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Lady Bird Dec 2016
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
Joseph S Pete Jul 2018
"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.”
Cecil Miller Apr 2015
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.
I have been playing with this one for about eight years. I was tweaking the last stanza of this poem that was meant to be a song just now. I wrote it from the perspective of a best friend who was going through a break up. What I love about creating poetry is that it can be always changing. I am sure over the years this one will continue to evolve.
palladia Oct 2013
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
...and it doesn't have to end there.
much of what i already know and learn is transmitted
sent to me through experiences i'd rather not relive
(until encouragement speaks)
but through the hardest circumstances
come the better attractions
although sometimes bad leads to worse,
(and i wish it hadn't).
Sarah Kunz Nov 2016
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.
Ackerrman Sep 2019
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.
Must read more Oscar Wilde, or less.
Z Apr 2014
Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.
susan Feb 2016
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.
don't we all want to read something that stabs us in the gut?
something unforgettable.
something unique.
Ransom'sTake01 Sep 2016
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.
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 ©
True story.
K Balachandran Jan 2012
In this gypsy street
where past and present
are juxtaposed,
and stealthy future
incognito fornicates with  both,
we live like a family
(dysfunctional !)
under attack from aliens.

I let out a shriek
in the middle of the night,
in creative frenzy
as I hit a high
and can't contain,
the ecstasy to myself,
and to alert the neighborhood
to see how they take it,
isn't it, jolly good
a fine display of  anarchy
harmless and enjoyable?
Just wanted to check
how it would look,
if some outrageous
incident happened,
at the dead of night
amidst the thousand
silly and serious stuff
we all  are engaged in.

every morning a lovely woman,
bit worked up, if not totally moonstruck,
who does nothing in particualar
other than living a life
as a business,
goes out in to the streets,
winding, without an end
if you decide to measure it
with your moving legs.
She  is a walker through the streets
most of the time of her life
(a mystery still, why I ponder)
till late night, when the night birds
are out on their rounds.

Some times when I come out of
a hospital after visiting an ailing girlfriend,
or while paying my bills in a counter
I encounter her, an enigma sans clues,
symbolizing the life in this street.
some times she throws a parsimonious smile
like a nickel to a panhandler
(I've seen you somewhere, take this)
sometimes she has a blank stare
like a temple cow, shaking it's head
at a devotee, the meaning
is what you think, good or bad,
she seems like possessed by a spirit,
that has restlessness as a curse.

An old couple, only out in the evenings,
are seen in the art gallery
fighting over perceived meanings
in an abstract painting.
(A wonderful way to fill
the vacuum of life with artistic gobbledegook)
"Read it the way you like
no harm"someone intervenes,
"No need to take lessons on art
from passer by nincompoops"
comes a lance, as a retort.

Free roaming bulls and cows
gate crash  and eat banana plants,
and attack our poor Amaranthus,
eye catching in it's bright purple flowers.
they had tried even a cactus,
with strange pattern and soft thorns,

this street has many voices that whisper,
about old time mishaps,
love birds killed by relatives
in the name of family honor
a horror still haunts dark nights
(quickly swept under expensive carpets)
with muffles voices(I never succeeded to hear)

A cut throat banker, at the height of
his business success,
gave away everything to an Ashram*
where meaning of life is being explained by Gurus
juggling lucid metaphors, every day.
strikingly similar to the myth of Sysiphus,
the banker condemned himself to learn
Yoga postures which he would forget at the end
and try to learn  all over again,
year round.

Last night we saw two lovers,
under the lush bamboo grove,
in an intimate state of trance.
one by one from from 80 houses,
men , women,  and
senior citizens,  came out,
with the happiness comparable to finding a new spice route to India,
when Turks took Constantinople.
We have a hope
their hearts should have chanted in chorus,
a new tender leaf has sprouted
in this withered tree of degenerated life.
*A spiritual hermitage usually Hindu or Buddhist
PNasarudheen Dec 2012
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”..
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
MMX
susan May 2015
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.
Brooksimus Aug 2011
Like a treacherous jungle, the world shaped its self to resemble the untamable, unforgiveable, and unimaginable creature that pounced on every crest of supple, innocent victim’s souls only to be dragged miles through painful, elongated trenches, and then expended in its entirety to recommence restructure in all new patterns of mutilated destructed forms; completely rearranged and in search for the light to guide culpable souls into worthy positions with better conditions and purer intentions.

From the inception, slithering wildly the legendarily discreet elapid serpent anticipated the fierce panthera. What was thought as a tyro odyssey, was underrated, uncreated, and translated to total transformative, love abated, accommodative, grief impregnated, planes alternated, affirmative gamboling games.

As a barbarous being, all and every cutthroat, bloated, anecdote of overdrawn, theatric fervor entered this imprudent, illuminated, and aggregated thing to fill unanswerable questions and unexplainable connections by intersecting other frantic, energetic, idiosyncratic reoccurring addicts with realms of disintegrated, hardheaded, nerve racked dreams.

The exterior scaled, degenerated able soul entangled and sacrificed minded controlled logic against the mystic, enigmatic, acidic beast. Pushing forward in the battle of cosmic evolution, a mistake making, empathic fool, inflicted from predicated illusions of heart wrenching, exploding, brooding agape for aspired end resulted, expanded frontiers.

What the scrawny, deluded fool missed were the all purposeful and most numerable senses that embrace every now where infinity spirals out related creation in the ever expandable universe that all the scavengers, hoarders, trackers, hunters, carnivores, herbivores, and the water possessed serpent misuse every now and now and now and now and again to address the real issues that are eschewed, abused, and viewed as insignificant tools that could never resolve unbearable fights within things, beings, or feelings of desertedness.

Miscommunication is everywhere and nowhere. Uncontrollable senses are everything and nothing. A constant fight within and without means nothing. Nerves we suppress and addictions we abuse. All to fill a space that exists at uncontrollable rates and lighting speeds. What is strategic logic without perceived cognizance? This is constant tumultuous idleness, sacrificed thoughtlessness, crude awareness, and unmanageable apprehension only exploited to rationalize a beast with labels, feeble doubts, to dwindle realities, and to fuel the unpeaceful balance.

The brute, that the restless, powerless, and distrustless serpent inhabited welcomes the transformative living immortal beings into the now of the hare who weakens the logic to lessened and opened tempos of the lines, spaces, and levels of the all and great smash of vast, immense potentiality of authenticity.
PNasarudheen Dec 2012
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
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

— The End —