"deserters" poems
There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
i'm a nomad gone defective,
heart attack erased, amended.
i'm a dead leaf riding the crest of the wind,
marking time by exs and favorite beverages.
i carry on the bluebird's song,
whisper nothings aside from sweet.
you planted me within your sheets,
green grow the leaves, winter, good luck with your war.
let needle perpetually lock in groove,
white wine nights that turn into levitating sunrises.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 10:07 AM UTC
Peace is a weapon
against the smallness of self
that excuses war.
Peace is the sharp blade
pruning the olive branches,
never drawing blood
Peace is soothing balm
for quarrel and division
instilled by zealots;
Peace is the watch-word
that makes soldiers deserters
of lower causes.
Peace desires itself,
making no root in travail
for other peoples;
Peace says, "Don't enlist
to be a pawn in the games
of elite slavers."
Peace has no Colonels,
Lieutenants, or Generals:
merely the faithful.
Peace is the Only.
No other weapon shall do
against each other.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Remembrance in November grows repellent
each year we rob it further of its sense
by hunting down objectors to compel them
to stand in line or cause a grave offense.
No private contemplation or reflection
when strident shrieks of nationhood prevail
Un-poppied collars count as insurrection
a slight to every brave, red-blooded male.
Division, thumping drums and waving banners
the media wades in with guns ablaze
forgetful of respect, or simple manners –
that’s not how we conduct ourselves these days
If this is what our fallen heroes wanted
I wonder why the cenotaph is haunted.
We cannot know what sent the soldiers hither
or claim the fallen courage of the fight
think boys who marched to foreign fields together
were simple symbols drawn in black and white
If we could rise above the spite and chatter
We’d find unbordered bonds and understand
that shells and bullets lacked the strength to shatter
the looking glass that straddled no man’s land
From timid chaps to lunatic berserkers
we canonise the men who heard the call
if wives had had the power to shoot deserters
there never would have been a war at all.
Let’s render restless spirits more forgiving:
to honour best the dead, honour the living.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
As the bells ring we pay the toll
A ppl lost their story told
In the masters garden our lives unfold
Deserters of the land of black green and gold
To the reality of life my ppl grab a hold
Into slavery we were sold
whipped and ***** freed in the cold
mind ****** and broken we lost our goal
science and civilization from us they stole
Now our men take drugs,women dance poles
come my ppl put on your clothes
not designer fabrics put on ancient robes
empower your offspring empower our souls
Come take your throne ,tell the massah return the gold
Kings and Queens of Africa come take control
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
The Pals battalion,
Young soldiers of nineteen,
The total death toll reached a million,
On the Somme in nineteen-sixteen.
The men in splendid spirits,
There was optimism in the ranks,
With co-op bombs and bayonets,
Gathered on the sunny banks.
The first bombs fell on Picardy,
Now they stood in lines to push,
They will annihilate the enemy,
No need to charge or rush.
But the German men were ready,
Their intelligence was good,
They knew about the enemy,
Their intention understood.
Our men walked into open fire,
So many lives they stole.
Shot and maimed before the wire
On their gentle morning stroll.
Bodies crushed in defeat,
In a field of flying lead,
Soldiers dropped to their feet,
Leaving many dead.
The slaughter would not stop,
In this futile ****** game,
All deserters would to be shot,
The only gain was being maimed.
Battle planning was inferior,
Senseless death was inhumane,
In the carnage and hysteria,
On the pretty red poppy plane.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Strap me up to an I.V.
And let the words flow deep into my blood stream
As everything seems to leave
I cleave to words
Words, words, words
I sit on islands
There are multiple
For multiple deserters
The sand an
Aggravating reminder
That one's loneliness is
One's own issue
Truly, if one were to realize
We are sand
That person would realize the multitude of people around
Instead, individually,
We fall through the hourglass
In a pile of loners
Some, reaching towards others
Others, just proud to be at the top for a bit
Still others are left at the bottom
Remembering what it tasted like
To be at the top,
For everyone to look at you.
The hourglass sits beside me
On the newest island
That I swore never to visit again
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
We all wanted to do something too soon like we weren't old enough
we would disobey and parents would act like we hadn't been told enough.
We sipped from bottles and smashed the glass, played with matches
tried smoking hated it and some of us kept at anyways cause hey,
look at what it makes others say about the way we behave.
Attention seekers feeling meager and weak.
Making offensive statements each time that we speak.
Obsessed with night on the streets.
Constantly moving your feet.
Nocturnal with no need for sleep.
We all wanted to be treated like adults, which is always a childish notion
We were small fish in the ocean but we grow up through the commotion
and still I'm noticing how high and hard the tides are blowing in
the biggest fish can still drown in the waters it's been floating in.
But do these adults have notions to be treated like a child?
How often do we wish to attack or act wild - this thought makes me smile.
It happens once in a while or course, for sure where we all dwell
survival of the fittest is the motto when the sea will swell.
We all wanted to be more successful than the next man, but all saw it in different ways.
Some tried to hurt their brothers while others worked for great praise.
We built machines of war and then turned them into factory workers
took away humans jobs leaving them stranded like deserters.
Now the planet is burning up and things are being torn apart
Corporations causing problems and they knew it from the start
So the world is led blind by hand as they pull us through the dark
but production was the gas and consumption was the spark
And we all wanted something better for us, as if we earned it
but do we deserve ****
The fruit around the pit is something to aim for
and in fact, our only target
Tilting our games score
and rocking me to my core
and always leaves me wanting more
but I never know just what's in store
and I don't care if I end up poor
as long as I got a few drinks to pour.
But what we all wanted is something more,
most never get it
They pour those few drinks and it helps to forget it.
So what we all wanted is only ever true for a few
envious of others for keeping our wants in view.
And while being happy can be tough, letting go is harder too
but what we all wanted we'll never have,
and I'm happier since I knew.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
*And then there is you
your bladed mind ran through
yet standing so tall
but looking so small
with your spirit tumbled
but still not humbled
by the sound of the glaives
from the tongues of knaves
where the hurt and the pain
join the bleak and the vain
in the choir of the dark
as you re-embark
on the road of deserters
where pothole subverters
and their petty warmongers
look to curb all your hungers
as you look for salvation
but find the starvation
of hatred's embraces
as history retraces
the same path that I'd taken
but was forsaken
by the rock that shook
as my pride it took
and I found no dawn
following the fallen pawn
where I lay down to die
and yet up you fly
climbing over bodies begot
with distances I just could not
and as you run through your life
full of misery and strife
remember the folly of the few
who fell to the dark before you*
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 7:00 AM UTC
The beginnings are never quite sudden but always so exciting and fun. We are masters, with our considerable knowledge that it will end before it has even begun, it will end when the jokes and insults turns into questions that no master has the answers for. We are masters, forevermore. And no longer just deserters who have trouble letting go. The show will go on, and like so many times before, the stage and the audience is the two of us. In its most intimacy and secrecy, with your negligence and my disobedience, it will be another sell out and with the fire led by desire upon the scenery, most regretfully, we will probably not make it to that exotic island this time either.
11
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 4:12 PM UTC
Onward the battle raged where he stood
deafened by the pounding guns!
Around him comrades lives were taken
every loss the emotions it stuns.
Trapped amongst the running blood
in his eyes the tears flood!
Whichever way he rotated death is close
in the mind trepidation.
Each explosion magnified had to get away
comrades buried in the soil!
More still and silent besides him here
how he missed those so dear.
Day after day facing the same pointless hell
forgotten soldiers just statistics.
Who would become another long lost story
on official forms a few ticks.
Honoured with posthumous medals and grief
lives blown away like the autumn leaf.
Wanting to escape from purgatory to heaven
compelled to find the route.
Voices telling him to seek his lost sanity
his rifle never more to shoot.
Knowing he'd be a deserter to the crown
forcibly being brought down!
Dragged before a court martial for treason
no mercy for a shell shocked soldier!
Mentally scared by the brutality of war
a young man not getting older.
Not killed by the barrage of enemy gunfire
but firing squad he'd expire!
Classed then as a deserters not victims of the great war
never seeing their families any more!
The Foureyed Poet
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
For a while she'd had her eyes on you;
Behind the shadow of her dark cloak,
In a corner she waited unobtrusively;
She'd followed the signs,
And the pieces were all coming together,
As if inevitably.
Your guardians were now deserters;
Mighty, the circle of exchanged promises that had once stood,
Bold and fearless, impenetrable as a fortress,
Now lay crumbled, rubble beyond ruin,
Leaving that path a ghost of the past,
Arches without doors,
Cold paved verandahs overrun by mist and piles of stone,
Where there'd been bright lit walls that resonated voices and held in warmth;
There, amidst the thick white wisps, the cloaked lady lurked,
Watching your empty footsteps walk.
Where went the angel who smiled upon you in the heart of a storm?
Who spoke a promise into your eyes,
And put her arm around your hurting soul?
If I trip in the treacherous night, you asked,
And as before, deep in a gorge I find myself fall,
Listen for my song, and trust, said she,
Reach, and my hand will be there, locked upon yours.
So arrived a night, darker than any before,
A narrow tunnel sprung up around you and the floor gave way;
Deep into this shaft as you fell,
There was no song, and no one came,
And you did not see,
Way above by the corner of the well,
Behind her dark cloak's hood,
The shadow lady watched in silence,
As you buckled alone under the black night's spell.
Silent tears seep into your palms,
You subdue the sniffles, lest a neighbor heard;
Defeated, then, you lie huddled on your bed,
Quietly you withered like a winter plant;
Somewhere, once, there was a voice from within -
"There are those who care, there are those who love!"
You muster a little smile,
There are those you let down,
To them you pray sorry,
There are children who expect you to be strong,
You wish them strength,
And then everyone else - who would not understand,
Where you lie is an island,
You wish it were different,
It might have been;
The promise of what could be,
Like a treasure you carry.
She looks upon you, by the side of your bed,
And you look back,
She leans over and wraps you in her cloak,
No wait!
Your eyes dart behind - empty, weary room,
And your phone as still as if it were dead;
You lay in the dark,
And she carries you away.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
earlier today during service
I was struck by a strange vision--
that I was running breathlessly
through a misty field, terribly
afraid and naked with a .69 caliber
flintlock musket bucking against my
hip, and the mud did no justice, neither
did the deep grass stains on my belly,
to hide how truly piteous and terrified
I was.
As if somehow during the battle I had lost
my company or else deserted, been stripped
and cashiered--left to my own to roam the empty
wilderness that creaked and cracked
the air that shivered in my supposed dissolution
my feet caught in the dense mire, the very ground
that used to be so resolute, firm to touch
was giving in,
swallowing me without mercy,
I had been separated from my regiment, I thought.
But only deserters would think such a thing,
I had left and was lost and
the congregation began to rise to sing
but I was still there with burning lungs
desperate to find the colonel or captain
the leader or teacher
the father or
God.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
xmas 19--
my profanity withers her tongue.
his deserters
bayonet
the alien
grape.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep.
In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors.
“I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said.
I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (political science), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed.
I envy those deserters, I pity those deserters, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know.
Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal.
Maybe there’s something wrong with us?
Mar 25, 2024
Mar 25, 2024 at 10:31 AM UTC
Our pentarchy has fallen, and
a monarchy sits, lonely, in its place
We was always five
We is now I
Us is me
Scepter and Crown
Laurels and Claymore
I the Judge
I the Jester
I the Confessor
I the Standard Bearer
I the Knight
You—deserters every One
Before, we ruled together
Queens, we all,
In a kingdom without Kings
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC
ice on a wrist
after scrubbing
whole sets
of knives
-
in the bed
of a truck
on a lawn
a throne
-
you were not
born today so stop
acting out
-
for a gun, unscrew the handle of a water hose.
for a rope, find a rope.
-
brothers sitting
back to back
in an outside
bath
-
no, no whisper
to speak of
they are far off
they curse
-
any foot
a dead bird
blue
-
think a finger
reviving
a finger
puppet
-
think hard
on nothing
on a farm
machine
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
I am thinking of you - as of a corpse
Go on and tell me all the lies
I am at legs of yours - heart-sunken
Eyes are dull - do eat the flesh I offer
The sole emasculation - paganism of truth
For asking hand is beaten - better
Deserters' solitude - abandoned hope
For never leaving guilt - ashamed
Of silence - welcoming to home
Seen flaws - are signs of given
Conscience - though shut - is mouth
Inaction - tethering regret to sorrow
And misery is standing by the side
Impersonating whole of circus
For beggar is forborn attention
"I'm here" - the drowning whisper
Arms choking throat - hand traces
Running tear - "I'm with you"
Caressing warmth of lifeless palm
Invites the strengthening of strangling
For frail innocence is crippled dome
"I do forgive you"
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 4:55 AM UTC
Leaving the highway for the curvy rural lane
Moonless pitch-black night returning
From Rome to the heart of its green belt.
Where the countryside seduces farmers
With shiny nuggets on primeval trees,
Mediterranean gold, liquid olives
To be harvested and milled.
Up for bids to the greatest connoisseur,
Sabine hills the scenery of ancient Roman wars,
Where oil was not the only ****** to be picked and sold.
Sabine hills the refuge of deserters and the set,
Of my Romeo’s exhale after fixing its spark plug.
My lover at the steering wheel, my brother at the back,
Myself on the passenger seat listening to music
Smoking dreams away. ‘Smells like something’s burning’
A comment from the rear, to which the driver promptly
Responded ‘Your sister just lit a cigarette’.
Temporarily satisfying the doubt,
‘It’s getting hot in here’ was the next remark.
To which the patient answer followed
Blaming me once more. ‘Your sister just turned
the heater on’ And it made sense until
Few minutes later, flames burst out of engines
Glimpsing from the sides of a bonnet melting.
‘Stop and run for your lives!’ the unspoken words
And so I did, looking back only when I reached
A distance to see, my beloved brother attempting
To escape blocked by child safety locks for absent kids.
Turning down the window to jump out,
Dukes of Hazzard style. By the time
The police and fire fighters arrived,
Nothing but the steal incandescent skeleton
Was left of what once was my first car. Paid for
It two years still, until the last instalment
Made me laugh about it ever since.
My brother not so much.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
Deserters are near,
I'm filling with fear,
I am never right
but when I am it's just luck,
Something is bothering me..
holding my throat,
It could be the words
that I've never thought,
but if I don't think..
why do I feel
the need to express
this feeling of stress,
caress; embrace him,
I could care less,
But remember I'll never be
right where you need me to be.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
We live in a land of contempt
Where respect is exempt
Where a belief is held
That there is no reason to Rebel
Rebellious fools end up dead
As the voices whisper with dread
As they are silenced and fed
Lies and promises instead
Liars look on with broken ideals
As they look at others as inferior beings
As they stand so high and mighty
Renegades stand against society
Betrayal and deserters they stand for whats right
As they are pitted against their own in a fight
The liars stand behind their wall
Watching as their own people take the fall
Treasonous cowards, disloyal fiends
Dishonest fighters, faithless murderers
They are made into criminals bound for the gallows
Waging horrific war against their own brothers
Corruption hides within cruel asylum
Time passes, ignited sparks forgotten
Criminals spilled shame, abandoned honor
Against the liars of righteousness
On tattered parchment, words between stains
Written in a common language, crimson pain
Never confessed, the crime of oppression
Dying flame flickered, silencing defiance
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC