"deadman" poems
Another win, another celebration.
Fifteen world championships
That’s inspiration.
But are you ready? For the beast?
Because rumors are swirling
That he’s been released.
Four men are the least of your worries,
Because you’re about to be interrupted
On this golden journey.
You've defeated him once before,
But he is no longer weak.
As he is much stronger
Since he defeated the deadman's streak.
Now he’s coming for you,
And your championship.
It’s not so much another run,
But for the pain he loves to inflict.
So forget Mr. Money in the Bank,
And the four other gladiators.
Enjoy your title run now, Cena.
Because Brock Lesnar is an annihilator
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
Letter from a dead man,
His souls up where is he?
Letter from a dead man,
To Heaven or hell he will see.
Letter from a dead man,
To where at can he be?
Letter from a dead man,
No more food can he feed,
Letter from a dead man,
His life's up as you read.
Scared so scared like the millions heard,
Scared of death and me,
Food for thought like the old man said,
An innings of eighty three,
Letter from a dead man,
Stand up remember thee,
Letter from a dead man,
His hymns sheets of real cacophony,
Letter from a dead man,
Sing up and let it be,
Letter from a dead man,
Switches off his life machine,
Letter from a dead man,
A celebration of his legacy
Buried treasured no mans land
In the hills of this cemetery,
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Just remember him when he leaves.
Letter from a dead man,
To the point of its will,
Letter from a dead man,
No good when he's lying still,
Letter from a dead man,
No more laughs his body chills,
Letter from a dead man,
After he takes his last sleeping pill,
Letter from a dead man,
In Forever credible.
Disappeared no land frontier,
Tales to wander now,
Tears for fears after all these years,
Distinguished with a crown.
Letter from a dead man,
Shall he spell out to you now,
Letter from a dead man,
More ups than been downs,
Letter from a dead man,
Snarl bites from a vicious hound,
Letter from a dead man,
Safe grace under ground,
Letter from a dead man,
Not safe as it sounds.
Worry, Worry, Super Hurry,
To the day that they bereaved,
Money, Money not so funny,
Something changes as he leaves
Letter from a dead man,
Its with you that he thanks,
Letter from a dead man,
A new change of circumstance,
Letter from a dead man,
Sons&Daughters; admirals,
Letter from a dead man,
As love has a chance,
Letter from a dead man,
He's happy with its deliverance.
In days gone by I took to past,
Reflected on happiness as if to last.
So many wondrous days, jolly, quiet, crazily loved been raised.
In many parts chapter arts, like as youngsters we drove our racing carts,
I pinned a bullseye dart with an eye to target the centre of my whole being. Teenage days of bad school days to my first pint with the Trin! Laughter and such worked harder as much for the shackles I threw away!
Up, Up and away my off spring played with hay, did me proud as they made their way! Middle age to this very stage to people I've met. In love, friendship, peace and loyalty to you I will never forget.
Letter from a dead man,
Insane or nice you may think, but with a life time guarantee.
Letter from a dead man,
With r.I.p love from me..
O'Reily@05032013
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
YES, the Dead speak to us.
This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness.
Back of the clamps on a fireproof door they hold the papers of the Dead in a house here
And when two living men fall out, when one says the Dead spoke a Yes, and the other says the Dead spoke a No, they go then together to this house.
They loosen the clamps and haul at the hasps and try their keys and curse at the locks and the combination numbers.
For the teeth of the rats are barred and the tongues of the moths are outlawed and the sun and the air of wind is not wanted.
They open a box where a sheet of paper shivers, in a dusty corner shivers with the dry inkdrops of the Dead, the signed names.
Here the ink testifies, here we find the say-so, here we learn the layout, now we know where the cities and farms belong.
Dead white men and dead red men tested each other with shot and knives: they twisted each others' necks: land was yours if you took and kept it.
How are the heads the rain seeps in, the rain-washed knuckles in sod and gumbo?
Where the sheets of paper shiver,
Back of the hasps and handles,
Back of the fireproof clamps,
They read what the fingers scribbled, who the land belongs to now-it is herein provided, it is hereby stipulated-the land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thorn-apple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops-
So it is scrawled here,
"I direct and devise
So and so and such and such,"
And this is the last word.
There is nothing more to it.
In a shanty out in the Wilderness, ghosts of to-morrow sit, waiting to come and go, to do their job.
They will go into the house of the Dead and take the shivering sheets of paper and make a bonfire and dance a deadman's dance over the hissing crisp.
In a slang their own the dancers out of the Wilderness will write a paper for the living to read and sign:
The dead need peace, the dead need sleep, let the dead have peace and sleep, let the papers of the Dead who fix the lives of the Living, let them be a hissing crisp and ashes, let the young men and the young women forever understand we are through and no longer take the say-so of the Dead;
Let the dead have honor from us with our thoughts of them and our thoughts of land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thornapple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops.
2k
Tomorrow morning, I will be your
ghost again
breathing salt into the
wounds God left you healing.
Refection of
a flame that gives mist
and winglets paling, I have
arms that give night to girls
I have saliva that rises any deadman.
Solstice, when do
the dawns stop chilling? When
does warmth grow?
Winter has had enough,
checking into a glass motel room:
break the floor
and call on a waitress to pick
it back up.
I watch you sterilized
perceived the tip of the iceburg
like a gift –
you must be leaving, sir, and
get better once again.
before God pulls you in
white’s chilly, and the morning is.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
David slings a rock
Cop holsters a glock, Lizzie Borden packs an axe
Mac he packs the knife, Billy battles with a club, Tommy’s gun is a sub
Kelly’s got 1 too, Bazooka Joe Is Gum, Peter Gun not, Colt 45 is not malt
Nor a horse, hand grenades, canons w/big ***** Doc Holiday had TB
Rock Hudson *** James Dean crash his car,Hank Williams in his bar
Natalie Wood don’t float, Cain killed brother, Juliette poison her lover,
Whitey Bulger, he killed and got paid, deadman walking gets to eat
Rodney King he got beat, got beat Mama Cass Elliott choked on ham
58,000 gone in Nam, 4 dead in Ohio, Kamikazes fall 1941, again 2001
Iraqi leader w/ a rope, John Belushi too much dope, C. Manson is alive
Michael Jackson isn’t, Saturday night special is very ordinary
Fast and furious is the crime, **** Clark just his time
Pirate victims walk the plank, THINK,
Next I’ll come rolling up in a tank
Hear the whistle of my missile
***** Harry had the biggest
The Derringer is small
Smokey Bear forest fire
Greek funeral is a pyre
Too many +’s or -’s
Is electrical surges
Woman and child
sing the dirges
Walking dead
Are zombies
Fat man and
Little Boy
Are atom
Bombies
as for me
in a blaze
of glory
BOOM
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
Flying high there is a cry
U all wanted me 2 die
It's something u cannot try
2 get me in a deadman's suit and tie.
I'm really unconscious
When I'm astral travelling space
I'm flying never dying
When I've hit the high state.
The sensation of the travel
Is hitting the nerve
I don't want 2 go back
Because I'm high as a bird.
I'm floating around
Can u see my mist
The colour of the rainbow
And my clinched fists.
I'm astral travelling 2 a place u wish 2 be
A place where I'm flying and always free.
A place where no man is dead
Leaving the body when I'm asleep in bed.
(c)
Tommy K
Davy C Green
17-01-2007
Psychotic Goblins
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
Tickling of the fancy
Tainting of the tongue
They'll have you 100 proof
Before the day is done
Fill your mind with hatred
All in the name of love
Deadman
When will you wake up
Hail for you a taxi
Giving you a ride
Windows black front and back
So you can't see outside
Yes, Virginia, there is a clause
A case of do or die
Deadman
When will you open up your eyes
They have you follow orders
Marching to the beat
Zombiefied look in your eyes
Shuffling of the feet
It's hard to see the truth
When you don't see the need
Deadman
When will you believe
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
i see today,
the first glimmering
of summer,
in the curl of green nails,
on the deadman fingers
of the frangipani.
i see today,
the last sighs of winter
in the dessicatted, crumbling, leaves being,
blown ever which way
by the gusting, September winds.
i see today spring,
coming up,
in shoots of green,
sprung from the rain softened soil.
all different hues,
of potential and expectation
rising from the ground.
i see today, the the last glimpse of autumn,
in that pallette of a leaf,
stubborn throughout the winter now finally,
come to grief and floating, serene in silent submission, on the pond of koi.
the oranges and browns
blending into the watered background.
i see today,
all the seasons,
in the sky
and all around me,
time moves forward
and every moment,
counted as precious
and noted by this poets eye...
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
He sits atop his lofty minaret
Long legs wrapping round the tower like a spider
Surveying his kingdom of faceless travelers
With his dark eyes and the tick tock from his chest
Nameless forms all touching hands
And speaking in some foreign tongue
Impenetrable to him
Familiar words in unfamiliar circumstances
Like TV commercials all clamouring for attention
Saying nothing at all at high volume
The only voices that make sense are the crows
With their mournful reminders of decay
The inevitable end cycle of things
Rot and rebirth
He sits in this place
Watching the beetles and flies turning things over
Waiting for them to turn him over
So he can start again as something new
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
My heart
is that
of a deadman
it's not beating
has no feeling
Knows no pain
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
It's a story best forgotten
the words but a fairy tale
like fruit left till rotten
a love grown cold and stale.
His words once bore the Sun
lifted the heart and kissed a smile
those words that now no longer run
have changed to ones so vile.
Eager once to hold her
to share moments pleasures and ways
now sits before a big screen to see
Football games and plays.
That a man once could love so deeply
his passion last the night so long
how now they have gone completely
in a love that is dead and wrong.
Is fate so cruel to a woman's heart
to give true love as a second in life
leaving the rest empty and alone
---As a Dead man's Wife.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 12:32 PM UTC
Enter Stage Left the Pianoman
watch him sit, tails flowing and hands ready
Enter with adoring eyes
The crowds of people here to see his demise
little do they know of the pianist's plan
to leave them all speechless
as his hands land
not on the piano
but on the gun he so carefully slid under the bench
for a long time now Mr. Pianoman
could only think of One thing
One escape from the daemons he hears
at Night when he rests his head.
Enter Stage Left a Walking, Living Deadman.
Enter with adoring eyes the funeral procession to the Pianoman's demise.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
The wind whistles hard
in my own backyard
with a haunting tune.
No birds fly by in
the afternoon wind
cause the sky’s ashen
and the past won’t come
back in a flash again.
Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.
Corpses sit in their
own piles of ****
with no one left to
remember all of it.
The rot and the rage
killing king plague
that took over this place.
Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.
Poison in the ground,
silence is the sound
that’s most harrowing,
rivers run their course
but time finds hope
always narrowing.
Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.
I will be the last
child to tell you of
our strange tragic past,
the final recorded
voice that afforded
no hope or recourse,
cause life is the wife
from which we all got
a final divorce.
Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 11:07 AM UTC
If I could buy just one more day..I'd pay the Earth.
To open up my eyes again and feel the loving pain of life and stretch my arms up to the sky..
..But here I lie..Alone in death..
No Angels came to give me breath to breathe in paradise...and let me tell you..
..it aint nice.
So..
If I could buy just one more day I wouldn't waste my words to say."what time is it"..Shit..I wouldn't care.
I'd nurse each second like a baby in my arms and handle gently every minute..as if a cry would spoil the spell and send me screaming back to Hell and if I heard the clock at all that echoes loudly, I would fall again into despair..
..Something I care not to do.
But what I have is what I've got..a six foot plot..and lost somewhere along the way was any hope of buying one more day.
So I will lay.Wishing I could gaze once more upon the sky.
Wishing I could buy..
..Another day.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
I don't feel like i'm going to find
the one thing i need, because i feel blind
because there's alot going on in my mind
in way tht goodness is always beside you
happyness is waiting for you
it's just right there
you don't need to go anywhere
you can smell't everywhere
the one thing that the #Deadman ..need
is a sign , to feed , his heart again....
Welp........ i hope she read... !
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 6:48 AM UTC
JEROME
you mar
her skin the colour
of midnight and dawn
like a palette
your mother never brought you
because she was too busy opening her leg
like a gastro pub
the one you have to wait in line to
with the sign "WE'RE CLOSED"
only one deadman short
they tell you to love her
the right way
leave her gasping but breathing
standing but swimming
but what
when someone's right is another person's wrong
but how
when you still don't know
house is a building and home is the person
so ******* blame her for
thinking you don't love her when these red and blue
painting her skin is
your version of love bite
and the hallow on her cheek is because your hand
wants to be kissed too
just like your heart
but too bad your father scooped it up and sold it on a
secondhand store with no return policy
blame her
for building a bridge only to set them on fire
and hope for asphalt to surface
or footsteps by the sand with LED sign ' HEAVEN IS HER
but what
when you can't even differentiate whether love is
bliss or rupture
but how
when not even a shooting star can find their way back
so blame her
by loving the **** out of her
chase her until
she runs away
draw her name in abandond graveyards
because god knows how you hope
she can be their salvation
and when she is, maybe, just maybe she can
be yours too
but never ever blame her for
leaving you because
you know
you splatter so many colors on her
how she is no longer a centerpiece of
a masterpiece
how your romantic grandeur ends up a VIP spot
on the living room couch
how you beg until
your knees scraped to its skull
for her to tie a noose one last time
don't blame her for the words that
clogs your lungs so hard you thought
you'd die because of it
don't blame her
never blame her
"What happened?"
"It was my fault anyway."
JEROME
oh, JEROME
hasn't anyone told you
a monster can be someone else's angel too?
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
It was a beautiful old house
Adorned with flowers and the odd flying bee
Leaves fell as I drove up the driveway
It was as picturesque as my eyes could see
Grass rolled down the banks
A gust of wind made the trees sway
The gardener gave me a curious smile
And his teeth showed neglecting decay
If he knew my full occupation
I bet he wouldn't be so polite
As I was a Scotland Yard detective
Investigating a ****** that happened in the night
The lady of the house opened the door
And her look was a sorrowful one
'Would you like some tea?', she asked
But I said just no as I wanted to crack on
I asked a series of questions
Then spoke with all the staff
They were still shocked about the ******
About the deadman found in the bath
After a tense and lengthy investigation
It seemed that it was jealous revenge
The culprit was a young servant
After discovering an affair he had to avenge
I won't forget the manor
And the beautiful falling leaves
Just a pity it wasn't a nice visit
That left misery as a family grieves
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 7:30 AM UTC
Legends tell of an ancient beast
Said to stalk the night
It flew from the east
Its howel fills the soul with fright
They called it the Rickle-Rackle
After the sound it makes
Its bones do crackle
As it quavers and shakes
Rickle-Rackle is all you hear
Before your time is done
Rickle-Rackle strikes up fear
Just as you are overrun
Few have ever seen the creature
And lived to tell the tale
Or can describe a single feature
Of this unholy grail
They say its teeth are sharp
And glint in the light of the moon
Its taller than any scarp
More powerful than any dragoon
Faster than any man
Stronger than one too
You are a deadman
If you come in his view
The Rickle-Rackle drags his tail
Cutting down forest trees
His breath is like a gale
And will bring you to your knees
Its eyes pierce to your soul
Down to your very heart
Which becomes an empty hole
Thanks to its dark art
So heed my warning
Brave adventurer
Wait until the morning
He can't be worth any venture
Pray you ne're encounter
The fearsome Rickle-Rackle
You are no beast hunter
Fear its evil cackle
Fear the Rickle-Rackle
Hear its sound and flee
Should you hear it's crackle
Its mouth will be the last you see
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
There was a hate, there was a love
The thin line connection; Right and wrong, hate and love
Life was mess, full of doubt and confusion
Nothing was right
Being good was wrong, being bad was never right
The thin line connection; Right and wrong, hate and love
Hope was dangerous, it kills
Hoping is good, it makes you alive like a deadman
Waiting and hoping collides
The thin line connection; Right and wrong, hate and love
Nothing was special, every stories were fake
Life was good but nothing was right
Ethic is just a religion, so insane
The thin line connection; Right and wrong, hate and love
Sacrifice, Understanding, empathy leads no where
Pressure, Rudeness, Sympathy are useless
No specific answers, No specific questions.
So Lost.
The thin line connection; Right and wrong, hate and love.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Silence silence, in the eerie of the night,
Long have I stood, forever burning bright,
Let the echoes dance, and rejoice,
As we falter to the dark, paranoid,
We feel weak, looking to fall,
Why has the ice melted? Why at all?
As we struggle to fight the shadows,
all sinners and saints behold,
We look for a reason, a path,
Yet the fight goes berserk,
A Child brings forth a dream,
Another then begs: "no, don't scream!"
Yet all behold, the hand on his chest,
As the deadman's heart, goes cold...
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
I won't play the victim,
my head is made of stone,
my feet are made of gravel,
this dirt is all they've known.
"Here lies a poet, lost in his own head,
not knowing hell from heaven,
nor life from being dead."
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC
There were no grand pronouncements
No standing ovations or help desk waiting
No nurse on standby for a stand-up guy
No friend at Jack’s bar to pat him on the back
And send him home in a taxi cab
There was no Monday mail that wished him well
No national pride that made him swell
Just this hell a sorry state for sale
And no one he wanted to tell
So, with nothing to show
He let the bullet go and watched the blood flow
No fire alarms sounded, no ambulance rounded the corner
No other mourners other than the quiet night coroner
Nothing left but an empty room and a short obit
That gave his name cause of death and that was it
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC