"discharges" poems
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.
Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.
The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.
The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.
Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.
The: Oh. My. God!
The: ***** is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.
Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Spending Nights cheaply,
television doesn't work,
rats or moths,
have chewed the wires,
now a black square,
sits quiet,
Monk like,
Enlightened,
reflecting me,
dust layer,
my plastic texas radio,
calmly,
oozes,
discharges,
Jazz,
my final cigarette,
silently waiting,
like the television,
like the *****
patiently watercoloring on red lipstick,
seducing not me,
but my lungs,
the ego.
And I fantasize being in an Italian cafe,
smoking,
with low eyes,
like a hill,
with a Gold hungry man
excavating for Fortune,
or bones of Glory,
and maybe a leaking pipe line,
dripping wisdom.
And a tall Italian goddess,
walks,
appears like a ****** magician,
into the cafe,
as the Italian Night,
dances ****
the stars like beauty marks,
and quaint street lamps illuminating,
sidewalk puddles,
like jewelry,
worn by an immortal belly dancing siren singer,
who lost her voice,
seducing Gods,
now mute,
cursed to ****** Man by her body.
And she sits down,
her legs dark like mud,
but glistens like the hot Sahara Desert,
and her scent,
is not of Cacti and Lizards,
but of Roses,
but of Rust Michigan,
over comes the roasting beans,
like a house burglar,
or a spider,
creeping up on its fly prey,
enters my nose,
and my recollection of beauty,
is warped,
simply by the way she lightly,
taps,
her fingers,
against her legs,
like a light drizzle,
on a tin shack roof,
after a century of drought.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Confide in me
the irony
of laughter as a crutch to keep
with self descriptive Bildungsroman
in view of Schadenfreude's Ad hominem
Mask the image, compensate, compensate
Power struggle, shift division, relegate, relegate
Egocentric discharges inhabited by identity crisis
Circumstantial Deus ex machina, plastered on by streams of vices
No wreck, no head on, but a path beset by tolls and diversions
Somehow I must find a way to make these scattered routes converge
Dead and othered language roams the fields of pomposity
More ironic self aggrandizement, an appropriation of ferocity
Paint them a picture in the mind's eye of your blurred forward vision
I want to see the target marked, but attention is a competition
I'm Viable, I'm Jovial, I have the means to take these chances
I'm lying now, it's one or the other, let's hope I make the right advances
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Burning
The fire is glowing set against the chill of autumn’s night wind the chimney discharges the inner being of
The wood truly the spirit of the wood rises ghostly it breaks out of the chimney and is welcomed by the
Wayward wind lessoned of its density but an exchange occurred for its value memories it took while the
Elderly mother set close for its comfort and warmth as the shadows played on her face of age it told
Many stories of struggle and triumph father earned the money by back breaking work in a dark coal
Mine mother took it thanked the good lord then raised it to masterful heights with skill and cooking
Lessons learned from her mother time draws definitive measures in each life now having reached a
Seasoned long life milestone her tender heart was the capstone walls and windows a sturdy life looking
Like beams as the shadows of the fire danced on the wall below what mellow note it struck and she it’s
Center piece buy the night with her humility and genteel ways the rush of power still evident in her frail
Frame life glowing in the midst of the fire’s own showing strength her wisdom the families guide hard to
Believe that a personality so affable and giving could coil as steel if the need arose pushed to a point but
No further you don’t raise a family and see them succeed without having a store house of individualism
In reserve now all that shows on the service is a profound goodness displayed in weak frailty the body
Slows its tempered power subsides but within the spirit still can be counted on for feats and exploits as
The demand calls for them even a fire dies down but all it needs is the stoking some of the wood has
Been turned from the flame within short time it will roar with new glory old age isn’t a total defeat
You can change the pace and years of experience will give control with less effort the fire plays on
Mother’s breath softens as she drifts in dreams to grand times when all was collectively connected
Honor and glory told over successive years now they are harbored and restored to a degree by the
burning
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
when that strange man in the park
asked me if love could cause physical pain
i told him that i fell in love with a smile
once
a smile that lassoed and squeezed my heart and lungs
until they were one boiling *****
a smile that buried into my back
pulled out the pink shy parts
i paid an expert to destroy
pink devils
i cried into my cousins shoulder on autumn benches
pink tears
i fell madly pinkly in love with a smile
plucked like a fish from dark winter water
admired
looked after
worthy of inspection
smiling breath on my scales and back
where the pink between them is apparent
then hurled back into winter water
where the day discharges slowly over the grass
in the courtyard.
i told that strange man in the park
my pink insides fizzle-pop like meat on
the summer sidewalk
when i imagine the smiling angler
making that next pull
admiring and smiling
cradling the back like a
pink chalice
That one thinks it's first catch.
As did I. Dark lip burn marks
On the pink.
Physical Pain.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
A very firm intention
To tell it as it is
Has the audience attention
On its toes and all afizz,
Though channelled to the circumspect,
With a patterned thought awry
It chaotically cascades
Across the prism of the eye.
It chaotically discharges
In a scattergun array
Of verbal innuendoes
Through a thin, saliva spray,
And all the passion spent in telling,
All the effort of the tale,
Sends a barrage of confusion
To occipital portrayal.
Where the tiny bones of balance
All atremble with the sound
Have discharged interpretation
Through a penny to a pound.
There’s a lost extrapolation,
There’s a blank look on the face
Where the balance of exchange
Has frittered nimbly from this place.
A calmness in both parties
As a sad pretence prevails,
Where communication nexus
Is ignored to save the whales.
Marshalg
Incommunicado
30 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
**** you! I hate you!
She screams inside her head
as she's rolled over away from the demon in her bed
She can't remember how she ever loved him so much
Now her skin crawls at his slightest touch
She can take no more
She's so upset
She can cry no more tears because she has none left
She quietly slips off their marriage bed and tiptoes
down the stairs
She looks for the gun in her locked box and finds it there
She puts a bottle of gas and matches in her pocket
The box is rehidden after she locks it
She ascends the stairs and enters the room
The pistol discharges with aloud boom
Blood soaks the pillow
He's still and dead
She unloads another round into his head
He's ****** and lifeless
But she's not done yet
She's gonna burn this demon till there's nothing
left
A lit match ignites his corpse from his head to his feet
She covers her eyes and stands back from the heat
She stares at the charred mess that she used
to call her man
Then she raises the pistol still in her left hand
Her greatest love has become her greatest hate
She closes her eyes
Pulls the trigger...
And escapes
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
*Thunder's Rolling drum
Across the churning heavens,
Lightning’s mighty discharges
Flash across the waves,
Illuminating torment
Of a momentary vision
In portraiture of Hades,
A kaleidoscope of craze.
Hard rain horizontal
In howling gale of deluge
Revealed momentarily
In silver sheets of rain,
Writhing tongues of lightning
In jagged forks a-searching,
An instantaneous funeral
Through a million volts of pain.
Standing at the cliff edge
In the drenching after midnight
Fearful pulses racing
In the violence of the storm,
Spectator to the vastness
Of Devil’s work unleashed here
Spectator to a fearsome sky
Where the Gods of Wrath were born.*
Marshalg
Witnessing the most spectacular, violent lightning and thunderstorm immediately adjacent to my hilltop front door in Taranaki @ midnight..
11 April 2014
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
if a woman were to wile
and beguile me
it would be she--
she is ebola, burning hot and fast
replicating majesty
without space or energy--
she is spirit in a short circuit
voltage and current--
she aptly replaces
the schematics
copied down in physics.
a girl of the Ganges--
distance distracts
and remembers little
yet often still i pray to
insulate her sparks, to
absorb each ionic mote
of excess she discharges,
wrap them in neutrino ribbons
and save them under my vest
for the birthdays still to come.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Glaciers withered within me, evaporating
into clouds of despair. I collect within a dispersal
of all that was cloudless, but now I'm slowly
reseeding within a squall of sorrows,
withered emotions now on the cusp
of what is darkening the skies of my fortitude.
But they say every cloud has that glimmer of hope,
a silver lining of reflection within.
That discoloured allure faded before it began.
And now all that I'm consumed by,
is shades of ashen contemplations.
Static discharges of emotions collide in
turbulent clashes, as words shatter
pine trees of fortitudes, splintering hearts.
Echoing from within,
glancing the air in discord.
Precipitation finally collapsing below.
After every storm there is a moment clarity,
where tears fell and emotions disfigured
another's calm ground.
Remember that when the clouds are gone
that the illumination of emotions will
shine though, and once again there is calm.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
shreds of time
sparks of light changing
the world
fleeting revelations tipping
your presumptions
indelible strokes imprinted
in your bowels
impalpable scratches dragging
an eternity of memories
shreds of time
black lines defining the boundary
between before and after
inclement discharges breaking
your heart
rambling crackles resounding
in a solitary echo
unpredictable wrong notes
that marked
your life
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
When the crime is right
& the devil wet
the nocturnal forrest is a skin
and ceremony thin dreams broach reason
they poach me with a caustic blooded rash
approaching as nippy darts ; visions of shard and coil
a metallic eggy rot
and pan to the darkness
snapping electric
irregular from that darkness
spaces between the trees comb
form a hyper hectic wealth of flushes
a blush burst discharges in the body
booming pulse
blooming rabidly
salivating to a ******* savagery
a nature to express
forecast
within permeable forrest
i have energy amazed limbs
daring a dance
screamin' hole The Frenzy
dog-shaking the head
legs flung and planted
crushing ferns
this hefty simian sway
a broadcast challenge
invitation
a power coward
commanding a matching of kinds
excitation
no longer to be foetal and cowed
an aching unmend amended
a call is placed
the spell is rendered
- resonate
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 9:11 PM UTC
“You Can Tell It’s Mattel It’s Swell" (tm) 1
-A toymaker’s slogan applied to (That Rifle) in the 1960s
(That Rifle) often fires when it should not
Its chosen function is usually to jam
But, da®n, it’s black and **** and hot -
Blows off testosterone when it goes Bam-Bam
And when it discharges, so does its owner
A little bullet from a little spout
With his stud piece, no longer a loner -
True love from each basement dweller and lout
Maybe it makes guys feel all hunky-hunk -
Well, they are welcome to that piece of junk
1 Mattel has never had any connection with the manufacture of weapons*
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
An idea is very powerful
It never stays the same
It grows til it can grow no more
Then discharges like rain
An idea is not eternal
For some ideas expire
The ones that dont grow more still...
And spread like wild fires
An idea can change the world
For better, or for worse
A chain reaction follows them
Wherever they go first
The place where ideas show up last
Mostly get credit or blame
Good and evil are ideas too
Yet we use them all the same
So ideas give purpose to mankind
No matter what, the're free
They can be either good or bad
Like the nature of humanity
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Fertile precincts of toxic air, colourless
And unstable create, inexistent boundaries
Of oxygen ***** by electrical discharges
Ultraviolet caress. An atom more turns
The unscented scent into a pungent odour,
Pale blue molecules high temperatures detonate
While low ones, solidify in violet black coagula,
Generous enough to retain, for humanity
And wildlife and all beneath, a gaseous form
Up high to shield, the delicate planet hosting
Sparkles of consciousness from its star’s deadly
Compromising radiations, absorbing them to grant
A frail, balance through its presence in stratosphere
We know, as our fragile sheltering ozone layer,
Descending just a little lower to become once more,
Breathable life bearing oxygen penetrating
Our lungs inundating a system, flowing through
Veins where the pale blue molecules spring only,
Every now and then in white blood cells, fighting
Illful intruders ensuring, survival of amazing wonders.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
People misunderstand each other
Until they've realized
They don't have the piece to the conundrum
Inferior people we find polluted
Superior people we find upgraded
Sterilized people we find transparent
It all still discharges
A mysterious enigma
That'll never be puzzled
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
*Between the heatwave and the storm.
Is the sultry humid air drenched in water,
unable to hold its moisture
for a second longer.
It's heat now unbearable.
A moment of silence beyond stillness.
In the distance night
the thunder is grumbling
like a faraway avalanche.
drumrolls are miles from here
but coming now.
The darkness shining
with the rain bouncing high
from the pavement.
Electrical discharges
crackle as the air explodes.
Looking out of the window
at a cataract of waterfall torrents.
The buildings of the city distorted
like reflections in a hall of mirrors.
Inside the air conditioner creaking
And groaning at its impossible task.
The thunder is now overhead
Filling the room with odor of ozone
In the streets water flows
in rivers to the
overloaded storm drains.
The coolness after the humid air
is drained feels so wonderful.
The air now pure and purged
like a soul in a state of grace.
I think if I ever have to die
I want it to be in a storm like this.
Naked in the rain
as it washes away my sins.
And my maker
roars his forgiveness.*
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:13 AM UTC
My ancestors talk about celestial dragons and snakes of fire, how they plunge from the skies into one's mind,
illuminating their bodies and souls, as a path to acquire knowledge directly from the source.
The truth is by nature ,pursued,
and once the dragon's been invoked it is impossible to tame it.
I rest my head motionless after a long intense wave of scrutiny
Moments are registered in my mind as a process of validation for my internal terminology.
Fantasies became cheap thrills in a world of trickery, you call me friend by day and in the night the enemy.
A lie costs nothing for those involved in recognition,
conditioned to a game I no longer play. I expand, in my dream I am the dragon and the man.
Those who see the truth always crave its taste, I close my eyes and feel them melting down on my face, I sacrifice my sight and swallow it like two raw eggs.
From my window a falcon flies into my room and lands as a toad on my bed . It looks at me smiling as it discharges venom into my chest
There are many defense mechanisms at play and i don't require complex justification to claim a unified actuality even if it risks exposing our vulnerabilities
So I ask to hear the truth from the crowned ones in the sun, drunk with my interest they abide and whisper it.
Simultaneously with my awareness small serpent of energy appears and start mending my lips together , the secrets will be kept , doubt kills the truth and the world is just not there yet , to believe a blind man and a mute.
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 7:29 AM UTC
before bedtime, i watched an internal struggle between heroes and villains
giving it all for kids who knew only violence and illusions of stardom.
demanding PG-14 bladejobs and figure-four leg locks on men who
i believed deserved hell for belittling men; underdogs that understood.
naive and juvenile eyes fixated between storylines of retribution and
conquering Goliath; the crowd going wild for victorious introverts.
aorta discharges aligning with near-falls and close finishes as
The Biggest Little Man manages to slide the shoulder up.
outbursts of frustration as villains i initially resented once again
conquer my favorite – reruns of Seinfeld, the clock yearning
ten-year-olds to head for bed. a new episode of cartoons to catch at 7am.
frustrations i would revisit and repair immediately
through a 40+ action figure extravaganza.
those moments on Friday nights, i remember most;
nights where i enter a space where bad guys can’t run.
a place where the scrawny little Asian boy can finally win.
every Friday, my father is the villain, and i’m the hero.
the one who finally pins him for a three count to bring him back home.
on nights where light and reality is no longer an issue;
imagination plastering false prophecies through a 50” HDTV.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC