"discharging" poems
-lights out-
fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous
ecstasy like a shot of ****** or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
i hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadstop trance-Healing
all my sicknesses-erasing all-not
even the shred of a 'I-hope-you' or a
Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar with its held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes-and
with joy you realize for the first time
'thinking's just like not thinking-
So I don't have to think
any
more'
8.2k
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
A sun, shinning through looking glass
Broken pieces of me are glowing with remorse
Can you tell, how lovely tea leaves are singing
Duets with crows and ravens
Everything shines in glory, shines in regrets
Falling in reverse, crying in reverse
Gone are the ghosts, gone are dreams
How lovely are the birds' beaks
Integrating with the sea's edge
Joining the dead ships and shells
Keeping the diseases, keeping the rain
Low sounds, do you remember how it felt when we said goodbye?
Melodies discharging tears from their eyes like a funeral's crowd
No more remorse, no more regrets
Opening their mouths but the words are trapped like birds in cages
Pills are choking them, stuffing their bodies
Quite was the day, loud was the night with screams from within
Run for your life, or run for your death
Sick were my dreams, sick with my insanity
This birdsong, it's haunting you, haunting me
Under pressure, under which gate is the key?
Vaulted were their smiles, like an ancient city
With sorrow it is, vaulted is the gate to you
Xeroxing my needs, every inch of my pride
You have set my soul on fire, I'm burned to the ground
Zonked out, exhausted by the lies that lingered through your skin, through mine.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
All those distant dying stars,
all his aging battle scars;
their blemished pasts still with him,
slowly, bitterly, fading,
and each discharging one persistent question:
'Any regrets?'
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two
Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a
Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following
stanzas were addressed the next morning.
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o’er thy charms
And hurtling o’er thy lovely head,
Has fill’d that breast with fond alarms.
Surely some envious Demon’s force,
Vex’d to behold such beauty here,
Impell’d the bullet’s viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,
The ball obey’d some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn’d the death aside.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling ***** fell;
Which I, th’ unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell;—
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage, done to thee?
Arraign’d before thy beauty’s throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
Might I perform the Judge’s part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart,
Which but belong’d to thee before.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.
But thou, perhaps, may’st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then—some other mode elect?
Let it be death—or what thou wilt.
Choose, then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold—one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.
1.6k
once upon a time
we had something
something like lightning
see it was way back when
your positives and my negatives
came clashing together
attracting one another
breaking through the commotion
discharging and letting out
energy and intensity and passion
and they say lightning lasts
just for a split second
and i say they're not wrong
one millisecond we were happy
then time's up and gone
cause our love's like lighting
dangerous and frightening
nothing but trouble and tragedy
yet still mesmerizing
now the storm's over
and the skies are clearing
it's all gone along with the thunder
and sparks of lightning
now there's no more dilemma
no more problems no more fuss
but with that there's no more bliss
no more happiness and no more us
see our love's like lightning
unexpected and bright
but lightning,
it never strikes the same place twice.
-djs
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
The abomination that is the human mind
twists and turns, spews and shouts
as worms in filth
or words on paper
crawling and consuming
evolving and discharging
imbibing knowledge and purging perception
letters illustrate products of chemical reactions
neurotransmitters conspire with memory and ideology
excreting dopamine and epinephrine by the milliliters
no one can read what is safe
no one is safe from what they read
poetry is a bowel movement of the mind….
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
Saccharine: Like a disease, like a bad memory, like a smell you can't get away from. Like a bad memory.
Miriami Matloff has never gotten along with her peers, whether it was at work or at school. After discharging from yet another mental hospital after yet another suicide attempt, Miriami decides maybe she needs a change of scenery. Desperate to get out of failed relationships and gnawing guilt, Miriami flees to the big city of Los Angeles.
Saccharine: cloying, sickly
When she meets perfection in the form of a charming and mysterious young woman named 'Candy', Miriami finds herself infatuated. Finally! A roommate, a nice apartment, a beautiful city, and a circle of friends who all have their lives together.
Saccharine: thick, heavy, hard to shake. Like the common cold.
But when Candy starts to become distant- not coming home, dodging phone calls, Miriami wonders if maybe the sweet life isn't all its cracked up to be. In an attempt to find answers, Miriami stumbles upon an entire life she knew nothing about.
Saccharine: sweet and awful.
Like a bad memory.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.
Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Her halo is brightest in the dark
Something about the way the gold
Just reflects the lingering rays
Of a turned off light bulb
She can see into your soul
And know if your worth saving
Before you see it in yourself
To find a better way
She doesn't help people who already have help
She doesn't contribute to lost causes
She goes where the support groups wont
Finds the people who don't know they need help
In a room full of bullet holes
This angel keeps out the rain
In an arm full of track marks
This saint lets out the pain
She doesn't ask for permission
Doesn't look for those looking for help
Says if they're looking
They'll find it within themselves
Somewhere deep inside of her
God saw fit to come back to Earth
Shes a messiah without a gospel
A prophet without an agenda
She's not running for office
She's running from cops
She's not asking for donations
She's begging for change
This angel of mercy
Only survives because of it
This harbinger of love
Lives without it
The invisible hand slapped her in the face
And she kissed the blisters it gave him
God asked her to build an ark
She said, “No, I can't afford it, but I'll fill it if it's there”
Under the star light her halo glows bright under the Burnside bridge
Her voice is the silence between discharging of shells
Her lullaby's to the villagers sounds like opening empty wallets
Her tears fall like shooting stars letting you make a wish every time she feels your pain
Dec 17, 2009
Dec 17, 2009 at 10:08 AM UTC
i stroke the water
with amphibian grace....
plastic protuberent eyes
bob up above....
then down below
.....disecting view
sky blue../...to aqualine
aquamarine.. black line
water sluicing off...
latex bundled, bumpled head
in streaming rivulets...
legs creating rhythmic geometrics....
arms parting waters to glide.........
my frogskinned self.....
is irregularly pattern
....dead fish white,
and sunkissed brown,
......on appendages
bright cerulean, slashed
with swirled butter yellow.
.....wrapped across the
overotound body...
glide onward frog girl...
....through...
the crisp chlorine clean pond...
thoughtless.... except for stroke
and lapnumber.
we.... the army of lapsswimmer
frogs.... are a silent breed
our territorial sound/call is the
regulated plash of arm or leg
.....against surface water
as we swim....always....
in straight lines.....
......that etch away miles....
and
...our overindulgent..
land based......
...vices
we are the water monks .....
of penance and self improvement
....grimly discharging our vespered canon of strokes....
before fluidly lifting our... watersilked
bodies back onto the reality
of land ......leaving
our amphibian grace
........adrift
....in the wake of daily need
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
During the storm, the drops of rain rage down unto the ground in a barrage of catharsis, discharging all the sadness retained and giving it a new perspective: It's something beautiful.
All the thunder that roared through the storm, and the lightning that terrified in those moments of calmness, they're now different.
After the downpour of tears throughout our being, we can learn something beautiful about sadness: It helps.
It allows us to reflect on our life and each of its moments (good or bad); it allows us to better understand ourselves when the world falls; and teaches us that true beauty lies within understanding.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
I drop my spear
To better hold the pen
The compass spins
Without rest
A sun born in my chest
I am mad or I am a young god
I wonder at the hands
At the eyes of blue
This temple
Is my favorite toy
Enthralled by sinew
Muscle twitches
Beneath tanned skin
Discharging nerves send
A chill up the spine
Brother and Son
I have stood in senate
And no man stood with me
I have spent mornings in bed
Watching light dance
On a naked back
My mind
Is like unto an ocean
Or a lone galaxy
Nameless ships
Lonely drift
Upon boundless waves
Dead planets and
Blue comets spin
Without aim
It likes to play
In disarray
Ancient in scope
Do you think you have plumbed its depths
When even I have never touched its borders?
Without effort
It is a tangle of paradoxes
A cluster of non sequiturs
Yet somehow they web
I am mad or I am a young god
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Officially, it's ***** day!
trust me, I would know
ranting and raving, often
never late, unto, that show
So toss it out, throw those words
complain, and vent emotions
stir the *** and release the hounds
giant waves, in calmer oceans
Peeves, diatribes, and wrath
express the anger, and dismay
discharging all the irritation
put it all, upon display
Rage at the machine
call it out, exposing every flaw
building in intensity
pulling your last, and final straw
If you won't, or if, you can't
know this fact my friend
your body, mind, will find a way
bringing fury's, end
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
i think. i think the trees are thinking.
i think
the
tre
es
a
R
e thinking
OCTOBER
?
they say death. and they wear it. and they ware it.
and.
it's yellow talking on the gnarled limpets breathing
from their bruising trunks. suckling my apt pupils
discharging lovely decay in my small
pocket of teeth and thoughts and veins. they,re an ******
of crunching golden mort
i walk through its delicious corpse
and i take her.
i take here. this is:
YES
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
and you want to believe,
that the restlessness will disappear,
new days new ways to conceive
readily for purchase in the five and dime stores
that they did away with
in the years forgotten
shake your shirt sleeve hoping
you can rid the body of the naysayers,
the hangers-on eager to deceive,
leeches you once begged please-come-aboard
asking only that eyes only perceive
what your soul demands it needs,
pants legs flag waving for pocket change
falling out, roll under the bed, thus discovering,
new ideas for old hopes like
peace,
start the world over, you the creator,
signing onto a new lease on life
take best medicine doctors never seem to prescribe,
mirror-stare till you weep from rawness bare,
relief grief honesty, immolating exercises,
un-calculated but accurate, letting your
near dears watch so no explanations buried
for angry revelation years too later after
days and nights of no rest,
a few hours here there
clumped hours but never conjoined,
and you swear off usage
of conjunctions
all spoken now just verbs and nouns
I was
I am
you laugh cause you know,
mirror nods in certifiable confirmation
this is not the best work you ever ecrived,
but when madness, laced with love regret,
what you will emit, you take it plain,
with lots of ice, the idea-words poured,
clinking each other as icy cubes misshapen,
write it no down, don't look no up,
no editing required, can't go back
and get those too late spoken words
alarm rings buzzes beeps all devices
slightly off time agreed, it's Saturday Sabbath,
thinking good god it's against the law
to think this way on a weekending day,
and you want to believe
in fresh starts but all looks old familiar
desperate inmate things of a discharging
what? and you don't care for any answer
that isn't intimate enough to say out loud
why! why? Why
do you want to believe...
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
~
of late he finds
his muse asleep,
with none to waken
none to stir;
slows the flow
from drops to drip,
his secrets deep
are held with her.
yet he endures this
momentary dearth,
knowing soon enough
the seasons change;
again will come
her joyous rains,
she will return
with current rushing;
drought adjourned,
her torrent gushing;
to wet his dry parched lips;
satisfy the cracked red earth,
nourishing the fallow ground;
restoring flow, reviving hope,
his muse rebounds to life.
begins a simple trickle,
blossoming of ’er fine mist;
touch of muse on every droplet,
silver prose in golden goblets.
calloused hands,
though not from fields,
smith no less in words.
spinning yarns in terms
tell of tales unheard;
in spilling words unwritten,
life discharging burdens;
though too late for some,
with many suns to go
he is slow learning,
heart yearning,
softened saudade
to a past unchanged
but head now turned,
heart re-affirmed
stepping to-ward,
to the forward...
again a future taking.
now they’re churning
forth like water,
each formed thought
a droplet breaking.
once free from all confines,
springing from prolific mind,
a garden fountain’s constant flow;
a hillside’s floral spray disrobed.
conceived behind these
quiet, hallowed walls,
his muse gives birth,
her cries of pain
with joyful echo ring,
clearly down these
ancient halls, and
out across the wooded hills.
this child is free,
no more this need
for silent screams, or
coloring between the lines.
breaking from entrapment,
unfettered and unwrapped;
responsive reading’s call,
believer’s whispered
prayer is heard...
his muse has been restored.
~
*post script.
fellow writers have told me
their words most often
arrive in torrents. i share
this view... this experience,
where for days nothing, until...
the mind writes faster than the pen.
- saudade-
sau·da·de /souˈdädə/
a word with no English equivalent;
a sense of wishful longing,
melancholy, or nostalgia.
(Portuguese)
though a bit melancholic,
this is yet a hopeful song,
for after the dark...
the storm, comes the dawn.*
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
The 2012 US Military ****** Assault Agenda states that
One priority is to improve victim confidence
In reporting these incidents.
I'm glad in the four decades since Vietnam
The twenty four years since Desert Storm
The military is finally deciding to do something
About the **** monster it has always conceded to.
Tell me
How will you improve the confidence
Of those who have been consumed, chewed up and spit out
By vicious teeth that leave their marks on bare skin
On the torn sheets she was passed between
That are stitched together with fear?
Will you stop telling her that she has
"An adjustment disorder"
Funneling her into PTSD programs because you have no other place for her
Discharging her because you fear a scandal?
Squeaky clean reputations of the men you allow
To ***** their hands not with the blood of their enemy
But by the open wounds of their fellow soldiers
Entitlement is evident
When she sits in her apartment shaking
Because the man who attacked her receives an honor
A big production of a military funeral on television
While she was told lies about herself
Released into the world
Told she was dishonorable
Told she had a problem.
He had the problem
His sickness is now hers in the form of a pill
She swallows it as they tell her she is sick
She is wrong
But he is a martyr
Living in his glory even after death
But his secret dies with him.
So, United States military
If you want to improve the "confidence" of these victims
Instead of breaking their wrists
Try holding their hands.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
It's not that I don't appreciate
the glorious struggle of this life.
But when I'm crowbar hopping until I can hardly stand up
guilty of smashed in windows and foggy afterglow afterthought
I can't help but wonder
how I can be anything but off the wagon
when they've been circled to fend me off?
They want their stereotypes?
Fine.
I'll be the station wagon burner of their suburbs
but even if they're entertained I don't want their thanks.
I reserve my thanks for being alive
for being allowed to rise each day
even if my thanks are abstract marks lining
my arms.
Sorry if this is disjointed.
I'm writing from the heart
but shooting from the hip
with those familiar revolving killers
slung low on fun belts with
the chambers of my heart spun
until I'm dizzy.
I've always been an avid subscriber to chaos
but I can't deal with this disorder any longer.
I know that each and every one of you
are precious and dear to me
but I can't break away from the oubliette of
my dreary words.
They're like my alchemical dependency
burning dread into gold.
I give thanks to know you
even if showing it is difficult.
I'm a barren mined strip.
Now I'm discharging thought heavy metals into your
water supply and I can't help but think I'm
poisoning everyone.
I've been a misanthropologist all my life
discovering what makes us so awful at times.
Now I just
want to be a sincere apologist.
I need you more than you need me
and I love you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
He lived by the smoke and faded into it.
For as it filled his lungs the wall within him grew weaker.
As the ignorant thoughts of a stress-reliever,
became a morbid death discharging the heart of its hobby to pump.
Pump...Pump...Pump...
He forced these tobacco filled killers farther and farther into his mouth.
To shove down the worries of four kids and a barely surviving laundromat.
Putting his lungs in the washer to polish his good intentions,
and dry them off with two packs a day.
Sequestering the addiction from the one’s who loved him the most.
For it was his duty to remain a role model,
and put himself on the front-lines of the tar massacre occurring in the darkness.
And suppress the killings from the kids of the future,
for his past is a piece of unknown history tucked away safely within the Marlboro Reds.
For his heart was of gold yet his actions didn’t let him live too old.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
At astronomical dawn,
we met as suns, as
confluence of rainbow
love, discharging our
rivers of fondness into
each other in emerald gold.
Darkness came and *****
the morning. And deep gullies,
craters, hold-ups, pains and
numerous sorrows on the way
of glory.
But I know the suns'll not die
'cos what is written is written!
... the glory of the morning
suns appeared again in rainbow
folds, bringing rhombus sheaves
in unlimited volume with sublime beauty.
And I told her, I am your poem
and you are my poem in all
seasons.
Recite and I recite to the power
and glory of the Author of authors.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
Rude transitional
Vessel conquering
Reaching deeply
Trying each level
Time succession
Rapidly grappling
Softness intensity
Discharging ether
Fuel dark whisp(er)
Paint syncopated
Drawing transition
Hole opens deeply
Perceptional peep(s)
Doubtlessly abated
Strings form syringe
Encapsulated chords
Rupture stagnate air
Steering mind's Roar
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Wild foaming tops in whitening turbulence,
Racing up beach-ward an ocean unloads.
Boisterous motion bouncing with fervour,
Explosions discharging as froth overflows.
Sea seized with madness starts to spit pebbles,
Sandy **** shaken like rats tails thru' air,
Tumbling excitement as breakers rise restless,
Desperate to fling salty bits from their hair.
Wind force increasing boats wisely harbour,
Diving, brave seagulls dip nearer the waves.
Dark sky showing storm drifting to starboard,
Pewter mist begins mixing cobalt with grays.
Petulant tides on this coast need caution so
Dicing no more with ocean homeward I go.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
I couldn't point to the reason that you consume my thoughts when the sun goes down.
So mysterious is my desire to have your time, regardless if it's genuine return of interest or just the run around.
Your smile, that smile, precisely resembles the overwhelment of staring at waters so crystal clear the blurriest of views shutter no longer.
Your laugh, your voice, so tranquil my legs lose their brawn, my voice cowards behind my amazement & I feel my joy flourish stronger
I just thought you should know that you amaze me. That my eyes become frustratingly fatigue when I try to see the flaws you claim to have, those absent flaws no one else can see.
I just thought you should know, friend, or more. Whether we're sharing laughs or beds. Your uniqueness is eternal, your beauty goes unparalleled, and no matter what we ever are, you're surely a blessing to me.
Everyone should have a friend as prodigious as you atleast once in their lifetime, & I can see the pain you hold back from those who let you go unknowingly discharging a gift.
When ever you need a chest made pillow, a patient hand to dry tears, or just ears that don't judge and understand the language of scars; I will be ready to use the strength you give me to give your spirits a lift.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC