"degenerated" poems
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they tread!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mamons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not Pax Romana
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they trod!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mammons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthapanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not “Pax Romana”..
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
Oh, how you ***** me!
How you betrayed me!
You took away our romance!
Berated me,
Degenerated me
At every turn of the dance!
Now, when you lied,
How I did cry.
How your mis-deeds turned me out.
I tried to forgive,
Tried to forget.
I tried to figure all this out.
Time and again
You hurt me so.
Everytime you strike with a low blow.
Shame comes to me
In memories.
I try my best to let you go.
You live to lie.
I wonder why
There is no truth inside your heart.
Your acridine,
Oscillate, shine.
You went right through me like a dart.
Where were you
When I needed someone?
You wrecked the soul of who I used to be.
You rocked the loom.
And weaved love's tomb.
You have been the death of me.
This is the time.
I know I'll find
The strength I need to tell you so.
By this night's end,
Freedom begins.
I know I've got to let you go.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
singing her melodies of torment
hiding in a chamber of lead
awakened and degenerated
yet no one seemed to care
left lies and lost love
pulling the final thread
the heaven's bled a river of red
from the fall of her severed head
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
Those of like mind
Stepping down corridors
Toward blurring red signs
Each extrusion an exit
Hapless movement
Containers transported
Memories and anguish
Containers transported
Into meadows of ease
Between trees minus leaves
Nothing but a reflection
Degenerated façade
Ashes vaporized with
Consciousness, my boiling
Water
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
My uncle died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.
It made his brain dissolve itself in nine months.
I stood next to the once-stalwart man,
With mechanic's hands,
Lying in his hospice bed
That smelled like disinfected death.
During his short stay there I heard him say
"What's happened?"
In his faltered, degenerated state.
"What's happened?"
He repeated, as he saw his withered arms,
While wearing a diaper,
Gazing around with half-empty eyes,
Grasping for some shred of light
In his shattered ruin of a mind.
The life he once made for himself is gone,
And somewhere within himself he knew it.
Somewhere that held on until his final breath,
As he shrieked with pure fear
In his final sleep.
Overlooking the back parking lot of this hospice
A playground stands, built by hand.
The children probably look over here
And wonder what this place is,
What happens here.
I'd tell them that
These are things you don't need to know.
Now go stay outside and play
While the sun is still up.
Forrest Jorgensen ©
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
A desperate, burgeous experience,
Warm red light sneaks through the flimsy curtain
With briefcase and notes, no interference
From reason or conscience, not too certain
About scaling the walls of nihilism
And entering the warm head of dead-space,
Expanding my languid realism,
Rushing the end like a three legged race.
In the dying ashes of apathy
I accidentally caught a glimpse:
Dark and degenerated, flayed clarity,
Depravity... Empathy... Caustic rinse,
To the bone, the skeleton is not white,
I relate most to women of the night.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
that poor girl
waits & waits
for someone to save her
her degenerated spine
crackles and moans
as she becomes nearly bent in half
losing all support
she will soon be spineless
an invertebrate
all because she didn't have the backbone
to save herself.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
The spirit of Christmas has been frozen
with filthy black snow from your soulless heart
I'm just another broken little soldier
that with feminine claws you tear apart.
Your the feline clouds that drops relentless despair
disjointed, angry and closed from feelings
I would tear my legs from my torso to be there
when the angel of death sees your dealings.
This decaying forgotten realm you left me in
this country of the despised and degenerated
passport stamped by angry feet, whilst starving
in this cyber world I should not be craving
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
a good poem comes
from a destructive soul
agony
pain
heartache
every emotion
ripped to shreds
spewed words
filled with contempt
words that burst
from outlined fonts
to explode
before the eyes
of the willing
we seek those
who are desperate to grasp
just one sentence
of pure and utter
depravity
we don't want
sing song
we want descriptive
paragraphs
that come from
a war torn
soul
we want
battered feelings
left to wither
and die
among the fingertips
of a keyboard
we want the depressed
degenerated
perverted
mind
to produce
a colorful, kick in your face
strangulating
paragraph
that swirls, flows
and cascades
into the thirsty heads
of the ********
we want good poetry.
and we want it now.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Acting either fake or like no one else is more real,
so how's it true that anyone really cares how i feel.
Senselessness, right in my home's illogicality,
how am i suppose to make sense of this reality?
And all that is ever not working is their broken mentalities.
Everything that I've set my mind for has been firing back,
and an original solution is something others simply lack.
Why am I feeling so degenerated,
it's because my senses are irritated:
hurts to feel,
all smells rotten,
and every taste of color has been intimately forgotten.
All I see is problems and everything I hear is cotton.
Maybe it's just time to find a new moral doctrine.
Don't be scared,
the numb pain visits me every night,
just be sure to buckle your seats and hold on tight.
You've been on a ride going through my mind,
and this won't happen at just any time.
And especially now don't forget how are these words are mine.
I was left here,
morals and chance chose my path,
and if you'd say any different you would face my wrath.
It's dark here,
and if no light shows no light reflects,
coldness and hostility is all I can detect.
Don't let me rot here,
like all the others before you,
I hope by now this is a fine picture I drew.
I hate here,
I'm the points that I make and each rebuttal is a step you take.
And wherever you're walking I hope you have not begun
cause the chances of my following you are slim to none.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
it was the musicology of the roman notation
that gave us such beautiful music, until now,
how A wasn't noted as alpha (α)
or B wasn't noted as beta (β)
but bee or hive or beehive or begin,
such musical authority worth a crucifixion
just so the alphabet might survive... and indeed
worth keeping, until jazz dismembered the
classical orchestra with impromptu,
and that became carried through to a **** music
of lost woodwind brass and scratching tightened
horse main (mane,
a tongue's musicology is equal to be coupled
with dyslexia) hairs against strings of violins
with the once recognisable lack of percussion
in orchestra... to a now apparent sole percussion
orchestration without a hoped for whistle of
recognition and tap-dancing a singing-in-the-rain song
of carefree life with a battery life concern missing...
that brief moment of jazz, a white man's equivalent
of classical music... and oh how sweetly it degenerated
so that the former atlas dares not rise to the ecclesiastical
heights of composers being sponsored by bishops
and cardinals... where once soul breathed freely
as music, now the heart aches thumping, thumping,
thumping a sort of unconscious rhythm of
what music has become: a b b beat to hone out car horns
and diesel engines where once the horse's gallop
hoof on cobble stone and hot nostril snarl was.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
"Fake news, fake news!"
The boy cried fake news every time a story
failed to paint him in the most positive possible light,
neglected to deify him in the most sunny way.
He denounced, decried and denigrated
reporters who would check with two more sources
if their moms claimed to love them
the way their ink-stained forebears did.
He attempted to discredit truth-seekers
who actually had stricter codes of ethics than doctors,
cops, actuaries,
any profession really.
The callow boy cried fake news so much that
his most loyal followers shouted “fake news” out car windows
at TV reporters reporting on alligators that crossed the street,
fired drive-by potshots at newsrooms out of sheer lunacy.
The boy cried fake news so much
that he did protest too much, that his cries sounded fake,
that his credibility strained
against the press corps who produced
backing documents, audio recordings and multiple sources.
The boy cried fake news so much
it degenerated into cliche and ceased to mean anything at all.
The boy cried fake news at a time when the news
felt financial pressured into running clickbait articles like
“Eight Hanukkah Lessons I Learned from
Smoking a Menorah ****
or the “12 Most *** Days of Christmas.”
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Oh you know her?
She likes you
She wants you
She's into you
Go for it man
Go for it Zack
Go for it Bud
And then, standing,
Choking on the words I pretend to mutter
Sputtering with embarrassment at not being heard
But unable to speak louder
Caged behind a wall of glass emotion
Colorless
Odorless
Painless
The pane holds it in
So I let nothing out
Blank expression
Relaxed body language
Are you tired?
Yeah, I had a late night
Not a lie
But not the truth
Hide behind the sleep
Or the ****
Keep to myself
Who cares to know me?
Listen instead
Learn secrets
Maybe about you
Maybe about other people
Could be interesting
Uninterested
Wonder if I look that way to the customers
They tip well
or not at all
Hard to tell
Spiraling into control
Learning to live again
You've degenerated me
Back to the middle school
version
Timid
Shy
unsure
unconfident
Wanting to escape
Nothing to say
Nothing that would matter to anyone anyway
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Nesta Owen
glanced
at the white
plastic clock
on the wall
of the lounge
gave
a deep sigh.
Phil Owen
her husband
of six months
had gone drinking
with his friends
and was going
to be late home
once again.
She switched off
the TV and sat
scrutinising
the yellow
flowered wallpaper
which she loathed.
In the last
six months
their relationship
had in Nesta's opinion
degenerated
and declined.
Phil
dark haired
good looking
had been the most
sought after young man
in Howell's
department store
where she worked.
He fell
he claimed
for her cornflower
blue eyes
and long black hair.
The front door opened
after her husband
had fiddled
trying to get
the key in the lock.
She went to see him
and was about to ask
why he was so late
when he hit her
so hard about the head
that she felt as if
she was inside a bell
that had been struck
and she fell against
the wall of the hall.
Her lips
began to swell
her watery eyes
stared at him.
He stared at her
walked past her
and up the stairs
swaying
as he walked
not giving her
another thought.
Her thoughts
had been spattered
all over the inside
of her brain
and she sensed
the oncoming of pain.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
I lost myself
before i even had the chance to find out exactly who that is
Who it was
Who it never will be again
Ive changed
Ive misevolved,
degenerated backwards into myself
Into something i never wanted to be
A face i hate to see
But i see it every morning in the bathroom mirror
and the tears
feel like a circus parade
running over the bleak facade of a masquerade
and i cant take off the mask,
Because i dont want to know what lies underneath.
Im terrified.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 11:58 PM UTC
Is this really
what we've
degenerated
Into?
MONSTERS in Mirrors.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
It did not start out this way.
No.
It was real fresh roses,
stolen kisses,
the primal mixing
of our global harmonies.
And yet,
over precious time,
we became abused
& broken,
degenerated,
lying in despair,
where no body cares
to be or not to be.
And we're really not
just anybody's,
once we
were true lovers
cut from the same cloth.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC