"desperados" poems
those killers of innocents
will die in their own blood
not even mistranslated 72 houris
can save them
the misguided fanatics of Paris
who shot happy civilians
with their Kalashnikovs
and then blew themselves up
will have discovered that
by now
to throw terror and death
into people’s daily lives
is an abominable crime
not a heroic deed
those who instigated the massacre
shall be punished accordingly
fake heroes revealed
as ruthless criminals
shall face judgement
in whose light
their great deeds
are shown as what they are
****** ******
yet – far beyond the proper punishment
required after cruel acts
there is the need to look ahead
and face the somewhat inconvenient necessity to
remove the roots of violence veiled as religion
speak up and stand up firm against fanaticized minorities
no matter in whose name the claim to act
bring peace to regions devastated by the dire games of politics
we simply cannot allow
a bunch of ruthless desperados to dominate our lives
* * *
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
----
The Superstition mountains
Have a mine, or so it's told
Its canyons echo riches
Many died in search of gold
Four rapacious desperados
Rode hard into its hills
In search of the Lost Dutchman
But it's said that his ghost kills...
They saw an onyx jaguar
Dark as a holocaust
It walked on ahead of them
When they found that
they were LOST
They saw Jacob's Ladder
Wraiths ascending to on high
They walked under as a good sign
But found this was a lie...
They saw a snow white owl
And asked it what to do
It stared at them with golden eyes
And simply answered, "Who?"
They found a wooden box
Carved with foreign runes
They opened It expecting gems
And found Pandora's DOOM
They heard coyotes laughing
As they closed in for the ****
Those bad men found no treasure
no one ever will
The mountains take their toll
As the outlaws will attest
The sky birthed out a Blood Moon
As they rode into the west...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/24/2015
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Shadow Dance
Before power licentious
Loquacious tongue blabs
Speak Economists misty
As Economy wanes drifty
Power of money and muscle
Make the poor's fossils.
On which the tycoons fly
Flags of success gleefully.
Intuitive India in illusion
Delusion and hallucination
Dances as shadow, as nation's
Desperados' fusion-music sounds.
The meek by caprice paints
Bleak future of great pains
Some swarm, warmly swear
Behind PM, calm, the pied piper!
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
You bought my time
One whole day
Just to be in the street lazily walking the paths we know
DX DX
D-A
Access we had for free and empty rides led us nowhere
Desperados.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Mottor:”If you wanna tell a crazy joke to God, tell him about your plans”
joy to the world at 4 a.m. my cell is ringing
like a sad sheep its my granny saying hey I leave you
I am going to the Veterans New Year Party I have a randez-vous
I am grabbing my head: Jeesus...world
I am drinking since yesterday non-stop
plain water with lemon I am sick
from his cookies and seriously thinking
to get to The Suicider's New Year Party
well not just thinking but really going
I have my ticket since last year
when even Picky my loving pit-bull left me
actually why should I make crazy plans
when my personal angelic unconsciousness guards me
I am checking in on the plane maybe it brakes in the air
and I will have my party with the fellows of Bin Laden
I will sing cazzaciock while shooting with the katiusha
on empty ***** bottles
joy to the world and dance your brains out
you suicidal lonely kid
aha that is the new hit of a virtual band
called The Kings of Desperados
while slaves are jubilant in their free time
working to stay put in front of a idiot
also called TV to have a wonder
I have my ticket what can I do
I am so childish sometimes I have a miffed balloon
a fire-extinguisher with champagne
some poem-fireworks wrapped around me
joy to the world I will ignite them all
here in the public market
I will blow them all like a charm!
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
I feel like a slug
sometimes I feel like it might be easier just to be one
Faced plainly with my own mental lacunae
I feel the vice grips of creative sterility
Only exacerbated in my willingness to idleness
I am struck by two Slavic language words
Toska and litost
Both have a meaning akin to boredom and existential depression wrapped in one
It is a curse really
To be constantly bombarded with thoughts of my own inadequacies
And having no will to do anything to change them
Maybe that is why I have always been drawn to those long dead souls
Who barely clung to sanity in life and plunged forward like grand ice breakers through the social convictions of modern life
Those desperados of intellect who did simply as will
It is only in the presence of this kind of supreme will that I have found any comfort
And I fear that it is only in the juxtaposition of this and my own disposition
That I have ever lived at all
I mean really is any body picking up what I’m putting down?
This kind of Petulant absurdity is where I thrive
I fear again the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Which in this sense is nothing more than rejection and the knowledge that I really am nothing special
For self-conscious references to Shakespearean texts that lie still unread on my bookshelf cannot bar my consciousness from the near constant obsession
Of simply getting so far out there in the water that nobody can even see me anymore
And I can no longer see the shore
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
I know something of the rhythms and melodies of pain
First this way, then that
Soaring, falling, roaring, stalling
Planed out planes on a higher plane
Wraith trains shaking fate's chains in vain
Devilish desperados with desperate names
play desperation games
inside my veins
The eyes of their horses hidden by their manes
The thoughts of their voices pounding my brain
These are the sounds and the songs of rain
Rain is still rain by any other name
Waters will recede while floods will remain
Each separately singing equally stinging refrains
Nothing cuts deeper than these canyons of shame
Certainly, I know things concerning the rhythms and melodies of pain
And of four-legged creatures wholly untamed
Racing blood-soaked, unbridled, unreigned
Their clippety-clop clamorings running 'round my brain
These are the sounds and the songs of rain
©Jason Cole
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
Is it too much to ask
Break the mould, escape the cask
Our false imprisonment
Our social dilemma, our unholy sacrament
Shaped and ***** by despots and desperados
Served and sequin lined by an abundance of anarchic aficionados
Cruel and abusive
Our systems are corrosive
The economies dictate dilemmas and chaos
An onslaught of modern emotions
There is no guilt to be found inside possession
With no real Gods by your side you grow obese with your obsession
Unimpressed
I'm glad my life has digressed
Far from the enshrined rituals, the daily dazed dances of distraction
The quest to experience and excite shall be my main attraction
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Grime and grease
sweat from the machines
I served
I filled myself with
magical herbs and
potions
became a hero
in my country and
travelled
a broad with
tight pants and
perfume
filled my nose
running and suffering
for her closeness and
curiosity and
confidence and
cooperation
She cleansed me
of my doubt,
promised me a slice,
a glimpse at her paradise
and she flew,
by god she flew
me to her cloud and smiled
as I opened my eyes wide
and my mouth
offered her an amusing place
to probe and
tease and
she lifted me like a thimble
gaping and
new and
hard then
threw me at desperados
lighting tiendas and
mercados
with peccadillos red hot,
random and
available
so in this way
I became a hero
projected from lady
liberty and
the rim of my sanity
caved like a caldera
of sin
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 4:29 AM UTC
my mother hates me
my father blames me for my mothers hatred. please
they think they can hide it but I am no longer twelve years old
wondering why
my mother doesn't look up at me when I talk to her
no, I'm no longer twelve years old
wondering why
i am yelled at a double or triple or quadruple rate
of my older sister
I'm no longer a naive twelve year old
thinking my parents kept the poems i wrote for them
when i couldn't find them? you ask
well of course the wind picked them up gently like a mother
to her child (exceptions, of course)
and carried them to a better home
someone will love my art
if not you, there are desperados yearning
for a poem that is love in the purest form
i no longer have the pure love of a twelve year old
i see cracks on the wall that is my mother and father
some are my fault
they don't see mine, i filled them in with plaster
they are almost all from my parents
don't get me wrong, everything is emotional
my parents don't hurt my physical self
they think of themselves too positively for that
i am no longer a twelve year old grateful that my situation wasn't worse
if i am honest, at a young age i believed myself to
be in the greatest home in the world
a place of pure love and compassion
a family that cares more than God
i am still grateful but,
the eyes of sixteen don't see it the same way
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC