"decapitated" poems
With those acid wash jeans
With that full sleeve of twirling black ink
With the drapes of long hair
I thought that we could leave the xplosion-club
After the confection of colognes
After the South African red wine
After the pounding music all night
Something **** about
A statue that can move
It's eyes
Something **** about
A man that thinks
Openly
We took the subway back to my apartment
You picked up a pebble and tossed it
I was quieter now
Would I let him inside? I have to at this point it seems
A charming prince
is a charming prince
I open the door.
Nothing bad happens, as I expect
I am a little paranoid I don't know why
(The club flashes back)
The door closes without its usual creek,
And we're inside.
Me and the charmer; I wonder, was he once a frog?
I have a funny feeling that I think came from the wine
Am I trashed or
Does he have horns?
Slimy toadskin, red eyes, 1000 inches of claws
Suddenly
Are upon me, Oh my God!
I tell it to leave mE ALONE,
It doesn't listen to me.
Every time I try to slip out of it's grip
I slide into a claw
Gushing this stuff from the movies,
It covered the bed and then the floor,
It probably leaked out from under the apartment door.
My cellphone rings in my pants pocket
I can't reach it because by then this grendel thing had broken me
Into two legs, a torso, two arms
And a decapitated head
While it eats my right lung, my left hand tries to desperately crawl away
He pokes it with a great fork; no escaping crums
The awful amphibian finishes and leaves forever.
He's never coming back
A winner-and-loser kind of *** I guess.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
I am cut by the shards
of my shattered dreams
My hard heart broken by
the fist of my own ambition
Spilt milk and empty cups
All karma now has gone
For the Lord now slips away
As his every favour, now has gone
Alone now I stand in the shadows
of my shattered dreams
Lured I was by the mermaid's smile
My dreams smash on the rocks of time
Broken am I
By the crashing waves of change
All parts scattered and spread
I find myself adrift
On the ocean of Oneness
The wolves of destruction
devour all hopes and dreams
And goddess Kali drinks the blood
from my decapitated head
I feel the force of my father's fury
I stand in a field of rubble
Where a castle of faith once stood
My tears of ambition now fall
emptying the seas of conquest
That enslaved my marooned self
on the island of desire
Eyes freed from desire
see the Love in Kali's eyes
And thank the wolves
for slaying my hopes and dreams
for freedom comes to open
A door to the deeper self
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Devastated
Mental
War
Trauma
Decapitated
Enemies
Alone
Fear
Combat
Tortured
Lost
Sounds
Crazy
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Today I decided to go to my crib.
I then invited my homies to bid
that Lamar is goin to bring his kid.
So while I'll be chillin here popin some lids,
I noticed none of my homies have come to my crib,
not even Lamar and his kid.
So I tried actin all cool,
until I saw a small red pool.
I soon found myself a fool
by following that pool.
I found two brothers who were smothered in red.
One was dead,
and conceived a decapitated head.
It was Lamar who was stained red.
The otha brotha seemed to be a kid.
I said, "Why would you do somethin like this."
He said, "you will never find the otha bodies I hid."
I soon found my homies did make it to my crib,
Every single one of them were hung by the head.
They were all there except for Lamar's kid.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
This morning a great big pile of ******* occupies the road in front of your building,
Powdered wigs and hand grenades,
The remains of a slaughter the night before.
All the medicine, text books, car keys, credit cards, shoes, head phones, computer chips, DVDs, chairs and trucks.
A smoldering heap of help from friends in factories.
None of it had been spared during the death of civilization.
Still they pile it.
Your neighbors and parents and friends.
They’ve been convinced that these things are evil.
They will force solitude upon all of us.
They will make us vulnerable and frail as though naked in the night.
They will prove to us that we did not know what it was to be alone.
Standing atop the pile their god is yelling:
“We must sacrifice for the good of life!
We must destroy for the good of creation!
We create ignorance for the sake of realization!
We incite suffering for the good of happiness!.”
Left alone we must grovel at the foot of our fallen god,
Mourning a murdered child.
Crying out for fairness and LAW.
Systems and sciences.
All lay at the very center of the mound.
The head of a rotten body,
Decapitated without mercy by those who had been deceived by it.
Death and darkness come next,
Creeping as wolves do where we fear them most.
I can’t tell you what comes next,
But you must not trust those who began the revolution.
They have abandoned you to your own devices.
Left you naked in the shadow of the mound.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
so what, they're slobs, but at least they're not cannibals... then again, maybe they are too, although i haven't seen it... then again i only write within an empirical disciplination... and i have seen these pecking cannibals... maybe it's an innate feature in all animals, then again these chickens were domesticated, there was no shortage of food, then again maybe it's some version of a religious tendency: translated directly into christianity... poetic cannibalism is not exactly my choice of events that follow a book written by kant; after seeing those chickens cannibalise that head of the sacrificed hen, and sipping the blood, while the head was still agitated into movement by the oozing out of electric currents... you know... i still managed to eat that chicken broth.
i don't understand this critique of pigs...
i have relatives living in the countryside...
and i was once upon a time engaged
in catching a chicken,
and upon the stump of wood
her head was chopped off...
why complain about pigs being "filthy"
when chickens behave like cannibals,
no, actually: chickens are cannibals,
the corpus was taken into the house,
while the remaining chickens sipped,
picked and nibbled the decapitated head
of a chicken to a non-existence...
bewildering, pigs are seen as filthy creatures...
finally, god is the counter-perfectionist
who sees some sort of imperfection
in his lie...
i don't mind a ***** animal...
but i've just seen chickens become cannibals
once one of their own gets its head
chopped off, and they congregate, peck
at the decapitated head and sip pecking
the running blood on the stump of oak...
huh?! pigs are bad...
yeah right... you haven't seen what chickens
do then one of their charles the 1sts gets
the chop.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
Standing upon a hill, I.
Under black & purple sunwheel.
Standing with sword in right hand, representing morality and righteousness.
Standing with mine own decapitated head in left hand, represting violent and sudden removal of Ego &&& it's prompt reclaimation.
Standing soaked in the blood of the wound as my sacramental rebirth offering and cleansing.
My own next level of Apotheosis.
Kept alive by sheer will & & & magicks.
Headless mystic standing akin to an Autosacrifical Kali Ma.
Standing as Ego.
Standing as Godhead.
I.A.O.
Standing as Headless Warrior.
Omnia et Nihil.
I am become The Other, the Ritual Evolution.
Hail.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
CONGRATULATIONS
give me decapitated heads,this is my prize(everyone is out to get me)
dont throw away the axe, it's yours
(**STOP SCREAMING ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD YOU ******* COWARD LOOK AT WHAT YOUVE DONE**)
everyone in the world is screaming right now
yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault
come on,fucking **** me
CONGRATULATIONS
and im dead by tomorrow night
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?
Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.
Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform
I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.
I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.
In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Has not enough been said
About Cecil, the Lion?
This has brought me to tears.
For those who don't know
Cecil lived in a Wild Life park
In Zimbabwe.
There was no hunting allowed
So, some sick *******
Who is a big game hunter
Dragged a antelope carcass
So that Cecil would
Come out of the park.
He, then, shot Cecil
With an arrow
And Cecil was tortured
Over forty hours.
Cecil was tracked down,
He was shot with a gun,
He was decapitated,
He was skinned.
How is it that
What is so magnificent
As a Lion
Is seen as nothing
But a head and skin
To decorate your living room?
I've been to Kenya
And Tanzania.
They are glorious creatures
In the wild.
Why not just take a photo?
Or just enjoy their magnificence
And then leave
With your enhanced soul?
They say psychopaths
Practice on animals first
This sick pathology
Has to end, not only for
Animals but humans well.
This man had a felony conviction
For baiting black bears.
He belongs in prison
Although many think
He should be decapitated
As well.
People are angry.
And Cecil's Cubs?
I used to watch a show
Called:
"Big Cat Diaries"
And their fate is sealed
As well.
Lions practice infanticide
And when a new male
Comes to Cecil's pride
He will **** all of Cecil's offspring
To make their mothers
Go into estrus
So they can breed.
One cub has been killed
And not much hope for
The other eight.
Our neighbors bait
Black bears, **** them,
Skin them, stuff them
And put them in their house.
They seem to just enjoy
Killing things for no reason
They find great joy
In killing things.
They seem like
Nice enough people
But when you have
So little respect for Life
Can't it haunt
Your human ties?
I honestly feel
Like someone
Has shot my dog.
And it makes me weep,
Though the story
Is now old.
This man should
Go to prison,
And in Zimbabwe.
Send the world
A huge message
That we are not Neanderthals
We don't have to
To **** things
Out of sheer joy.
We should not reduce
Living things to
Heads and hides.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
follow my feelings down the road,
and get decapitated,
he wants to have a smirk on his face,
and he became infatuated,
divined and refined,
i don't want to have this irritation,
zero tolerance aligned,
it creates frustration,
follow me,
follow me,
follow me,
follow me,
follow me,
into my words,
follow me.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
I have died many times. My body hung next to Jesus at Golgotha. I was once decapitated in the French Revolution. I’ve had my eyes gouged out at Gettysburg.
I have died many times. My chest was riddled with bullets on the beaches of Normandy. My lungs dissolved and I had a stroke in Auschwitz. My skin baked, bubbled, and blistered from Hiroshima to Nagasaki.
I have died many times. I bled out from a ruptured heart during Columbine. On 9/11, my rib caged cracked and I even stopped breathing.
_______________________________________________________________
I have died too many times. I shot myself in the head last night. Dream-spells dripped out from the void and so I shot myself through the heart, stuck my fingers in the hole to see if it hurt and it stung a little.
I have died too many times. I took an ax and split my head open; a flock of pigeons were pecking at my cortex. They flew out and church hymns rang from my cerebellum.
I have died too many times. I lit a bonfire in my brain; the light burst from my eye sockets and now my head is a paper lantern. I clawed at my chest till I ripped my heartstrings; they sung happy birthdays in Arabic so I blew out the fire.
I have died too many times. I took a baseball bat and busted my face open; I was swinging for the fences and swallowed my teeth on accident.
I have died too many times. I tore out my stomach, drank the acid, and ****** myself. I tried pulling my lungs over my head just to suffocate.
I have died too many times. When I discovered my spinal cord, I plucked it out, wrapped it around my neck, and hung myself from the tallest redwood I could find.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
The beginning of a new day, I want to be positive. I don’t want to think about festering wounds that become overrun with infection due to a lack of self-care and bad hygiene.
I want to change my thoughts. I want to recognize them for what they are, fleeting and neutral before I trap them within the musty wharf of my psyche.
I want to believe in a god. I want to believe that something is somewhere that can redeem the involuntary nature of existence. Something that balances the horror of ****** starvation, and **** or the parents of a missing child who are later asked to identify the only remains found – a decapitated body eerily preserved by the abnormally frigid temperatures lingering long after the advent of spring.
I want to know beauty as much as I know disgust. What redeems the isolated ending of someone that no one will ever remember? What justifies the lives of those who knew nothing but defeat, who weren’t heard, or who suffered the rejection of humanity in spite of the deep desire to feel accepted? Save us from existing without ever knowing the victory of achieving an intended goal with self-will and perseverance.
What about the countless numbers of lives that have been extinguished and buried in mass graves. How many people die that will never be remembered… What meaning does life have then? Were they here to be recalled as an obscure number? Their whole life of memories – hope, fear, love, hate, despair, dread, loneliness, doubt, guilt, shame, and unique personality traits - all to be remembered as one of the many who are not remembered.
Why must I fool myself to find contentment? Not everyone is able to see the silver lining. Must I only know the defeat of a man who could not overcome the prison of thoughts in his mind?
Do not mourn me because of a lost familiarity. If that is all I am then you will forget me soon enough.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
Inhumane was said
Six million dead
Gassed,slaughtered
Degraded
Inhumane we dare
At Jeffrey Dahmer
Kidnapper, killer
Evil embalmer
Inhumane it read
Black man dead
Dragged by his feet
Decapitated
Inhumane we say
A young man who's gay
Found bound,beaten
Left dead in the hay
Inhumane we cry
As so many die
In crumbled buildings
From terror in the sky
Inhumane
I hear say
But only humans
Act this way
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
a decapitated dog put on too many sticks to reach out and bite a child who only wanted to play with a soft touch and gapped holed grin.
the lights go out when you can´t know when, say yes to hold lights for when ´when´ happens ¨you can trip and fall¨.
glasses melted with fire to become bigger for a bigger head are still to dark to wear in shadow.
tilted camera you stare with a corked head curious to what goes on behind me, won´t you look my way instead.
dragonfly warrior poorly protecting his flourescent queen from the onslaught of molecules in a world filled with air, with air, with air, air, air.
the volume of speakers are controlled by tiny gods moving their tiny fingers, just a littly bit louder my dear.
can you remember when landline telephones were used, I remember circle dials and zero always took the longest, when did phone get rid of tele?
white flowers and white hanging sheets with yellow sun bolts raining on a clear sky shout with thunder from a noisless wind, I wear earphones tonight.
trees dance better then me, plants taste better then me, pianos sound better then me, me is better then me, we´re equals.
fat cat dreams of being skinny, he wears eye liner on weekdays and thongs on the weekends.
sometimes yoga makes me feel like a woman who feels **** then yoga makes me think what that thought means?
rocks are hot when heated.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.
But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,
Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.
Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?
I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?
For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.
Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.
Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,
I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
*I don't like him
He is a nuisance
I don't like him
I'd fond his death
I don't like him
I'd share nothing with him
I don't like him
I would like to gouge his eyes out
Until they pop.
Until blood-tears scream down
His ******* face
I form mucous to
Spit in his ******* snake face
I want to see bits of his skull torn out
I do not like him
I want to squeeze through my hands in the decapitated
Head and grab out his ******* brain,
Bits of his skull
I would like that.
Gone he'd be
I would like that
I would like to hurt him
I don't like him
I want to see all his ******* blood
Pour majestically out of every
******* opening, every hole
I see of his, I want his greedy black heart
Suffocated with cyanide
I want his poisoned soul *******
Burned until I smell
His burning, searing flesh
That screams with help
I would to do all of this and laugh and laugh
I wish he would realize how much he has gained
Then,
I will excrete on his ugly ******* red car.
I dream morbid, I dream morbid lovely thoughts to leave his
Lifeless whore-self in the ugly ******* red car
For him to rot he shall as a male-slag
A **** of degenerate foolery
Unjust as unwise, he froths degradation
A form of devolution,
As treacherous cliffs weakened
from sun and water
Treachery engrossed with black thoughts
As he falls he will bring all,
who he can find to fall with him
Drenched with whoreness
A ******* thought enriches degenerate
I would dream to castrate him
Destroy his club, **** the ******* worm
Turn unto ****
**Turn unto ****
Turn unto platter of wet sponges
Turn him into a casket of bleeding organs
I do,
I do not like him,
No I do not.
Filthy Male-Whore, ****
His corpse shall forever mold with self-hatred
Disgusting waste of gluttonous entity.
Biological waste universal waste
I do not like him
Blood chunks pool over out of his skull
I do not like him, All his filth-blood
Dried out, I do not like him
Tongue pulled out, neck snapped
Brain matter scooped out, the ******* worm
Thief, Cheat, Male-Whore. I do not like him
But I do not hate him.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by mans’ hand,
Of greed and power sought by him
Against his fellow man.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought,
That life should be a harmony
Or life should be as nought.
A still and utter peacefulness
Pervading in the air
Normalities great splendour here,
In order everywhere.
A dog barks in the evening light
As neighbours mow the lawn
And the distant hum of traffic
From yon motorway, forlorn.
Shattered buildings teeter
To the concrete debris strewn,
Through war torn streets of battle
Where hot shrapnel sears the noon.
Where blood pools in the broken glass
And fear is in the air,
And the shriek of rockets plummeting
Cause a heartbeat to despair.
Leafy streets of sanctity
Where people mix at will,
Chimney smoke which spirals
In atmosphere tranquil.
Couples saunter, arm in arm
Children laugh and play
The normal, here, is everywhere
Upon this peaceful day.
Decapitated corpses wash
In blood, red surge of sea,
An encounter in the wrong place
Means a sudden death for me.
The skies are filled with torment,
The people quake with fear
As they cringe and flee, directionless,
To frantically keep clear.
Six thousand miles of distance
Determines where we stand,
In battles hell and maelstrom
Or walk free in this fair land?
In Syria’s catastrophe
Where men do **** at will,
Or walk in serene safety
On this lands’ grassy hill
Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by your hand
With greed and power sought by man
Against his Makers’ plan.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought…
-That life shall be a harmony
Or life shall be a nought.
Marshalg
Ascot Hospital
Auckland
19 November 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
*but i'm a true reflection of a ****** up world, it's hard to push the button repeatedly using only one example... after a while it just becomes a case of eccentricity... but what's scaring you, is that this eccentricity doesn't really speak - no flamboyance to rest and feel comfortable on, like a sofa... well, indeed, an iron maiden, to my gusto.*
as one neurologist said to me,
'if someone says you're
mentally ill, then they are mentally ill.'
or as i say, sometimes you
wouldn't believe what's happening
in england, all that boasting
and jesting concerning the
magna carta: oldest democracy,
free world... a load of decapitated
cockroaches with leeches *******
on the wound - psychiatric
darwinism, you name it, a *******
**** hole of failed multiculturalism,
a bunch of former colonial subjects
assimilated and integrated,
tongues forgotten, mothers of
linguistic d.n.a. strapped to the caterpillars
of tanks, ground into bony shrapnel;
oh yeah, and asian jokes about cabbages -
tell that to the turk making his kebab,
while i tell him... how about adding
sauerkraut instead? because, i mean,
you're using pickled chillies already.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
holy graffito of a swan
gorgeous, decapitated
limp bricks sag
behind it, hysterical hegira
plummeting in sync with the self
towards the elusive, dry glory of
death or forgiveness
this is the catechism of disbelief
Agnostic by default
sleeping on the side
being wrong is not a problem
it is an answer unto itself
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
a melody of sameness
drains me of color
leaves me as an outlining
a charcoal line smudged on my sheets
and the tv is full volume, cause my neighbor is on full volume, cause his neighbor is on full volume
red faced people are yelling at each other
they are furious for so many reasons
and i don't feel a whole lot
it's monday, or tuesday, and so on - life humming in my ear
the red faced are cut off by breaking news, by massive destruction and devastation
human suffering
and i don't feel a whole lot
my neighbor bangs his fist on my wall, cause his neighbor is banging on his, and i don't know what day it is
there are bombs, rockets blaring through the night. many casualties they say. mostly women and children
i don't know the women, the children, i don't know my neighbor or my neighbors neighbor
the red faced are back on, gesturing and blaming
i don't feel a whole lot
i boil rice, cause i know how to do it, and children get their legs blown off, and women are decapitated
i'm just a crooked charcoal silhouette on my kitchen wall
cook for fifteen minutes over low flame until water has evaporated or rice is soft
**** and kidnappings and slow death. can someone tell me what day it is?
life is humming in my ear
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Like a restless little upbeat cabaret. But I disagree today.
Hilarious decapitated, degraded parts of the soul and body.
The left thumb and the right index, pieces of a lively jelly
consisted of dark and shiny old blood. Pieces from the railroad.
Hilarious.
Comical anxiety in the late hours, vomiting
in the early. My euphoria when blood
drains and thickens. Blood's silent, never
violent, aesthetic, comical.
Amusing ********* *** licking hypocrite-
selfless sons of ******* wanting to know
how I feel and what's up. Nothing's up
and everything's down, little deprived teens of a world where
only Coca-Cola matters. Amusing.
Entertaining nightmares, a head rolling into the sewer, a ******
dark finger bouncing after and the floating soul has come to say
"the dead can't testify and because I can't take an eye for an eye,
in the afterlife I'll haunt you till you die."
Sympathy is reserved for George Bush and empathy for the African children.
So don't wave it in my face, Coca-Cola teens. Pick up your pitchforks and hang me around the gallows pole.
Shoot concrete in my veins because today I'm lifeless just like my telephone. There's nothing to gain and I can't fight the pain.
That's why today I'm insane.
-Fariiniq
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC