"disgraces" poems
Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, cRussian bones of the law
And still spewing the news like the red dragon’s maw
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
‘Till your Motherland’s mine
Swine
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
I signed up for the race you see. I was drafted to run.
They chose to pay my tuition so I could sprint at the gun.
But here's the problem that plagued me from the start.
I seemed to have left my confidence at an entirely different mark.
I showed up at the race and I didn't think I would win.
Even the sun shining down on the game looked a little grim.
What happens when your falling without any aid?
When there's no life support and you don't think you'll be saved?
What happens when you've signed on for too much?
When you can't be the athlete you want to be and you've got a limp with no crutch?
I had to figure it all out, a dark field and no map.
I had to find my confidence before I could score on attack.
I faced the coaches and dealt with their disappointed faces.
I had to move past the fact, that I had racked up some disgraces.
I cried in the showers when nobody could hear.
Letting anybody know I was weak was my biggest fear.
Because it doesn't count you see, if the shower's on.
There's already water running down and my tears always joined the marathon.
But I surpassed the doubt. I learned to dig deep.
I became that brave player on the field.
And I only cry in my sleep.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
I'm tired of writing poetry for all the desolate disgraces I see in this world. Homeless hit a peak of 2.5 million children country wide in this land of opportunity. How are you supposed to survive with no role models or daily inspiration? The lessons you cherish are when your next meal arrives, not waiting on your pension. Suspended through the thicket of all this strife, and they are the ones who are grateful day and night. The smallest hospitality does not pass through their ears while comfortable in the heat you're deciding which brand of beer to choose. Intoxicate yourself like your problems will just vanish while a little girl no more than four begs strangers for a sandwich. Then blame the victims for stealing your bits of gold, when all they wanted was a blanket to keep out of the cold.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Would you prefer it if I called myself Master God?
Would it please everyone if I called myself beautiful? Or would it come off as fake?
Whatever, nevermind.
I am zero. I do not count. I am an omission. Neglected. Ignored. Alone.
I have developed many a personality. I have become everyone and everything and I am nearing ripe. I call myself a piece of ****
Why? Because no one else would… I call myself a scumbag, a loser, a failure, a disgrace.
Because no one would want that burden.
I call myself Jesus.
What confidence? Keep wondering. Deliberation hmm…
I call myself a piece of **** because why not?
If everyone called themselves a piece of **** we would all be the **** of the earth.
We would all be disgraces. The playing field will finally start at the bottom line.
We would be **** in unison.
We would **** embarrassment.
We would **** it.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
Yellow spheres are terror to the daydreamers
whirling past faces disgraces grazing ears
Recollections of multipurpose room taunts
And Mr. Neptune's rolled eyes as he gives up
Just send me to my fortress of books n poetry
Let me slip away unnoticed and forgotten
between the blue carpet and shelves inside
Let me bang my head on the laminated particle board
I disappear in here where it's just me and three thousand years
floating historically through black & white epochs
Alone, the world is heavy but not so much as my feet
planted and feigning mobility as roots become weeds
I think how dumb it is to talk of my Soul or to sing in the shower
or my car or alone in my apartment with stereo blasting
It's strange how the red is everywhere and I can't imagine
any longer when I'll finally need to draw a line
For you are not with me as I am with me and I'm green
But I can't say if it's in my stomach or in my eyes
And despite the heaviness I feel like I could be swept away
I could flutter up like one of those winglike seeds in Spring
Heaven is no place outside either, and I suddenly remember
That this all started with a love for the color orange
And I realize the silliness of red and yellow by themselves,
still wondering if I am bathed or baked in the warmth.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
We arrive at the place
Water running off our faces;
Looking like disgraces
Glibly explaining
That it is still raining.
Just a smattering patter.
Not that it matters.
We'll just sit and chatter
Like social Mad Hatters
At a move-down afternoon tea.
We're all hooked on surreality.
The ladies-who-lunch bunch;
Character assassination over brunch.
Some gossip while we munch
Embroidering on a hunch.
Anything to stay in out of the rain.
After all, it's not our personal pain.
It's some other sucker's sorry.
We will forget it by tomorrow.
For today, while we quickly forget
We just sit and watch the streets get wet.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
The children are running and stumbling
A humbling experience, but deliverance
Is only gained here by running in fear
Away from those who hate and ****
And warp the will of those too young
To see people hung and murdered.
So they are herded with the living
Into an unforgiving world of pain
None should see, even less see again
But they remain in these clusters
Mustering and lining up for food
A homeless brood of adopted waifs
That should be naifs instead of this,
Nomads, glad of a blanket for bed
On the hard ground, all they found
To call home during flight, for tonight,
Not all are children, but the hurt
From blurted out hateful names
Is not the same for the young ones
Who should be having fun and not
Suffering through this hell they got
From being born in the right city
In a time of no pity and no rescue,
No kindness the world should do,
Instead they cringe from angry faces
As if they were disgraces for living.
Nothing left for giving to them.
These are orphans now, not sons
Not daughters, what was begun
Has ended for them, permanently
While nations stand by silently
Watching the perfidy and sighs,
Ignorant of their cries and destitution.
No restitution can ever come to some.
To most there is only memory of death
And running, out of breath, nowhere
Because nobody is there for them.
It is their problem.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
America
**** your McDonald's drive-thrus
**** your ninety-nine cent ******** hamburger, taco, pizza, salad, milkshake, hotdog, cheese, chicken and ice cream.
**** your ever-penetrating, all-enveloping television stare
-looking into every home and obscenely tucking children into bed with your poisonous, dangerous nonsense
**** your deadly highways and metal death machines
**** your educational system which affords no opportunity and disgraces the intelligent by basing self-worth on imaginary symbols
**** your restriction of information and for appointing one man to represent anybody but himself
**** you for breeding such similar beings
**** your twisted hatred of change & for arresting children while cadavers dry-hump the so-called american dream
**** you for losing your own soul & destroying us daily
**** you for putting faces on beauty and giving such loud voices to hypnotic fantasy
**** your favorite sons and daughters
**** you for the wars which can never be won
**** you for advertising Jack Daniels on the freeway
**** you for a pack of cigarettes - seven dollars and fifty cents
**** you for making my **** hard
**** you for not looking at the stars every night
**** you because I am poisoned by paper
**** you for the starvation of spirit & pills handed out to numb the broken minds you've made & the shattered ones you avoid
**** you for the homeless prophets
**** your speech decree & for rubbing freedom in the faces of the dying
**** your holy stars & stripes
**** your hushed genocide and & torture
**** your phantom masses and empty religions
**** you for providing no wholesome evenings in my rotten town
**** your signposts and support beams
You are but a word
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 11:36 AM UTC
Though covered in cigarette burns
And love stains this mattress is the only thing
That I can hollow out enough
To harbor all my shameful secrets
And instant regrets
As well as my dishonorable disgraces
Along with the faces
Of people from places
That I wish not to forget
But to never have known
If you sever the bones
That the muscles cling to
It all has to fall apart
Before it can scar
But as we all know now
Fallen angels don't fall very far
That must be why I seek sanctuary
Upon these rooftops
And ponder over these few thoughts
Like how hard you fought
And all the emotion that it brought
But now nameless and faceless
I am engulfed by the crowd
Trying to scream loud enough to be found
But my voice is drown in the sound
Of their laughs at the clown
So I kick off the shoes
And throw off the nose
Rip off the wig
And tear off the clothes
Like come and get it girl
I'm yours for the taking
But only if you can break me
And lately no one can do that safely
So hug me, kiss me, love me then miss me
But these whispers that I hear
And the sweet nothings in my ear
Better be sincere because I fear
That your name already became
Just another stain on my mattress
From another bad actress.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
i.
Seraphim, betimes we shalt crack this inter-web bourn, awaiteth I, tis with tear's from these eye's, though the waiting wilt purify, ourn ventricles to an unfamiliar door.
ii.
None reason for Affright, mine soul doth leadeth the way, O' amour' Jane, thine hari's here to stay. Afresh to the new day, ourn canorous spirit's pave the serenade; something lost to olden flutes.
iii.
Barefeet- None sandals, the luggage we carrieth wilt be of God, almighty; supernatural. Powerful crystalline stone- lucid, god-hand castles.
iv.
It's not against flesh and blood love, that we do wrestle, but against spiritual wickedness in high and low places, we conquer demonic armies, and nephilim faces. An ambassage we sendeth to the human races, that they mayest love another, and forgive, and to forget their past disgraces. As tis Queen Jane; alms wilt be seen on the wall's, encased with ourn names. As I wilt catcheth thee, when through the cloud's thou doth fall...
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
We take on the blame, we inherit the shame
wallowing in the aftermath of an apocalypse
proportions to take down the most resilient warrior
we fight to the death our right to a voice
trust is crushed beyond reparation
truth is heard in the distant by some
stark realities knock in darkness and light
sleep filled with the incoherent disgraces
seeped into the soul's consciousness'
assaulting all reason and sanity
sanctioned for self destruction
the shame that follows engulfs
innocence admonishes all evil
still stuck in the turmoil of self hatred
unjustly bestowed on the naive guiltless
shame's name branded on the psyche
slammed by the brick wall of inertia
sabotaged lives go astray and unfold
the real shame of it all is not ours to own
yet, life no longer flows naturally..............
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
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They want me to subscribe
seek to prescribe
me Their prognosis of capitalism
content only when
I approve Their content
Her prophetess grace
unravels unlaces
Their societal disgraces
chastises the beasts
of Babylon with a wrist flick
I hear freedom ring
as Her fingers sing
cajole the oppressed
voices before drowned, now
staccato into stiletto
her tryst with strings
Joy their union brings
Her ac-cello-batic
prowess shrining springs
loose raven’s wings
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5/17/18
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
We walk down street
And always together breathe
Silence always maintain
But still don’t go insane
I love her, that’s true
But she love me, I don’t have any clue??
Then who she is, the night asked me
Coz they had never seen such infatuation within me
Even thought of her, makes my mind go insane
The winds stops and atmosphere becomes plain
Have you seen leaves dancing crazily in springs?
Just like that wherever she goes, happiness she brings
Have you seen strong breezes flowing in the air?
Whatever comes in a way, they don’t care
Just like that, she got something in her say
This always makes me go astray
Sometime she hurts, sometime she amazes, and sometime she disgraces me
But every time I look in her eyes, she makes me go lost like crazy bee
She got something special in her eyes I bet
Look in her eyes and experience the relieve you get
And describing them in mere words, please don’t ask again
They were relaxing like feel of dry land on first drop of rain
No I literally don’t know how to talk to her
But even after that she care
But still I don’t get that chance
To look in her eyes with that glance
Smile on her face attracts everything till infinity
They will surely calm you, whatever situation will be
But Yep! When so go mad, she go mad aloud
Don’t think her ***** she can even shake cloud
Understand her and then she will be yours for all
But if you disobey her then she will let her for you to fall
But yet, you met her just two days ago, the whole sky told
Getting jealous on the way she made me go mould
And why she so much matters to me
And I always wanted her to see
Yeah, I know some time I get mad for her
Like a lost puppy who recently lost her master
And then she comes out of nowhere up in a pride
Just to show how much she matters in my life
Just to show how much she matters in my life
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces
particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:
*valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living*^
don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human
strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,
working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps
the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds
these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms
the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope
the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing
to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights
come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass
believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
Under the wires
with all the beautiful men
gods gone under under the gutters
culverts overfull overly discarded the
crux or crutch core of ultimate beauty and
discarded power in blasphemed curses of harrowing tales
of more horrible horrors too to overly too harrowing to be forgotten
but still and still and again and again the beauty and beauty the love and power
the pain the harrowing silent pain silently swallowing of the most horribly wasteful
distasteful disgraces unmentionable not upon a tongue but a single one alone disgraced
by some mass illusion of the collective disgrace as if cast from some garden not here at all times
not at hand but by our own here now by each our own; devils/messiahs either all to real or what ya kidding man...
another harrowing day
with the beauty and pain
of beautiful man
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
These heaves and sighs and faults of mine,
They haunt me in my sleep;
These failures, mistakes, and disgraces,
They do not speak of me.
The shortcomings, embarrassments, rebellions
Just come out of the flame
Every part of me that I cannot quite tame:
The hips and thighs and zits that cry "I'm ugly, don't come near,"
Cheering on my bulliers, and bringing me to tears.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
Painted walls
and faces.
Smiling,
Laughing
Behind all their disgraces.
The dance.
The feel.
The touch.
The hope.
Drunkenly on a tightrope
Between fantasy and reality,
Following the herd in their slick sensual way
Or
Pure individuality
Molding the clay.
They move, they pace
Not a line on their face
No disdain, no pain
Just hot electric freedom
On the thrill ride of a drug induced game
Pills are popped.
Drinks are shot.
And the crowd keeps going
on
and
on.
While she sits.
In the corner there she sits.
Feeling her brain explode.
Feeling her insides implode.
While icy hands glide her warm skin.
Her breath, it stills.
Maybe it's from the pills.
Then the hands straddle her waist
For only just a taste.
They sink in, biting her soul away.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 12:32 PM UTC
What a world is and what is its real flow
Every one carries a Satan in his shadow
No one bothers unless encounters a blow
Hypocrisy dangles and dances in its show
One face carries but very many false faces
Humans in their all hatred go along races
All graces just carry real inherent disgraces
Morally corrupt people go along stray paces
Tricks have taken over all valid commands
Market just swarms Tom **** Harry brands
Lust has crossed all illegal, illicit demands
But virtuous soul plays very well and stands
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
antiquated diatribes
hackneyed bromides
deflated explosions
unreal delusions
sycophantic embraces
hiding disgraces
cult of bipolarity
words of triviality
obsessively unceasing
yawningly unentertaining
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
jack loves people,
he participated in the most successful of chapels.
jack loves a crowd,
he was always happy and seems to float on a cloud.
jack loves the population,
he always loved them and was interested in their associations.
jack loves the world,
he loved every man, woman, boy, and girl.
jack loves everyone,
especially the tasty ones.
jack loves the look on their faces,
he loved the way they pray for forgiveness for their disgraces.
jack loves their blood,
he always giggled as they tried to crawl away in the mud.
jack loves their eyes,
he always laughed at their obvious fright.
jack loves their screams,
he always loved hearing them in his dreams.
jack loves the muscles,
he would sing as he severed the body parts of a couple.
jack loves the rings on their fingers,
he would always keep those fingers together.
jack loves the way they taste,
the blood and meat always made his heart race.
jack loves people, that fact forever remains true,
now the question is, do you love people too?
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
These whispers, loud and aimless, brave in the face of these constant disgraces. I rise. I repent. I revise. I repeat. An overcast reflex, we think without thinking. We dream without blinking. Night terrors substitute the delicate playgrounds buzzing through our skulls. Empty; dull. We breathe because that’s what we’ve been told to do. Extrovert disguises; we have picked each piece from the magazines. Taped together. We don’t smile when we’re alone. We are the future of this decomposing planet; a disappointing chasm. Brain cells loosening. Reproducing in lethal amounts. Suicidal enterprise, we interpret the sunrise as nothing more. Rise and fall. Sage and menthol. We try so hard. We try too hard. Fit the pieces a part from the puzzle. We are original. We are cynical. We are the dirt that clings to the underside of your haggard boots. We are what’s left of the future. The delay of smoke, the substance crawling out of the ashtray. Images to uphold and characters to promote this reception of embarrassment. Holding hands/thoughtless/decisions. Carnage with intent. A breeding ground of meaningless *** Ride the wave and bow your head to the prisons we’ve built to enslave our inspiration. Words pour out like ***** on my bathroom floor, a little to the left, unexpected sentences tangle together. Forming fiction. Resistance is all I have left.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC