"disposing" poems
dear you,
i’m in love.
yes. you were
waiting, i
bet, for this.
this time, though,
it is not
what you would
think. it’s me
this time, not
you, although
it’s still you,
but not in
the way it
used to be
you. it’s my
fault this time,
my doing,
my painful,
pitiful,
suffering.
it’s you in
the sense that
i cannot
control you.
this time,
it’s your mind and your thoughts
the things that slip off of your tongue
the words you put, pencil to paper
the ideas that come out in your songs
it’s your eyes and your sight
the careful observation of beauty
the need to bask in warm, pure light
the stare you give me, rarely now
it’s your movements and your touch
the hugs where you grip my shoulders
the times where i’m drunk and playing with your fingers
the warmth you give off and your gorgeous smile
none of them
are mine to
have, to take
to keep, to
love, to break
i miss you
and to go
and detach
to break what
we have, that’s
the hard way
out. but i
am trying
to help me.
i feel the
same way i
did when you
said i was
wrong about
this. about
how i feel.
i’m hoping
disposing
myself of
you, means that
the dreams will
go away
too. but if
they stay,
i’ll give you
a quick call.
probably
a text, to
be honest.
i love you,
unhealthily,
with every
part of me.
keep in touch,
please.
love,
me.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Previous commemorative
memorials of positivity
drown in radioactive slime.
Disperse chi like flooding water
Contaminated, laminated with oily tears.
"How is pain controlled?
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
Two soldiers as they walk
Lamenting with much despair
Far away from that deadly grip
Of fear and deprivation
For every person everywhere
In every country tribe and nation.
Disposing of those clothes they wore
Casting away without hesitation
Removing reminders of that deadly war
Making mends and new relations
Building a world like never before
With tears of joy on this special occasion.
Two soldiers whose lives were on the line
Head towards a brand new day
They raise their hopes for the very first time
Since they were detained so far away
Behind those enemy lines
Celebrating better times and future days .
Two soldiers together in company
Telling tales of those fearsome times
Happy now they are safe and free
With parties and gatherings in the street
Time now to raise a glass of wine
Alive and standing on there feet .
So long you guns and bombs
Upon this earth you did not belong
You created a world of fear
But now those days are dead and gone
And peace time now is here
Let's hope one day the world will stand as one.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
spring cleaning in the form of blasting your bands music
while i pick up the clothes that smell like him.
spring cleaning in the form of replaying the day I walked away
over and over in my head as if to erase all that happened afterwards.
spring cleaning in the form of taking all the poetry I wrote about you,
and scrambling them up to mean something entirely different.
spring cleaning in the form of endless shampooing,
to rid the touch of your hands from my hair.
spring cleaning in the form of disposing all memories made in winter.
(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Sacred words are left out in stone,
the carved wordings will remain for long.
I don’t see why curiosity, always catches me at the sleeve.
It’s like I am a pet of the devil, wanting to find the light within.
I walk around like the cat, watching every single spark.
I embrace the lovely patterns, wondering when my light will shine.
I saw the gorgeous skies, shade away into purple cloths.
I remember seeing your light, for the very first time.
It shone brighter than anyone’s, I don’t even understand why.
You aren't the greatest, you aren't the best,but neither am I.
I saw the words being placed, down onto the cards to heaven.
I looked at the lanterns, fly away into the sky.
Dim lights of yellow and orange too, remembering how much I loved you.
Death is a sweet embrace, yet why do I yearn for something to waste?
It shone brighter than anyone’s, I don’t even understand why.
I don’t see the point, in disposing love or life.
She walks down the dark road, with traffic lights flashing at her,
she remembers every single day, that she needs to keep on living.
Through every shade, of red, yellow and green she needs, to remember you.
Walking down a path of remembrance, leads into a list of names.
When the first child is bared, she is labelled with your name.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams
i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run
learned nothing in victory
learned nothing in simplicity
complacently
snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs
just relax
mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.
mistakes make us
deliberate chaos
tossed
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings
hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
A ***** drills inside my core
It nags, graps, pans, the hands
They knot in spins and twists
My crux left at the river side
Breathing,gasping fast, faster
Body out in the open rawness
Persisting resistance of the force
An outward shield winning
Winged left,right, up, down
Another day, a greater pace
A passive taste, ranting in haste
In bricks ***** all I taste is hate
All walking in dead silence
Heads shouting with dreams
A roll of sweet and sour sate
Echoes of taxes and budgets
How will they evolve us?
Snatching more from pockets
The rockets burst to mock us
Pulling our all to fund them
Nuclear bombs creating tombs
Distribution of lies and wars
Missiles disposing as lyrics
An objectification of reason
Figure brushes on magazines
Incisions of bits and **** hoots
To boost of the hot posed ***
No truth is scaffolded as real
A psychological brainwash
Pollutes and limits indefinately
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
He sees her now, merely a stranger in passing.
Disposing the past that led up to this.
It only takes a glance,
Their minds battle.
They are released.
Two demons.
One love.
An addiction to the addict,
A desire to be desired,
Two demons.
One lie.
She sees him, merely a stranger in passing.
His once soothing face now stirs up rage within her.
Her smile distorts, with only intentions of mocking him.
He receives her smile and replies with a menacing chuckle.
They break out once again.
Two demons.
One passion.
An overdose of emotion,
The pleasure of pleasing.
Two demons.
One mistake.
Two strangers cross paths,
Glaring straight ahead as if they are trying to penetrate everything before them.
No soul knows what they know.
Two demons.
One loss.
Hauntingly, they fade into the crowd.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
You took me to the beach house
along Amaryllis Street
so I could pick up where you left off
crushing waves against the rocks
the high tide
re-collecting in time-lapse images
how you had vanished up the dirt road of a lie
(sand between my teeth, on my tongue)
how I had buried bulbs of Amaryllis
in the wake of your goodbye
a casket of dormancy suspended
an unanchored buoyancy disposing of I
in seaweed trenches
besides
the Amaryllis bloomed
a distant wreath of pink trumpet heads
splitting
pushing through the time-lapse
holograms of a shallow rhizome mind
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 1:27 PM UTC
I have a strong intention
intending to break through all convention
conventional ways end up as my contention
contending with obstacles of my invention
i have a bad disposition
disposing of all the worthless tradition
traditional ways put us in this condition
conditional waves of bad transmission
i have a new destination
destined to try a brand new adaptation
adapting just isn't my contemplation
contemplating a different creation
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
We live in a world filled with disposable things
made to be used once, but seldom more than twice
with little or no attachment, we consume mindlessly
single-serving coffee or single serving relationships, it's all the same
We've learned to measure value in terms of convenience
Instant gratification comes with a price, but one we gladly pay
disposing of the evidence neatly and quietly, the carcasses
monuments to a purpose well served; vacant hearts never filled
material things only heal wounds superficially, but
nothing lasts forever, right?
Our soulless smile, just another by-product of living a disposable life
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Oh the weary wanderings
of that silly son
Who can’t reconcile his retreat
but continues on the run
That crafty, that capricious conscience
On who’s whimsical watch
finds no time for penance
A transitory fellow
seeking only care-free condition
Disposing without a care
or notion of contrition
His God-given gifts
and unmade choices
And thus made, though not
by ignoring those voices
That appeal to his younger
more righteous reason
Heeding instead the voices
that better suit the season
Leaving vocation to thirst
unquenched and dry
Impervious to it all
because the end is never nigh
All his truths and convictions
ephemeral in nature
This wandering son
this prodigal creature
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
When you lean in close to my ear and allow me to believe that I can trust you; that the words that will fall from your mouth like a liquid, fast and flowing will be precious and sacred, it is the definition of betrayal.
I pray that when I claim your threats do not scare me, I will cease to be terrified, but they jab at me, as a forked tongue would. I hear the hissing in my ear, which was at first a pleasant change from the persistent drone, but quickly became something much more painful. Where there should be a paternal love, I find a gaping hole. A hole that you and I constantly work to fill, like shady men in the night, hurriedly disposing of the evidence that could rob them of their freedom. Our relationship is a ***** secret.
Whilst I could be a rich girl living off sympathy alone, you have selfishly taken that right from me, in one swift and cunning move. With one forced smile - one ****** movement - that emphasises the creases in your forehead (which, I hear, though I struggle to remember, once kept me entertained for hours), you convince them that all is more than well.
Why pretend that your heart is heavy with pride if the word is not a part of your vocabulary? Why take to grinning if the upwards inching of the corners of your mouth is so unnatural of a feeling to you that it feels like a chore - uncomfortable and laborious?
These people have no care for your state of mind, nor do they care at all about your quality of life. Your time, surely, would be much better spent attending to your sick home than attending to your royal reputation that, when you consider what you have in reality, is worthless.
You bare to me the resemblance of a curious child whose dreamy head is filled with images of faraway lands, glittering treasures and sand. Stop. Perhaps now is the time to awaken from your slumber. The grains are fast slipping through your fingers.
I'm not sorry.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
I rub that stress up off my temple, I'm off the tip
Lay back and taking a wonderful trip, with a pen and pad, I’m speaking that "Do you feel this"
and my vault stays set off that realness
So I hit them for real with the quickness, tying false individuals in stitches
Realize the fact but please come precise, because I could be relentless
Suspicion, coming up on some recognition that’s why I'm creeping from behind
With a towel soaked with ammonia, non-fiction, I'm all prepared to go for mine
So step in line, a couple of hits, brains dismissed, I change faces like I change places
With a gingsu blade, I'll slit your throat just like them Dartmouth ****** cases
Invisible traces, but I wasn’t committed cause there was no evidence
Minor scent of that formaldehyde, and I can almost sense the obsession
What's the answer to the question? Get tested, don't come if you can’t come correct
It's that dog eat dog type life, so I don't know what you were expected
Nevermore so wreck less, nevertheless I'm a saint in a bulletproof vest, sick
Letting it all hang down, straight pound for pound, you need to take a step down
80 caliber rounds, I'm running around through your whole town
Terminating them down like Black Ops 2 set on death match with an AN-94
Disposing these clowns and their bodies will be hard to find
That’s all coming from an ill-stricken mind, complex by design
But uncovered by pride, so let it be known that I’m sneaky with a loaded tech-nine
Dark and morbid style with a touch of realism that’s from my circle
Blow smoke from that purple, for you none marijuana smokers that’s that herbal
Essence, confessing my worldly fix but that’s a true and serious recelection. Never stressing
Just detecting fake characters who claim they’re real but just need to learn a real lesson
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
When?
When did you start limiting yourself?
Counting calories like they were a poison,
Eating nothing but crumbs
Until your cheekbones stick out like rocks under your pale skin
When did you start disposing yourself?
Purging your meals as if they were toxic waste,
While you ditch your food like an ugly prom date,
Flushing bits of your soul down with last nights meal
When did you start calculating?
Counting calories like you were taking a math test,
Subtracting and subtracting until there’s nothing left but
Your empty stomach and even emptier soul
So,
tell me when,
when did you start counting your ribs instead of your tears?
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
There once was this girl named Betsy who lived on my block. This ***** was so ugly she looked like a rock. She had two crooked *** ******* and a scar on her thigh. She had a big *** nose and only one eye. She use to mess around with this guy name Drew. And this ************ was ugly too. He wore thick *** glasses and had bad *** breath. He had a body odor that smelled like death. Late one night on November the third. Betsy was in her bathroom disposing of a **** When there was a knock at her door that only she knew. You guessed it right it was that ugly *** Drew. He had a bag of **** and a bunch of crack. All bundled up in a brown paper sack. When she saw what he had she dropped her draws quick. But when Drew smelled her ***** he got really sick. The room got really funky and flies fell to the floor. He tried to make a run for it,
but he couldn't get to the door. When both of their odors hit the air there was a chemical reaction. The coroner said that both of their noses looked like Michael Jackson's. When Betsy and Drew took that breath it was their very last. The moral of this story is you got to wash your *** R. Mendoza
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
*i never write poetry for a prize...
i write poetry for the next poem,
as in life... good or bad.*
i'm writing about a suicide,
a top chef kind, chef
benoît violer.... committed suicide,
there were awards, there
where the paparazzi,
but when reading the article
i was sitting at the other dinner table,
i read the article taking a ****
and i thought: god it feels good,
taking a **** giving birth to something
so worthwhile disposing off...
god i love taking a ****
ought i hash-tag that?
these nights when my boss gives me
no thought juggle and knot into writing
i take the easiest route: what's great about my life?
the same **** that everyone does but isn't clued in...
the pleasure of excavating a ****
will hardly match up with archaeology...
but still... taking a ****
does all the bollocks' funfair injustice
when it's dangling like a slur
before it plops into the stinking pond...
taking a **** never felt better...
it's the little or the belittling that counts...
never write poetry for a trophy or a prize of some sort...
the essence of poetry will die otherwise...
you'll get what you want, sure...
but poetry will turn around and bitch-slap you
back into your place when you don't write
for the next poem... i.e. 7 children, 28 grand-children...
or a homophilic chinese uno, with a surrogate mother,
5 poems that make up the helium of an ego
ballooned to excess with others laughing.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Tell me your darkest secrets;
I promise that I will keep
Whisper me all your unspoken words;
Let me break the silence where your heart silently weep
Surrender me a smile just to know that you're okay;
Even if it means the last time of faking, I am here to stay
Let me into your world, painting colors to your void memories;
And never again feel misery, lets turn your mind into a sanctuary
Deeply breathing together we held hands purifying our soul;
A prayer, we meditate disposing negativity.. A bad aura to let go
A moment of silence, shaking the person once we was;
Let them all troubles crumble, pulverizing sorrow to dust
Expanded consciousness makes us grow stronger and push further;
The path to serenity, a peace of mind where all the letdowns will never be remembered
Yet...Yes it's a scar that always remain, a part of growth and a sign of divine intervention;
We may take wounds but will never fall...Between rise and fall there is always a contradiction
So fall forward to a better man;
Don't give up as much as you can
The least you worries, the least you grow;
What I mean was do something about instead it just undermine the sorrow...
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
Astral counsel hear my prayer
Transmission telepathic
Call out through the leaden vale
Your voice is but myopic
Inherent personal deity
Become my surrogate-conscience
Adopted consanguinity
To satellite responses
Discontented-sum imposed
Indirectly guides me
Though my eyes at times are closed
Congenital third eye sees
Aphantasia; memories unknown
Transfusion of remember
Respect and love, at once, bestowed
Selfish mind surrenders
Disposing character, reserve demise
Share with me my bliss
If ever sight stole from my eyes
11:11 I would miss.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
the snow sticks to the one last pair of jeans you own,
stayed up to watch the sun come up again.
green tea isn't going to save you from the day's advances,
the hours pass like soldiers marching on in sickening waves.
every minute ticking off and disposing another wasted emotion,
I wore my sleeves down to drown me for the first time this year.
and the coffee is to blame,
for the sweat that gathers on the small of my back
sitting here and waiting just a little while longer.
and looking at my smile,
do you see how bad I am at faking it?
we had better make the coffee stronger.
4/1/13
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
The intensity with which we shatter,
Those what’s-left-of-us shards that cut you deep,
Brokenness and jagged edges matter,
When prices paid with pieces feels too steep.
Only two things cause our own destruction—
We’re broken from without or from within.
The damage goes beyond reconstruction,
We can’t build what we built before again.
Cracked into piles of debris on the floor,
The remnants of escaped emotion’s cage,
Whose seething burn couldn’t take it anymore,
Disposing of it disrespects its rage.
We’re broken so that something is released,
Those shards remind us what we have to do.
To put them back is just what matters least,
But don’t cut yourself making something new.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:03 PM UTC
The horizon deemed to turn black from blue pleaded with its faith by disposing all its secret in orange hue and cry. Aghast by the spectacle, I felt very discomforting breeze trying to peek inside me. Should I let it?
No! i felt involuntary resistance build inside me.The stare of the imploring horizon filled my sentiments with gush of paranoia. I closed my eyes, right then and there. As I opened my eyes slowly after saturation of my daunting breath, I was surrounded by black despair. And the moon still shined with its borrowed light just to display its caged dark hare. There were no stars that day, I pulled them down to makes uncountable amount of wishes.
What faith decreed for horizon have been my own reflection.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
I talk to you as I talk to myself
but the words find their way back to me
a friend beyond romance, and drama
the perfect stimulation for mentally
disposing of the clutter in my mind
telling jokes that were never funny
selling secrets that were easy guesses
showing the neater sides to my messes
and as these pathetic burdens lessen
to reveal that I wish I were as much to you
and then you tell me on a rainy afternoon
that I give you peace
which for everything that is the least
I could do.
I think you taught me what love is.
So thank you
I miss you.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC