"disposal" poems
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."
Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.
The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.
31.6k
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
Not an enigmatic smile
Like the constipated, condescending smirk
Adorning, and inexplicably adored, on the Mona Lisa's smug face;
But a smile to justify God's existence;
A smile that, when dazzlingly bestowed
Upon one fortunate soul, caught rabbit-like in its
Wondrous radiance, infinitesimally, and cumulatively,
Increases the World's joy. Where every living thing -
Whatever exists on the planet, imperceptibly hums
To a new, more celestial pitch -
An effervescent vibration celebrating Life's mysteries:
A reason for existence.
It's a smile to make an Alchemist cry -
Turning a leaden heart to gold in an instant.
It's a smile to make a mediocre poet struggle
To articulate an adequate description
Using all the hyperbole, simile and metaphor at his limited disposal.
Inestimably more brilliant, and more valuable,
Than the most flawless diamond ever found -
And, perhaps, just as rare.
Thankfully, a renewable resource,
Enabled to enlighten and heat
The recesses of any beneficiary's
Heart and invigorate their soul.
Helen may have caused a thousand ships to sail,
Destroying a nation as a consequence;
And Cleopatra nearly caused the collapse of an Empire;
But Tao's smile, unleashed in all its glory
Could melt the Antarctic ice-sheet -
Drowning us all in its magnificence.
Mayan's have a myth that states such a smile
Only comes around once every twelve thousand years,
In the Great Galactic turning.
Einstein's General Theory of Relativity
Is often mistakenly considered to concern gravity,
But is, in fact, concerned with one's relative position
To Tao's smile - an inescapable vortex of pleasure.
No music conceived of the fabled Celestial Spheres
Compares to the silent, ethereal harmonies tattooing my heart
Whenever, beacon-like, that smile flashes fleetingly in my direction.
And Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle has not a Quantum core,
But revolves around the statistical uncertainty of being blessed
With the ephemeral thrill of a benign grim.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
Lack of money is lack of friends; if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you. ~ Yoruba
War has no eyes ~ Swahili saying
There can be no peace without understanding. ~Senegalese proverb
A leader who does not take advice is not a leader. ~ Kenyan proverb
If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty; if there is none, beauty becomes ugliness. ~Nigerian Proverb
Unity is strength, division is weakness. ~ Swahili proverb
Wisdom does not come overnight. ~ Somali proverb
Knowledge without wisdom is like water in the sand. ~ Guinean proverb
Home affairs are not talked about on the public square. ~ African proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
Make some money but don’t let money make you. ~ Tanzania
When you are rich, you are hated; when you are poor, you are despised. - African proverb
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning. ~Kenyan proverb
Traveling is learning. ~Kenyan Proverb
What you learn is what you die with. ~ African proverb
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it. ~ Ugandan proverb
It takes a village to raise a child. ~ African proverb
Poverty is slavery. ~Somalia
The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba
Much wealth brings many enemies. – Swahili
You are beautiful, but learn to work, for you cannot eat your beauty. ~Congolese Proverb
A pretty face and fine clothes do not make character. ~Congolese Proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
A close friend can become a close enemy.~ African proverb
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.
Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.
Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.
A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.
The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.
The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.
Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.
The persistence of white power.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.
Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.
While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
underling animals
in times
of quake-
slight
swellings
in brain
of maybe
one mole
bottled
now
for sea-
if on a baby
your hands
would be
so cute
but as
an adult
you glove them-
world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which
god rose-
as sporadic
surges
switch on
the sink’s
disposal
pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
As the hazy summer days flew by
My heart still sang a lover's song
Longing to retrieve pieces of a broken heart
Perhaps forge anew withing another's arms
But there simply is not enough time, the summer was dying.
Much like the blazing fire within my soul
Deep pensive thoughts,
Concocted by this newly acquired sense of maturity,
Took hold of my mind
As the winter's grasp took my heart.
All the while the scent of old textbooks, chlorine, and dead flowers
Fueled my life.
My legs were tired after constantly running.
One boy to another
And the embers begin to die.
No longer does my heart desire the affection of another
Why run to the beach?
Why try again?
It all ends in pain.
The long hours of talking on the phone
Sharing secrets
Learning all there is to know about another
Loving.
Loving all there is to love and getting your soul torn?
No, I quit this cruel game.
Months pass and I am still hiding in the deep corners of my mind
Trusting another with my emotions?
What insanity
I can trust myself, and myself alone
The snow starts to fall and the cold reaches my core.
I am alone.
My fault? Perhaps
I just gave up on the game of 'love'
But all it really takes is little spark
To make a fire once more.
The new year is rung in with a bonfire under the stars
Notes, cards, flowers...everything
All up in flames.
I watch my old year ablaze before my eyes
And scratch open into a new notebook
"2013"
The blank pages stare back at me
As I ponder which words to embellish the skin with
More deep thoughts...
What do I want?
Having ignored all social aspects of my life,
I was happy.
Good grades, friends at my disposal, decent swim team times
As my thoughts continued
I ignored the feeling building up in my throat.
"Nobody loves you."
Independent, strong, beautiful, cunning, intelligent...
Sure when you brake it down I have a lot going for me.
But to take all these qualities
Have someone love your every flaw, bizarre habit, and womanly curve...
An impossible task.
And so I put my faith in the starts
Asking the universe for a miracle.
And then I waited.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
If you think that
I will wait in the shadows
keeping my head down
my organs, my time
at your disposal
You are blind
In the worst kind of way
I have been the trick
up the sleeve of
dishonest players
enough to know
that darkness well
penetrating only the physical
powerless against the invisible
I refuse to be kept
as a secret, a guilty pleasure
no more will you
take me behind closed doors
pretending not to be
intoxicated in front
of your friends
You will never see
me on my knees
for your sins
Your sinister sermon
no longer whispers
in my ear
And the weight of
your demons
Has lifted from my shoulder
The mistress of your cruelty
no more,
The empire we ruled
The castle we shared
All ruins now
Tales of our torrid
love affair will be
greatly misremembered
You, wearing my crown
And I, wearing your ill repute.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
You strip and scream in the pillow of your king size bed.
Something about life being too hard
or your girlfriend's unfaithfulness.
Somoene's outside your door
or maybe under the tree.
They know what their future is
and their prospects are bleak.
'I don't want to eat because I am so depressed. '
Well, how about handing over that food to someone who has been going hungry to bed.
You are never thankful for what you have.
Let's solve this without any animosity
We all have days which are bad.
I have seen the citylights
I have seen the people cringe with the pain
You and I know that this system is to be blamed.
It's time that the government has shown their true face.
Those schemes are probably gonna fail.
Unclean water, improper waste disposal
it's time we return back to our own morals.
I don't mean to be abrasive
but it's time we face it.
The rich are getting richer
watching poor men die
You get the picture
Divided by an imaginary line.
Some charities are a scam
'*Please help us fund the education of the kids affected by the floods.
We have no proof where the money goes.
Our logic is ****** '
Traffic lights changing colours
Wait? Did someone break that one again?
That's a ******
No one knows where they are going
as long as the cash is flowing
So many around the world starve to death
'What the hell did you put in this lasagna? A rotten egg?'
Your emotional security us important
and so is your money.
You can enjoy as many luxuries
but remember to think of the less fortunate.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC
You know, I never met a Frank I really hated too much,
except for when I was little and I despised
my ******* grandfather for threatening to
nail my ears to a door every forty minutes.
Having said that, there's a hole somewhere where
people vacation from life and I haven't found it,
but the closest I can get is bed.
I woke up with half my *** still asleep.
I hurt somewhere new every day.
But hey, it can't all be **** coffee and half wilted daisies, eh?
I got my copy of "Eaten by Machines; Collected Poems of Austin Heath."
Look at that.
My word in print.
I'm not making a **** cent off of it,
but there it is. I'll call myself a writer now.
At least out in the open.
Among people.
Sigh.
What if further on down the century,
people decide these years were the first
seeds pushed into the dirt that would
start the apocalypse?
Or, what if we are already the post-apocalypse?
This place smells funny.
What if the past heard about the future,
learned about all the wealth and resources we had
at our disposal, and instead built fancier weapons
for the war machine?
Would they even hesitate to call us monsters,
and declare the future the end?
What the **** do you think we're looking down?
We're all going to go insane,
and **** each other in our sleep,
and we'll sleep rarely because we
realize that it is one big
unprofitable blind spot.
We'll die half-narcoleptic, insomniac, lucid dreaming lunatics,
with manic paranoia and no conscience for violence.
In our sleep.
Sleep.
I can't quite remember why I left bed,
I guess I needed more sunshine in my diet.
My phone is off, it's past noon, and I haven't eaten.
Frank is disappointed.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
i laid on the bed completely defeated
with tears in my eyes and a handprint that left my skin heated.
i said no, and i meant it.
but you begged, you just couldn't accept it.
after you ****** me and used me at your disposal
you turned away from me and the phone screen lit up your face
so i turned my back on you and cried into stained sheets.
i never looked at my body the same
after you branded my body with your all-too-common name.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 8:45 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.
burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^
she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.
she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.
a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a e i o u.
you can hear what I heard too.
after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.
I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.
but not so well.
I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.
here is how it comes all together.
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.
oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.
these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:
this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.
I could live without
a e i o u and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.
but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.
So you see this poem is about
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.
In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.
you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
*On a sidewalk
a fateful fall..
Over this dead one
two persons meet:
One wishes a disposal
quiet and away
from trafficking feet..
The other with a kick
and quick disregard
of this morning moment's
sudden dark streak..
A brief encounter
two teachers
on her path..
Each holding a mirror
for the other...*
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
I offer you this innocence,
come on in,
condemnation
judgement
vitriol
are left on the other side
of the walls of skin.
Hearts may open here
tears may tumble
walls may fall
in this moment between you and me.
We will offer
truths and tenderness
for every imagined sin.
Life's a puzzle
the pieces are in
earthquake shambles scattered
across the floor.
There are places for each puzzle piece
to put together,
we may even find bliss.
Sometimes this life is too complex
too hard to fathom
too easy to plummet,
we all need a place to
explore
unload
forgive.
This is the innocence
feel free to come on in,
your secrets are safe here,
never told by me.
It has been said
we are as sick as our secrets,
burrowing through our eyes
in dark packets of disguise.
But in this sanctuary
lies dissolve
innocence returns,
We find a chance to begin again.
Put down the masks
Put down the resentments
Put down the propped up sorrows
Our truths will set us free.
The door is open
the glowing warmth of connection
is at your disposal,
come speak to me
the accumulated hurts of where you have been,
through these true confessions
hurts pass
not forgotten
but
forgiven.
We can begin again.
The puzzle pieces lost
will be found,
compassion and forgiveness
become our friends.
Abandon all pasts
seen through a child's eyes,
in this time of now
we can become cozy
snuggle up in this warm bath embrace.
Sometimes we all need a place to hide
in all the necessary pillows and comforters.
Either in words or in silence,
we'll find that spot of transformation,
begin again,
once you enter this innocence,
from the tangle
as birds well know,
we can fly free again.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
The carpenter sits in his rocking chair as he thinks,
as the sun drowns itself into the dark clouds, he waits.
Waiting for something to tell him that he is no longer a boy anymore,
that his maturity and humility have been masqueraded
Into a body that resembles him.
Every night, when he eats, he sits alone
His plate as round as the moon,
He lights one candle on his dinner table.
Most nights, when he is drinking heavily,
he walks to the back of his house,
sits in front of an old wooden bench,
gazing across the lake and he picks up a book,
construing ideas and proposals that he fails to recollect the morning after.
He reads poems to himself, poems from books.
Poems about the nature and history of the human condition,
about the muscles and the tendons in our bodies
that bend and crumble and shiver at our disposal.
Bottle in his left hand, book in his right.
And sometimes he switches hands to highlight his drunken dexterity.
Clinching his book of poems as if they were his children,
too afraid to go out into the soft fear of the electric night,
and he was the wild one to present to this world.
He feels abandoned, dismayed,
and he no longer sees a light at the end this tunnel,
like someone or something is closing it,
leaving a crevice wide enough just to test and to tease
his willing and purpose to escape from it.
He feels a burning in his chest
as he trickles down the last drip of scotch onto his lips,
tasting death like it was tapwater.
It's midnight and he has to wake up in six hours,
wake up to a routine where his work becomes unnoticed
because he doesn't have the ***** to stand up for himself.
So, he sits and he waits for something to happen,
something fantastic or supernatural to help him grow wings
so he could relieve the tension on his shoulders,
his bones realigned to fit the being of gods.
He closes the book, walks back to his house
and blows his one candle at the dinner table,
blackening the room to fit the clouds of the night.
He lies in his bed as he engulfs his body with his comforter,
hoping to never wake up in a world that will not hesitate to laugh in his face.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
A leaf spirals downward,
Over covered heads and uncovered cars,
Children sleeping in grass
Drool dripping from their gums,
A football field seeing practice
Where someone's leg
Was recently snapped in half,
Overflowing sewer grates,
Dilapidated septic tanks,
Wastewater disposal facilities
With a runoff into
A river filled with needles and rocks
And bodies,
And it hits the ground with a silent explosion,
Until the wind sends it off and sets it somewhere out of sight.
Like when a glass bottle
Shatters on a bar top and
Sends shards soaring
Into the eyes
Of onlookers,
Everybody knows what's next.
Did you hear?
Fall is here.
The boy who starves so that he may be warm
And the girl who freezes so she may not starve
Have a chance encounter
And bask in mutual despondency.
They share their warmth,
And they share their food,
And neither has enough of either.
But even at their demise,
The sun still goes up and down
On the horizon,
Painting a scene of ignorance
Or apathy,
And lying.
The heat will dissipate soon,
What with Winter coming,
But it does not matter:
Everything is already frozen.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
This love is a game of give and take
You can't expect to take everything and give nothing away
Treated me like your personal favorite toy
and still expect me to be at your disposal and sway?
It might have been a game for you
but not for me
You want to be a player baby?
Then lets play this game again
I'll beat you at it, beat you at it black and blue
Because if you're a player, Then I ******* made this game
Don't tell me to dance the pain away,
I'll inject the pain into your heart, and then i'll laugh again
Now, you can eat your own **** Because I'm tired of you
And I'm gonna walk away
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Working under a cloud of sadness
Cleaning a mother’s home
After their death.
All the familiar objects
Are so much heavier
Loaded with emotion
Triggered by every trinket touched.
And the unfamiliar
Items never seen before
Not really secret
But secretive
Shed an unfamiliar light
Or a tragic one
On the lost life.
Add some desire you had
For resolution
Or proof of affection
A letter un-mailed, explaining…
Everything, less,
Or adding further mysteries.
Photos signed with a revealing scrawl
In a curious masculine hand.
And flowing in your mind
As you reduce a life to a list
For disposal, dispersal
A certainty
A knowing
That what you see is not the whole
The whole life
There’s something missing
That might explain
Her wistful expression
Her unexpressed longing,
The aura of regret,
You recall it easily.
A perfume of disappointment
Lingering.
And when you finally
Discover her dark journals
Her writing, but reflecting a stranger
A talent, a power, a presence
Never revealed, never known
But rich and sharp
With bright witty language
You understand this is a set of wings
Dusty with neglect
Heavy with melancholia
Unused wings.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
I.
Still thriving beyond immaculate walls.
Tincturing the water that solemnly streams in the river,
I await the corner of grassy marshes, and
Gather your secret spells.
In days when the land is prey to rhythmic beats;
The water dances with disturbance.
I run through the meadow barefoot, and
Cast the sun-dried bricks beyond me.
The red Moon drowns in woeful bliss, while
Its jealous relative illuminates the dew on Morning petals.
I glare through my destruction;
And see your silhouette.
Torn bridges of yesterdays misfortune send
Violent waves forth, undying they proceed.
Bravely-- they despondently conquer me;
No longer a trace of you I see.
II.
Unable to grasp reality, bitter
Tears of a Bright knowledge no longer in possession.
Red yonder, cognizant of former tribulations
Appear among the contour of wilted trees
Desperately searching for extraneous disposal,
Only melted clay reflects the ruins of an icy marsh.
Spring is obscure; but inevitable.
Soon harvest shall return to the field,
And barren no more will the land be.
No longer riddles, or secret spells;
Greet the stream of lost memories.
Impairment heals itself; it weaves
Filaments of seconds- to create a
Labyrinth of Time.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Even though you are a woman,
And he's a man,
I just don't understand..
Because you are you
And I am me.
So from you,
I expected a lot more.
I never saw you as a *****
I guess he did.
I guess he did,
And he didn't take too long
to fill your holes.
He didn't take much long
to stick his head
into your deep throat.
I guess he was attracted
To the amount of selfishness you showed,
To the lack of respect you wore.
I know that you're a woman,
And he's a man,
But how did you get into each other's pants?
I wonder...
I wonder
If when you kissed my cheek
You had already ****** his ****
If you already had stained your lips.
And since you both got the disease,
I wonder if it was him that passed you,
Or if it was you that gave him
That sexually transmitted hypocrisy.
I wonder…
I wonder
If you ever thought of me
While he was finger ******* your integrity.
Was his ***
Sweet or bitter?
'Cause I know you swallowed!
Did you think
You could simply forget about it,
Like you did with the ******
When you were on top
Was it him, or was it me
That was on the bottom?
When you were choking,
Were you drowning on his *****
or on your shame?
Did you pray,
On your knees,
While you were blow working?
Was he worth it?
Even though you are a woman,
And he's a man,
I'm like.. ****
He must have given it to you good.
He must have given it to you
In a way that nobody ever did,
Nobody ever could.
I hope you
Moaned really loud
When you had your ******
I hope you
Did your momma proud
When you were
Bumping up and down,
Making him feel
Like he was your first and your last.
I wish you
Hadn't fell
For his tongue
Traveling through your opened legs!
I wish you
Hadn't done
The sixty nine
And acted like it was fine.
I wish you
Hadn't forget
About everything we went through.
I wish you
You had a little respect,
Showed some kind of regret.
You had walked
On my shoes for a mile,
and seen how it felt!
Now, after all
The ball *******
The bull ********
Tell me, where do you
Want to go?
You turned your G spot
Into a Garbage disposal zone!
You didn't consider
Anyone else's feelings
But your own!
I know that you're a woman,
And I can find another man,
But where will you find another friend?
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 11:12 PM UTC
What do I have at my disposal?
A knack for always wanting to write
My intuitive messages down.
But it’s got no substance,
It’s got no meat.
I’m all bread and cheese and
Condiment without any meat.
It’s fitting for a vegan, I suppose,
But not for a poet.
The poet has to lead breadcrumbs
For the reader in order to get to the meat
Of the poem, the substance, the protein.
Where is it?
I’m lacking substance where I have all these
Nice little toppings and sauces and vegetables,
I have a dipping sauce for this sandwich,
But no meat!
I have to go to the store,
I have to keep honing my skill.
I have to develop a hunger for meat.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
We are the roaches of men
They treat me like the left overs..
burnt and small..
Roaches...
crawling from the cracks
of ghettos
waiting for extermination..
But we just multiply rapidly
hard shells of soft skin..
that bullets constantly find...
they call it enforcement..
We call it fear...
negrophobia...
they are afraid of our skin..
The power behind our beings..
They look at us as sin
We are the Roaches of men
unwanted house guest
feeling their
Entomophobia...
Creating more and more traps
for us to fall in..
Stomping our pride
with their steel boots...
Once upon a time
they could never **** our minds...
But they've found new forms of poisons
That have burnt us down
to smoking ourselves...
constantly...
as if is normal to see a young black mans
skin leaking smoke from the holes in his chest..
the smells of burning flesh..
that once swung from branches
in the southern sun.
Strange fruits to...Weeds... to roaches..
I bet they'll test
the theory of survival..
when they nuke us..
You 'know roaches don't say much...
they just create a lot of scatter..
but they create louder sounds together
and we can't even stand united
so our voices will never be heard..
just left in ash trays awaiting disposal..
as the stench or our smoking silence lingers in the air..
When will our dying embers once again catch flame
and burn away this despair..
we are stronger than memories
denser than air..
we are Power
Surviving long after the many times
we were suppose to be extinct....
Choices of Strength..
that we need to find again
We are the Roaches of Men...
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC