, complementary zest
The **** ride on your stationed rod
My stallion, a rash, an adrenaline rush, our flight (oh la la)
At the sight of the afterglow stormy taste
our echoes astound the mountain tops
a wave of the heated dream in a cage
The aged flow of the surfacing rivers
As these words live in my mind
Flickering lights inside the synagogue maze
the cleavage fountain evaporating fumes
A showcase of undeniable holes and poles
A glorified truth tied in elastic hearts
Eclipsed as a shadowy armoured reflection
Hold my hand and fly the transient transcendence
Balance as I fall behind on the heighted prolific lines
Rehouse my day on these whispered thoughts
Time circles, time travels, time lost, time found
On this hour of attachment, catch me as I wave
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Distant as the far-off maritime state,
undeniable as the endless mismatch
of rock turmoil in the centre of the Earth,
and as vital as the pound of flesh, pulp
and lung, tired bronchiole, wasted lyric,
and cancer's ever-present weight
upon your mind.
Familiar as your lover's intonation,
as she asks of the breadth of your love,
attractive as the modest celebrity,
with legs splayed in bronzed celebration
of this, her life's affirmation.
Bound as the pages of your old journal,
full of misdirected sorrow and old, old love.
Curtailed as the dance floors abandoned
at request of the lights, sugared, spilt drinks
to rot the wooden boarding, now devoted
to misery-cleaners and the bringers
of tomorrow.
Firewalled as the world is to debt.
Cardboard shop-fronts, straw-men hippies
and bent products, cash out at Christmas,
then a haemorrhage in the New Year of
old floods and foreclosures. Covered up
as is the rusted kettle to stifle flame.
Lost as flavour is to ketchup, as winter
is to hope of heat, to desire of spring
and the end of forever-night. Thin as
my wrists, as hands hold the banister,
gaining small balance in life's rare incline,
long stripped of exercise, of enterprise.
Unutterable as the soul-sounds
I feel when I pick up the guitar,
as unattainable in this life,
as is beauty once my knotted fingers
press consciously upon the strings.
A truth legacy found in blood and
distortion, found in intuitive drives,
warped by consumption. Dismissed
theory of Atlantean ties,
of old Babylon
and Reptilian lullabies.
Luring, luring, luring to distraction,
into the night and the plight,
into the absence of Arcturian light!
Keep close to me, please,
oh, feeble recollection,
please take me to truth,
in this, my meditation.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
I wanted so deeply, truly,
without words, a tune,
a lyric, or a song,
to be,
oh my dearest love,
to be,
your national anthem,
to represent you, my golden
note in the sky, flying past
birds circling our skies,
the stars, and stripes, the
colours,
to be,
everything that represented, my
commitment, love, loyalty,
the unspoken,
patriotic, musical composition
gluing us together,
devoted I fell,
oh my dearest love,
we were the one,
placed ring,
do you remember my dear,
my great grandmothers ring,
the purple stone, and how
the emerald would,
grace my hand, a signature
of love, eternal blessings,
the vastness of,
Great Windsor Park, all
those lengthy trails, deer
hiding, behind the lens
camera clicking, as we
waltzed down, our
imagined up isle,
who needs a church,
when we have, horses
that gallop, our capes
we are red ruby slippers,
clicked,
we are the two princesses,
without our, frog kissed prince
we have changed the ending,
curtailed the tale,
we have used our,
unstoppable
love,
to make our own,
day dream
(nightmare)
a true, match
made in heaven,
to only,
end in,
hell,
cursed by the power,
of the malevolent,
wicked witch,
of the west.
© Sia Jane
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
impetuous ******* braying at blooming roses
chosen one flowing stream like into view
truth adjectively curtailed
so as to prove useless theory
researching hypnotherapy in lue of information
unpresented speeches sit dusty, shelved
lacking interested parties
showboating cowboy quoting comic books
gazes into starless night skies
pollution fills the space
particulates dance, unencumbered
free to display each nuance of wind movement
air currents placate emaciated youths
as the soft breezes are the only comfort in this new world
globalized idealism creating pop-culture idolatry
faceless masses praying to the media outlets
begging for entertainment and indoctrination
as the pain of thinking for oneself hurts too badly
corroded pineal glands beg for rebirth
injecting the need for fresh green vegetables into the minds
of the McDonaldized populace
showing glimpses of traditional values
based on equality and love
a low rumble creeps up from the bowels
buildings tremble and windows rattle
howls of insane laughter pour over the people
like the biblical flood
love?
equality?
fools notions or the games of little children
twice dubbed voice over auto tuned and through a megaphone shouts out
deafening the society it rules
we killed the hippies with ****
ruined the idealists with animal rights
and stopped the liberals
with cash payments
we have won
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
A thousand years from now,
there would be no more me.
The streets will be brand new
And civilization will have taken a different dimension.
A thousand years from now,
technology would replace human digestion process.
A thousand years from now,
men of amazing genius will walk on the sky.
A thousand years from now,
Science will repaint the sky.
A thousand years from now,
The world would rewire it's solar system.
A thousand years from now,
would I still be remembered?
A thousand years from now,
Will the grave have curtailed me?
A thousand years from now,
I would still be with you.
A thousand years from now,
My pen will still wipe your tears.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
Notice how the whisper dies
When strangers near a gathered few,
How laughter dwindles in the air
Where yesterday, free breezes blew.
Our public forums disappear
Like dominoes, they fall in turn
And each in turn consumes a truth,
Like ******* in a flame they burn.
And everyone’s opinion fades
As nervous glances flit the room,
A menace in the silence felt
As whispers hush, suspicion looms.
The banks call in the mortgages,
The Cops demanding hard
The language of the press subdued
And every one’s on guard.
And the failing economies
Across the whole globe,
And contrived **** happening
With oil price hikes disrobed.
Grinning cartel monopolies
Who manipulate fare
To cause catastrophic collapse
In the market elsewhere.
Government’s tone has altered
From homilies of home,
(God bless our land & honour the flag)
To harsh Corporate drone.
Big Money’s in the mix you see,
Pharmaceuticals and Big Oil
And the Military have the casting vote
In cashing up the spoils.
How has it all come to this ?
Where have our freedoms fled ?
If they ever really did exist
Were they... only in my head ?
Restricted private ownership
With travelling curtailed,
And the information black out
Shows the freedom press have failed.
But the repetitious broadcasts
Which they want us all to hear,
And the droll propaganda
Which confuses the ear,
Those brainwashing dogma’s
Which stifle the mind,
Oppressing the rational
To keep we souls aligned.
Why, my friend,
On this bright summer’s day
Should my heart be bleeding
It’s freedoms away ?
Who sanctioned oppression,
Who opened the gate,
To admit the dark forces
Who thrive on the hate ?
Marshalg
Feeling the vibe of what is beginning out there...EVERYWHERE!
AUCKLAND
20 February 2011
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
There was nothing ahead
but the blazing red
brazen brake lights watching
for the likes of us,
with somewhere to be
besides the whipping chills
of concrete and ice
spliced into our state,
uniquely white.
Inside, the air
surged the song out
and over our bundled bodies
thermal anomalies
in the amalgamating night.
Music
wrapped and coiled,
covered the lazy silence
like insulation commitment
to keep us safe,
deployed in case of a conversational
head on collision,
curtailed with soft sounds,
in amber lamps
simple.
Your particulate words
freckles in the face of ill
conceived ideas of entitled
Sirs and Madams,
my van Gogh brush
damning them all to hell.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
he gathered the bone white shards
with great care in the near darkness
of the kitchen
the streetlights toxic amber light
burrowed into the silent house
curtailed by the narrow window
and lay unchanging on the pitted and greasy floor
his feet shuffle across that lighted square
he watches it intently as he passes over it
a few leaves of an intervening tree are
are silhouetted there as stark contrast
but he is numb to the contradiction
lighted floor tile with shadows of leaves
it makes him giggle inside like a giddy schoolgirl
*the light is diseased and its so so nasty
ain't it delightful*
saturated by shadows
his mind shuts off the unquiet thoughts
replacing it with something warm and fuzzy
like a warm blanket
*a blanket party for the mind...
yes yes yes...beaten senseless*
morning collapses the streetlights
mesmerizing light/shadow
for another day
he picks up the fine white china cup
that he drank coffee from all night
and smashes it on the floor with mock violence
where the streetlight had lain
the seed of his madness all night
the bone white shards
will lay as a dangerous reef until nightfall
when he will gather them to their grave
one more fine white china cup
one more day alone in the
shatterbox
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
Man made of glass
Transparent to the naked eye
Commonly walks the town
Smiles upon the sunrise
And beauty of the safe place he calls home
Safe because he keeps all evil at bay
Grabbing the bumper of young drivers' vehicles
Preventing a spin out that would ultimately result in fatality
Watching the restless children who run into dangerous ravines
His existence is the sole reason for this town’s livelihood
His heroics go unnoticed
But he does not save for gold & praise
Unselfish in his deeds
He only longs for one
Another soul be it metal, wooden, or even human
To share in his humble existence
Running through the parks at night
Searching for another to see him
To notice him
See who he truly is
To absorb his rays of bliss
A widespread fire in the western village
Torments the secure town
Like a tiger pounces on prey
Glass runs through the scene
Up the fiery staircase he hoists a young man
Repetitively storms into the swirling building
Not thinking of his own truth
Spectators relieved lives are spared
When one stares into his eyes
Into him
With a tear falling
She points to the roof
Overwhelmed with stimulation and thrill
he sprints once again through hell
Climbing the ladders
Darting all hurdles
the appendages begin to lose shape
Dripping like candle wax
The center of the sun is no match
A final pool of liquid
Is all the succeeds
This gallant spirit
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
This morning is quite thoroughly golden. The light against the avenue of trees I pass day in day out has flattened any perspective of leaf and branch. Each tree stands like a cut-out from a magazine. The still rising sun is low in the sky and shadows are only slowly retracting, slowly firming up. It’s the first school day in the city and there’s a change of tone in sound from the streets. It’s as though that gentle getting up time since late July has become a must be getting up time. All those electric kettles turned on at seven rather than nine must add something to this settling cloud of noise. On my desk a photo: my once little children outside the home front door have posed for the annual start of the school year snapshot; my youngest in a summer dress, long hair brushed, standing tall with a bright smile; the boys bright-eyed, impatient to be off. That first day when all of them walked together through the park, under the lime trees, carefully across the busy main road, under the railway bridge, down to the end of the cul de sac and their school. The saying goodbyes, the hug in the playground, then away into the school day they run. And now I walk back a longer way around, into the park, but a circuit past the tennis courts, to the lake with its still fledgling geese, up the steep hill to the college by the golf course, to the little wood at the top from where one inevitably stops to take breath, and if you stand on this bench can see two miles away the traffic’s relentless movement on the motorway and a horizon of distant hills. The sky is summer blue and the leaves still a vivid green, but there is a presage of autumn in the air. With it comes the possibility of alone-time, time to think and plan and do what’s been curtailed - for what seemed an eternity of keeping busy: to make each day a holiday, a time to grow and rest, a time to rest and grow.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Dark days just got darker
The future now bleaker
Our rights soon weaker
Temperatures up
Sea levels rise with
Judicial surprises:
Rights curtailed
Guns for sale
Executive privilege
Press repressed
Marches now riots
Meaner tweets
Free speech costs
Groups targeted
Families disbanded
Profiling preferred
Embryos policed
Emigration in order?
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Pull the trigger, take a hit,
poison drips from fingertips,
each pill shimmers upon the floor,
a deadly grip if taken more.
Casing lined in gold or silver,
with each hit, it takes a sliver;
a busted brain, a mangled heart,
they knew the risks from the start.
A curtailed cry, cut short goodbye,
two bullets settle in throat and thigh;
eyes rolled back in a glassy stare,
lips pulled apart, a forbidden pair.
Pull the trigger, take a hit,
blood runs red from fingertips,
men resting silent upon the floor,
the chamber clicks to silence more.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC