"declaw" poems - Hello Poetry

Resolutions are supposed to be constructed from broken staircases and antique chandeliers to sand away the rough patches on your wrist bones and the scabs on your elbows; they're meant to declaw your demons and file down your teeth so you stop ripping the Band Aids off the wounds that have been trying to heal since the day you gave up on morality, they're meant to take what you have and polish it until it's pretty enough to put behind the glass in the living room where strangers can "ooh" and "ahh" and pretend like they actually give a **** they're made to fold you up into a paper crane as a reminder that everything can be art if you strip away the titles. However, my New Years resolution is to write a poem every day, to finally post the For Rent sign that's been gathering dust in the attic, to staple my heart to the bulletin board in the bad part of town. Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?

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Jan 1, 2015

Jan 1, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC

whitegoldsoul

I'm a walking contradiction // ringing in the new year

Resolutions are supposed to be constructed from broken staircases and antique chandeliers to sand away the rough patches on your wrist bones and the scabs on your elbows; they're meant to declaw your demons and file down your teeth so you stop ripping the Band Aids off the wounds that have been trying to heal since the day you gave up on morality, they're meant to take what you have and polish it until it's pretty enough to put behind the glass in the living room where strangers can "ooh" and "ahh" and pretend like they actually give a **** they're made to fold you up into a paper crane as a reminder that everything can be art if you strip away the titles. However, my New Years resolution is to write a poem every day, to finally post the For Rent sign that's been gathering dust in the attic, to staple my heart to the bulletin board in the bad part of town. Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?

39

"Anarchy" shouting from the streets Down with the House and Down with the **** Cherry Tree None for all Because all is a lie Following in line for the Man Hear the children cry Hear the children cry Louder and louder Change your ways Riot, riot on the roof We see the problem You cant handle the truth Chained to your system Locked to your fear Bound by the **** people dont want to hear Tied to your door We will not move Declaw our minds Step away from our brains We hold umbrellas While your control **** rains

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Aug 20, 2010

Aug 20, 2010 at 10:47 AM UTC

ashbury

We Hold Umbrellas

"Anarchy" shouting from the streets Down with the House and Down with the **** Cherry Tree None for all Because all is a lie Following in line for the Man Hear the children cry Hear the children cry Louder and louder Change your ways Riot, riot on the roof We see the problem You cant handle the truth Chained to your system Locked to your fear Bound by the **** people dont want to hear Tied to your door We will not move Declaw our minds Step away from our brains We hold umbrellas While your control **** rains

22

we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute.

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Feb 1, 2014

Feb 1, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

duologue

we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute.

33

Structure is build on structure measured feet on how we eat what we hear should leave no doubt air, and time, are running out if we would free words from their prison we must first smash this capitalism. Make it New! Renew! Remove the muck of ages! This can not be done in stages Everyone lives in a pretty now town Where stairs go up as well as down And warp, corkscrew, and bevel, and lead us to another level. “Lead?!” without a doubt, but something else could lead you out! To be ****** Reading poetry Eating bulger Planting trees Loving one another And changing bulbs Is not the way to stop The world from getting hot. The need for exploitation decides the limits of the law - the structure’s built, and truth: you can’t declaw a tiger claw by claw. Since the banishment since We lost the battle for apples (appropriated from HIS tree) Food comes first, then Shelter, Later love, And poetry. Before food there’s drink, before drink, breathing; before surplus and production, verse. Good bye, you’re getting worse... I’m glad. Sea Ewe on the barricades of sequence the barracudas of non-sequiters the band-aids of sequins and glitter -- a dozen Molotov cocktails -- please! Appropriation, making language strange, eschewing polemics, being deranged, fine for academics with tenured chairs of lead and nothing clear left in their heads. Structure is built on on structure, and can be re-built on on sand. I hear the wingèd chariot, and must go organize the proletariat.

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Dec 6, 2015

Dec 6, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC

norm-deplume

Parallel Lines

Structure is build on structure measured feet on how we eat what we hear should leave no doubt air, and time, are running out if we would free words from their prison we must first smash this capitalism. Make it New! Renew! Remove the muck of ages! This can not be done in stages Everyone lives in a pretty now town Where stairs go up as well as down And warp, corkscrew, and bevel, and lead us to another level. “Lead?!” without a doubt, but something else could lead you out! To be ****** Reading poetry Eating bulger Planting trees Loving one another And changing bulbs Is not the way to stop The world from getting hot. The need for exploitation decides the limits of the law - the structure’s built, and truth: you can’t declaw a tiger claw by claw. Since the banishment since We lost the battle for apples (appropriated from HIS tree) Food comes first, then Shelter, Later love, And poetry. Before food there’s drink, before drink, breathing; before surplus and production, verse. Good bye, you’re getting worse... I’m glad. Sea Ewe on the barricades of sequence the barracudas of non-sequiters the band-aids of sequins and glitter -- a dozen Molotov cocktails -- please! Appropriation, making language strange, eschewing polemics, being deranged, fine for academics with tenured chairs of lead and nothing clear left in their heads. Structure is built on on structure, and can be re-built on on sand. I hear the wingèd chariot, and must go organize the proletariat.

51

What a thief, a robber Snatching away the precious You hedonistic hoarder Reducing beauty to mere corpses You scoundrel, you criminal Plucking memories from unknowing brains Cold, uncaring, terrible Burning down the smallest speck to flames Everything stained by your touch Slowly disintegrates into dust Those unfortunate to witness your power Trudges through every day, every hour Forced to undergo the withering of bones No warning, no apology, just more tomorrows Acknowledge you do not, of the misery you inflict Pain and strife is naught, but a side effect of your whims Imprisoned in your snare, only one path to walk Forever forwards while death looms and stalks Escape through only its means, and only on its terms Sadistic torturer queen, reigning your kingdom of hurt So shall we put you on trial, for your innumerable crimes Send you to the gallows, compensation for all those who die By your hands we hope to declaw, by your malicious laws Entropy wins and defeats, we cower to the floor As long as you exist, it can always be ensured We shall remain your victims forevermore

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Mar 5, 2023

Mar 5, 2023 at 9:22 AM UTC

luisa-c

time

What a thief, a robber Snatching away the precious You hedonistic hoarder Reducing beauty to mere corpses You scoundrel, you criminal Plucking memories from unknowing brains Cold, uncaring, terrible Burning down the smallest speck to flames Everything stained by your touch Slowly disintegrates into dust Those unfortunate to witness your power Trudges through every day, every hour Forced to undergo the withering of bones No warning, no apology, just more tomorrows Acknowledge you do not, of the misery you inflict Pain and strife is naught, but a side effect of your whims Imprisoned in your snare, only one path to walk Forever forwards while death looms and stalks Escape through only its means, and only on its terms Sadistic torturer queen, reigning your kingdom of hurt So shall we put you on trial, for your innumerable crimes Send you to the gallows, compensation for all those who die By your hands we hope to declaw, by your malicious laws Entropy wins and defeats, we cower to the floor As long as you exist, it can always be ensured We shall remain your victims forevermore

26

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

0

Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

(lack)

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

41

TLACAELEL Two hundred years have we known only strife, Kept innocent of peace, to fortify Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest, Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun And handsomely escorts him through the east. Such toil demands the selfless sustenance Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts; Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully. Our god need not stand waiting for affronts Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms. No, rather let us seek convenient markets Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes, Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets, As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls, And clutched our legions for his currency. To this emporium shall we caravan, Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts By bartering to swap our solvent lives. Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen! For if we pitch this depot to the north, The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes Should prove an inconvenience to our troops. Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages, Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather. Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare: Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range, Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts. We must not waste these others totally, But make a handy pantry of this foe, For war- alone undying- must endure. CUITLAHUAC Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them, So that we hamstring their free trafficking, And thus declaw our sole belligerent. TLACAELEL I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable. HUNGRY PRINCE Either to weaken or to waste this threat, You’ll have my armies at your hand. TLACAELEL That's nice. MOTECUHZOMA Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .

0

Oct 6, 2016

Oct 6, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC

david-betten

The Floral War 1:2:118-156

TLACAELEL Two hundred years have we known only strife, Kept innocent of peace, to fortify Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest, Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun And handsomely escorts him through the east. Such toil demands the selfless sustenance Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts; Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully. Our god need not stand waiting for affronts Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms. No, rather let us seek convenient markets Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes, Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets, As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls, And clutched our legions for his currency. To this emporium shall we caravan, Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts By bartering to swap our solvent lives. Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen! For if we pitch this depot to the north, The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes Should prove an inconvenience to our troops. Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages, Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather. Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare: Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range, Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts. We must not waste these others totally, But make a handy pantry of this foe, For war- alone undying- must endure. CUITLAHUAC Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them, So that we hamstring their free trafficking, And thus declaw our sole belligerent. TLACAELEL I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable. HUNGRY PRINCE Either to weaken or to waste this threat, You’ll have my armies at your hand. TLACAELEL That's nice. MOTECUHZOMA Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .

45