"custodial" poems
*step this side..
no, you.. that side!
in a line, in a line.. quiet now – get ready for fire.. no miss!
please line up the children in neat rows, get them ready…………………..*
1.
eyes are misted over – something happened in the gap
hooking-up strangely with estranged sons lost in custodial-wrangles
alienated values;
family-core defunct like a super-shiny apple with putrescent-flesh
long-beard wants a son after so many daughters, sits unwashed in the smoke
gender-penalty – sorry, sister.. you chose the wrong straw
you remain in that cage till we say come out
2.
bread-basket filled with stealth-grenades
rights and benefits squirm in slick-oil of rules
peasant skirting the limits of the city; even rats fare better
cloak of goat-skin, the shield hides serpents beneath
the hunter will aim for the head, land in the centre..
yet an inch or two too high
sentry, close the gates and bar the window-frames!
3.
inadvertent greed and control; aggressive power
news-man dies for feed that’s untrue, anyway
picture-man twists an image to suit the viewer
all kinds of lines disappear so quick – ****** jokes, theatre, life, even poems
and if you’ve never had the sad combo of sick and homeless,
famished and cold,
tired with sores
oh, war will be courteous enough to bring you all these, on a platter
and more..
*there is no border when we all roam in hunger and in fear
like the orphans in crowded-camps
high-rankers sit far away.. ominously "well-off"
chew on hard-cheese
gulp down red wine
but the throat still feels parched, and that bayonet is too short
its fear will kick in.. on a day least anticipated
would you be shocked if it is a child who will drive that wedge-stick home?*
st – 14 march 2014
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
I've delivered your messages
Transcribed your letters
Worn heels and tight dresses
For you the past four years
No one knows better
Your favorite tie is argyle
You like your coffee lukewarm
And you prefer the pickle on the side
It began with passion-filled glances
But soon we were taking all our chances
To share stolen kisses
In the privacy of a custodial closet
Then came the late work nights
Telling my mother we had production to boost
When the only thing you were boosting
Was me onto your paper-littered desk
And I felt *****
Even though you said you'd do nothing to hurt me
I knew it was lies because you did nothing to help me either
And I loved you
I could care less for the moon
All I want is you to no longer make me suffer
Make me a wife or a mother
Something, anything other than just your secretary/lover
All because God made my skin the wrong color.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC
My sweetheart once told me
about the passing of the moon,
how it takes an age to burn so bright,
then gone away too soon.
My father once told me
about the whisper of the wind,
how ghosts are soldiers left to die,
in brutal war's rescind.
My shaman once told me
about collective memory loss,
how it takes an age to build a kingdom,
which swiftly turns to moss.
My teacher once told me
about coincidental beauty,
how love is found in patient bliss
and custodial duty.
My pen-pal once told me
about how all of life is work,
how you must toil, toil, toil the fields,
only to end up hurt.
My mother once told me
about the truth found on the coast,
how in landlocked state, she buried thought
and missed my father the most.
My blackout friend once told me
how he re-invented sin,
how truth is but an echo of thought
and great delusion's twin.
The news anchor once told me
about the falling of the towers,
how brothers fell under the mythic spell
of dehumanising powers.
My electrician once told me
about the sounds of abandonment,
how a million memories within the halls,
are now but histories spent.
My garden gnome once told me
about God within the weather,
how we traded in moonlit ponds
for car seats made of leather.
My psychologist once told me
about living with depression,
how it takes an age to face the day
and a second for night's oppression.
My failed love agreed with this
as she turned to walk away,
and for all the words I'd written down,
I had nothing left to say.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
A ghost doesn't always need a host.
Hidden messages they can post.
Finding children who are missing & lost.
Whatever the cost.
Ariel is the boss.
We suffered a severing loss.
She is still in charge.
We ain't living that large.
She is motherless.
I am childless.
Our sacred bond was forced broken.
Bitterness & scorn is choking.
Ireland we can run.
A vacation would be fun.
Ariel is a magnificant star.
The target of a custodial war.
She is gifted & talented.
A spirit that's been lifted.
She joined my life.
She is still Fatherless & I not yet a wife.
A celestial being which I am seeing.
She has always been the plan.
I am her biggest fan.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Elaborate a little on the empty space.
canvas
Fill it with spills.
It all seems so accidental, did you bring your credentials?
Passwords linger throughout the discussions,
reason & recognize
Act with the valor of lightning and they will stumble like thunder... Timber.
Down falls another point on the pop chart.
Playing tic tac toe till the the tacs tic down by the toe, action falls into a drifting memory and crumples at the custodial hour.
Feet pounding time on the tiles
Repititions, turning inches to miles... Progress??
Does the diety of a paragraph outshine the novel drifter??
I mean, both read only one line at a time...
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
As I sit on this assigned desk
ears drooling with institution gel
I swirl on the seat, the wind pause
Musing in evangelised dilemmas
Lobotomised to jerking veracities
Sagacity amateurs boost egos
Stooping and stooging in asylums
Barricading others progression
Regressed losing solid grounds
Jurisdictional custodial supervisions
An infused scent of propagandism
Scenes of robotic observational modelling
Unprincipled to insist on another destiny
Calculating targeted risked predictions
Regulated to invigilate and unroll a matrix grid
Who am I? To forge his,her or their trench
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
*“The *** or ethereal soul is associated with the Liver System, and is the aspect of consciousness that continues to exist—in more subtle realms—even after the death of the body.”*
When *** walks, I walk. When he wanders, untethered, I go with him. With her. My eyes close, and hun’s will be wide. He leads the way.
She leads me, away from my bed to stand at window, which I open.
*** will lift the sash so I can lean out over the street where someone is screaming.
Always screaming.
Known to walk after the body dies, *** is roused by this call.
But the chill, the smell of the distant river, wakes me. And *** retreats.
I’ve been told to put bells on my window so I will wake when it’s opened. When I open it.
The bells of the Cathedral ring in the dark hours of all this animation: wandering spirit of my organs, custodial ghost of my art.
He wants me grounded. She wants me flown.
I am here, I tell him—her: not lost. Aloft.
A-sleep or awake, I am led, leashed, walking in the wake of our odd arrangement.
-- by Nathaniel Bellows
st.. 25 march 2014
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
A past corrupted.
Innocence & happiness is interrupted.
Evil & sin in this house has erupted.
Justice does not protect & serve.
Criminals never get the incarceration they deserve.
To do unspeakable crimes they have the nerve.
In Mexico....
To be some perverts ***
Unreported child *** crimes bestow.
Law enforcement will never know.
Low priority cases never made it to the Hall of Justice.
Uncredible witness unrecommended.
My custodial declarations untrusted.
Too many crimes to count on two hands with fingers of five.
Low lives with cheated wives.
In jails they are still alive.
The queen bee of their hive.
A trust destroyed & betrayed.
A little girls self-esteem frazzled & frayed.
In danger she stayed.
Clueless friends with daily she played.
In my bed at night beside me his sickness laid.
To sell my *** so he could get paid.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
The bad time you had in the spring time was a warning of things to come,
A hot summer full of flu vaccinations and strep throat.
You were so sick.
I was so happy for you,
Because, that hospital is truly my sanctuary.
The white floors are moderately endearing,
And the custodial staff has always been cordial.
Just stay out of the cafeteria, okay?
That was ours.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
I run to seclusion, where no one's around,
I would hate for someone to hear the sound.
A zip, a ruffle, kerplunk, and then splat,
The brown swim beneath, where so many have sat.
Slinks down like sausage that hasn't a case,
The brown conforms to this funnel-like space.
I pinch it off hurriedly, being in a rush,
Oh God, what now! The toilet won't flush.
Water is rising o'er the precipice,
I haven't the time nor the courage for this.
I'm out the door quickly, deflecting this gaffe,
My deepest apologies, custodial staff.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
The distortion of rectitude maintains the guise of a charismatic persona, with a co-existing ulterior motive.
Searching for our lost soul is intensified by the diametrically opposed collision of ancient and modern pizzicato.
Listen to the voices as they forcefully project powerful messages into the darkened recesses of presumed enlightenment.
I have released my imprisoned being from this custodial fabric of presumed alignment, into the lofts of undetectable thermals, where soaring wings surf undefined boundaries of spatial awareness.
Cosmological democracy is the State in which our orchestral garden grows, light years beyond the doorway of the beginning.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
Those who embrace the morose departure immediately transition to their arrival destination, in the same manner as the crystal-clear droplet of dew which steadily detaches itself from the leaf on the end of a branch.
Stroke your soul and acknowledge the reality of fantasy, if you dare to venture into the realms of vulnerability. However, one must fully accept that presumed freedom is usually nothing less than serving a harsh custodial sentence.
Forgive me for being bold: How do you define the concept of cost? It is wise to step back and look deep inside, as one will find that the roots are laid bare and that they are screaming for sensitive caresses.
I have already distributed the tickets, and there are many that remain to be freely available. But it is only seconds until departure.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
I take the remnants of my
childhood OCD,
and I put it to
hard work at my
custodial arts job.
Janitor to be PC.
All the initials make
my BP rise.
And the pounding
of the basketballs attack
my eardrums in
a mad staccato
beat.
The blue toilets, and
the chemicals assuage
my nasal cavity.
Leggings and tight shorts
get my Nabokov mind calling
****** come, let me
touch your pink flower.
I'm wet now at
the head; can they see
it through my pants?
How many times did
I touch the light switch?
Do I need to blink
my eyes two more times?
Ah, if I could only
swim to heaven in
the blueness of the sterile
chlorine in
that big cerulean pool...
wash this
wretched disease
off, once and for all.
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 11:53 PM UTC
I work at a
gym that is
popular all over
the country, because
of its family values, and
sliding fee scale.
I am a custodial artist.
It's mindless and gives
me time to write.
I get a free membership.
Men walk around the
locker room **** and
try to have full conversations
with me.
I want to say,
put your **** away,
it doesn't talk.
This is a gym,
not a nudist colony.
I take no delight in
seeing your shriveled *****
Where is your modesty,
your decency?
Wrap yourself in a
towel before you try
chatting me up about
the weather.
I'm trying to work out,
and then get the **** away
from you screwballs.
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 9:15 AM UTC
I would have sworn I could see
him out in the boonies of Vietnam toting a rifle
not worrying about a trifle
or pushing a broom and working
nigh custodial work
Not all the above, it's just the sense of
"regular man"
He wouldn't get a ten
in looks
but his weather beaten skin shows he knows
too about the blind man on the New York subway
pushing a tin
as in cup
just to get a little sup
and now maybe
it's not Agent Orange,
the "regular man"'s
ruddy skin
but he's working in a field just to get a tan
You know
he's got what
would be called a weird sense of humor -
nothing like guffaws
in the Harvard Tumor,
I believe that's what one of their funny newspapers is called
and this "regular man" is worried about being tall -
just so he survives with a nice-tasting cigarette
danglign from his lips
and holding a nice beer in his hand
from which he wants to take a sip
I like to think
I know where he;s coming from
and that he's not ****
Charles Sturies
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Sleep doesn't come anymore
It never visits
I have to fight for it
Night after night
Like a parent who is losing their custodial rights
Sleep, you were my escape
I loved you and you left
How could you?
I was faithful, always
Except for those few nights when life was too good to sleep
But those don't come anymore
Now I live to sleep
I yearn for the darkness to take over my mind
To quiet the thoughts that churn all day long
To mend everything that I have done wrong
Like all my other friends,
You left
You left me alone
And awake
And now I don't have the chance to dream,
Of better things
Or how it used to be
Because I loved how it used to be
When I went to sleep happy
And excited to start my next day
Now sleep, I greet you with a heavy heart
Always hoping that a better day will come after the dark
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
*confines of mindscape
confides shadowed landscape
coffin lids fastened tight
custodial strife bite where
finer emotions reside
convivial memories collide
custom denial define
comport in social decline
coffers fill with loose change
combined prognoses engage*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
No Birth
Millions Old
Grown Harvested
Caught in The Storm
Re-Incarnated Re-born
Scientifically Manufactured
The Creation
God Himself
Solidarity
Consciously
Un-Equivickly
The Path Move Over
De-Natured Citizen
Un-Naturraly
Each Human
In Custody
Custodial
Perish
Cherish
Born Again
Here I Am
Till Death
Believe You Will Achieve
WORLDWIDE ORDER NEW LAW
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 7:29 PM UTC
in my pressence
you'll see me drinking tennents
in the pub
not in a nightclub
switching to whiskey
its quite risky
because i get frisky
so i'll drink gin
it is a sin
i just cant win
had some smirnoff
now im about to fall off
my bar stool
as i go to play pool
looking like a fool
i stumple out the bar
and aproch my car
the big five o in the far
see me and take action
i try to make a distraction
so i can start my extraction
this sparks an unwanted attraction
from the faction and an interaction
i start to fight
and notice his hight
i was like oh *****
Now getting lifted
which i kinda requested
as i shouted i was being molested
canna believe that the peev
on this fine eve had made me nieve
as i greave in the car with police
as i waint for release
started with a pint of tennents
and ended with a custodial sentence
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC