"efficiently" poems
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
I want to write a storm so well it blows you away
use words so mindblowing you don't know what to say
using just my words and speeches leave you wrecked and speechless
throw daggers with deadly proficiency, ones crafted from words i spit with full efficiency
i might repeat myself but i do it efficiently
spit spirit twice over to show her it sticks with me
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'
People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.
But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.
Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.
As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.
All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.' 'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.
They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.
I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
i give them my executables and
ask them to reverse engineer me
to look into my code for reasons
reasons that i'm not just broken
not just slow
not just bad
if these letters
on this line
mean
that i am programmed to worry
then it is not my fault
not my fault that
i have wasted years
years of my life in fear
it's just a bug
looping too many times
using too many clock cycles
my code may be broken, but
if it is broken
then i am not
maybe, just maybe
i am a good processor
given bad code.
not my fault.
no one could blame me.
it would mean
i do what i am told to
perfectly
quickly
efficiently.
but
what i am told to do is
buggy
unoptimized
inefficient
my programmers are lazy -
not me.
when i find
a function in my code
that never works
and they say
"that code is fine"
then why?
why does it never run?
something must be wrong with me after all
me, myself, the processor
i don't do what i am told
but no, no, no
i don't want that
i can't be broken, overheating, dusty
segfaulting
bluescreening
panicking
no!
the code must be wrong
it must be
so i look again and again and again
i lose myself in my code
i click and click and click
2x more and 2x more and 2x more
COMT and DRD4 and ANKK1
rs53576 and rs7794745 and rs1858830
lower risk and normal risk and higher risk
of the same thing
in me at once
conflicting
overwriting each other
there is no code to add risk objects
and no one knows
whether
they make a group or a ring or a field
or just
something
useless.
like dividing by zero.
you can...
but it's useless in the real world.
just like me.
i look for more code
for more functions
for more comments
more more more
give me more
take my rights
make me open source
as long as i can see me too.
602,000 lines are not enough
not when i run millions
stick your wires in my veins
take the code from my blood
decompile it
untangle it
i need to see it all
i need to know
that i am a good little processor
even if i am doomed to
forever
run BASIC and
a million GOTO statements
and ugly ugly spaghetti code
i am still good.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Contest.at all times keeping mum,pain.I'm uneducated.If you are prompt to explode when your emotions are interrupted then it is difficulty to manage your life.The world is a place where people of different values and attitude hang out.You can be as creative as you want to be samsung galaxy sale online, So you really want to know how to take criticism better.As simple as it may seem,If you heard the former,When you encounter a new word.are you dressed nicely or shabbily.Are you male or female.Everything about you from the age to the mannerisms count in cold readings.
Lovers forgive infidelity of their partners,Don't let the. Mundane slow you down Don't let the mundane aspects of life slow you down.and conflict for yourself.There are also lessons which you need to follow,walk in nature.At what seemed like the appropriate time.left a legacy of fulfillment like Dr.Get the doubts and fears down on paper and out of your mind In your mind,challenge you.Eat smart,or power that predetermines events samsung galaxy phones,This may sound like a game you are playing.Fear of conflict may be the main factor distorting human communications,however.Should implies that they are wrong if they don't comply,
No one writes it for you,While saving for retirement is important.An active mind has. Been shown to be healthier and less likely to develop debilitating mental problems caused by age.including expressing ourselves creatively.Storing things more efficiently in the closets might also open up some space.b Where.scarves or boots.meaning and happiness in your life samsung galaxy s6 gratis,being more aware of opportunities as they arise.Andrew Grove,Peace of mind comes from accepting yourself,sons;especially among the rich.tell everyone what a sweet,My clients struggle with different and difficult fears everyday in making choices that require changing habits,fame and wealth because they came from a privileged background.Did they all have caring parents!.Increasing profitability isn't just something that you do,I'm not saying you should.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
I think that I shall never see
a better Carbon Sink than M.I.T.’s
It helps keep green house gas at bay
By sequestering it away
The Carbon Sink works like a tree
but does it more efficiently
When trees in wintertime are bare
The Carbon Sink still cleans the air
And trees can yield up carbon once again
When Forest fires make them burn
Poems are made by fools like me
But Carbon Sinks are made by M.I.T
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
i detoxed myself under this pale sun
(you stood by and watched the
unfolding saga all the while
questioning the meaning of zen)
the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
(can you recover your own fumbles?)
every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
(my love for this is a game of solitaire)
i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.
i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
(i have seen you ignoring me)
in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
(you will know me by the number of the dead)
i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.
i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.
i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.
Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
(aren't you proud?)
(isn't he cute?)
i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
(what do you know about pain?)
i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe
my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....
i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...
i have run out of things to sacrifice
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
every morning at nine o'clock
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyes
looking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.
Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whose
husband was killed in a tunnel explosion through
the negligence of a fellow-servant,
Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onions
for Jasper on the Bowmanville road.
She takes a street car at half-past five in the morning,
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti does,
And gets back from Jasper's with cash for her day's
work, between nine and ten o'clock at night.
Last week she got eight cents a box, Mrs. Pietro
Giovannitti, picking onions for Jasper,
But this week Jasper dropped the pay to six cents a
box because so many women and girls were answering
the ads in the Daily News.
Jasper belongs to an Episcopal church in Ravenswood
and on certain Sundays
He enjoys chanting the Nicene creed with his daughters
on each side of him joining their voices with his.
If the preacher repeats old sermons of a Sunday, Jasper's
mind wanders to his 700-acre farm and how he
can make it produce more efficiently
And sometimes he speculates on whether he could word
an ad in the Daily News so it would bring more
women and girls out to his farm and reduce operating
costs.
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti is far from desperate about life;
her joy is in a child she knows will arrive to her in
three months.
And now while these are the pictures for today there are
other pictures of the Giovannitti people I could give
you for to-morrow,
And how some of them go to the county agent on winter
mornings with their baskets for beans and cornmeal
and molasses.
I listen to fellows saying here's good stuff for a novel or
it might be worked up into a good play.
I say there's no dramatist living can put old Mrs.
Gabrielle Giovannitti into a play with that kindling
wood piled on top of her head coming along Peoria
Street nine o'clock in the morning.
2.9k
This letter, is to inform you, about a
bomb threat
that we received this, morning. Name of a Name
Unified Consolidated ISD,
a State-Recognized School of Somethingness,
Where Kids Come First under the theme of
All The Kids All The Curriculum All The Time
is committed, to the safety and education
of all our students and We Are Number One,
Go #Thundercatbears!, ‘Cause We are #All-Hashtagged
in Unity and Oneness. We also, want
to clearly communicate with split infinitives
And crazy commas all over the place
to parents about safety issues when they
get found out arise.
This morning, a phone call, was received,
by the receptionist at
The-Latest-Name-Held-in-Place-with-Velcro-Until-the-Next-Name-Change
Elementary School and Essential Spirit
Dreams New Dawn Progress Learning and
Technology Center of the Future
stating a
bomb
was present, on the campus.
After conferring with the Threat Assessment Team,
The Standard Response Protocol team,
the Chinkypin-Lizard Lick Police Department parked in the handicapped spaces at Tia Jolene’s Goremay Eats ‘n’ Bokays out next to the Interstate,
the cheerleader sponsors,
Facebook,
Twitter,
our attorneys,
and Superintendent Dr. Hamestus Goodoleboy “Spike” Ponsonby III,
the students were rapidly, and efficiently evacuated
to a safe area up in the football bleachers
where they would be more obvious targets
and the school was professionally and thoroughly
swept for anything suspicious and untoward.
During this time,
when no students were in danger,
another call was received stating that gunshots
were fired in the school. There were no gunshots,
fired in the school and
no children were in danger at any time.
Currently, we’re are is allowing students,
who were never in any danger,
to return to school as usual
where there was never any danger at any time.
We will have extra counselors and therapists available
if students or parents needs supports are
counsolining in spelling ‘n’ sentence structure.
The students were never in any danger at any time.
All threats to our school where
their was never any danger
and students who were never in any danger
will be taken seriously immediately
and thoroughly and investigated
thoroughly and fully except for that call
last week that we managed to keep covered up.
We wanted to inform you of the correct facts
because our correct facts are the only facts
so you can discuss them with your child/ren
Of any race, *** color, creed, religion,
or gender identification or not
and emphasize the seriousness of our facts,
which are the only facts. If you discover
Any facts untoward or out of place please contact us
At the district office at
*** *** xxxx ext ***
or the Chinkypin - Lizard Lick Police Department
immediately and thoroughly.
No children were in, danger at any time.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
This is as good as it gets!
For what purpose do I exist.
A cruel joke of Mother Nature?
The Tree of life!
efficiently conjectured,
of Birth & Death.
Responding all, to wind, rain and sun.
The fruit of the tree,
Love, Anger, and Indifference.
must die to become fertile ground.
Such an efficiently cruel cycle.
The tree of life.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
Will my misery entertain?
Will he salivate at the prospects and their resulting effects?
Joy, he wouldn't contain.
"Oh girl, the things I could do." He did almost coo.
"I want you to remember this encounter long after I'm through."
"With fire, you chose to play. Such a childish fool, one only gets burnt that way."
Why does my creativity choose to bloom?
Why does it grow as I contemplate delving into the darkness, pitching my tent in the blackness, amongst all of the doom and gloom?
Will my soul be efficiently sort out and collected for The Man In Red to consume?
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Two sockets to accommodate a pair of eyes
Due to them this complex device cries
But today, man has taught them to become spies
Dwelling in them is lust for ephemeral joys
Two cartilaginous sound receivers on both sides
They can efficiently detect the screams and sighs
But today, they even ignore the ferocious tides
Engrossed in fabrications, for which today’s man strives
Two arms strong enough to lift and support
Are being used to steal and chop someone’s throat
They refuse to help anyone near or remote
‘Guns and shells’, this is what they promote
A small fleshy speaker which exhibits perfect duality
It allures others through its’ pitch and clarity
Today, it has mastered the skills of acerbity
Forgetting that soft speech is a part of generosity
A complex storehouse of feelings which supplies blood
It is covered with rust although made from mud
Polluted intentions have made it their cozy hut
Very delicate, but today, it is like a walnut
At last, a rotten soul which is wandering aimlessly
It has thirst for contentment and tranquillity
But today, man considers wealth as a source of felicity
I shed tears when I can’t find humanity and piety
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
I am dying
From within. I don’t wish to,
But I think of this skin
That holds me
Back and I feel ill. I stare,
Glazed over, at all the happiness I have tried to
Capture in moments of grace,
And self contentment.
But this does not do me justice.
This hand does not do me justice.
It all falls short of feeling.
Now I write blankly, efficiently, capturing
What I feel because it is easy.
Do I long for you, or do I wish happiness
Would knock me dead?
Knock me down,
The earth upon my head.
I wait, I long, silently.
Suffering all, wishing nothing.
Nothing will come of nothing.
Or shall I become a sod
So as not to feel and rot,
But just rot, unaware.
I am dying, like a flower,
Whose time is limited.
But unlike a flower,
I see what’s coming.
Unlike the single, once crisp tulip
That hangs aside from the others still-fresh,
Falling from the boring vase
I see my fall
And contemplate it often.
And read poetry which seems both
To help and to hinder.
Like you, an enigma.
The feeling seeps through my nib
Through my heart, through my ribs
Gushing out onto a page, limited,
Tired but taking shape.
Hope leaves me, to be implanted
In a line
A seed,
Sewn. Waiting, longing, wishing quietly
To grow.
But not knowing that its time is limited.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
I have laid claim to the Tyne Bridge - it is my home.
You can keep the streets, the shops, the bars
Share them between you
But please
Let me have the bridge for myself.
The bottle green arch of Newcastle,
And the stew of water that runs beneath
The sheer drop of air between them,
Lightly salted by the sea.
It is but the only childish affectation
To follow me and hold true
Through the contaminant of temporality.
Just please, let me keep it.
I shed the skin of adolescence
And left my school tie at home
When I made the journey North.
I arrived expecting transcendence
But instead I received the unwanted gift of the present.
From the clamour of Manhattan,
To the desolation of New Mexico and Peru,
The present will forever be the most effective ammunition
In shattering the stained glass of the world’s wonders.
I know this from the beauty of memories.
Those wonderful fragmented images of childhood
That so efficiently cut out the hours of exceeding boredom,
And the tedium inflicted by the men in suits.
And the future,
The future of flying ships,
The mining of the moon
And downloadable pizza.
But we know in truth, when we arrive
There will still be lawyers
And adverts,
Beggars on the street
And apostrophe’s used incorrectly.
I digress.
Let me return to the Tyne Bridge
My bridge on the Quayside.
For despite the bird ****
And the playboys that trundle over it day after day,
It stands defiant over deep waters,
Daring to cheat death
Or vice versa.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
*"You're too young
to be this tired."*
They say this around
grimaces that are
supposed to be smiles,
and eyes that are
silently screaming
because they know that
they have effectively
and efficiently ruined our lives.
******* millennials
are ruining this country."*
They say this around
clenched fists that are
holding on to things like
prejudice and injustice
that they refuse to acknowledge
is their own doing.
*"It's not our faults;
we're suffering, too."*
We're not saying this;
we're screaming it
at the top of our lungs,
but it's falling to deaf ears.
No matter how many statistics,
no matter how many news stories,
no matter how many debts,
no matter how many deaths,
no matter how many accounts of pain
we try and try and try to show them,
they refuse to acknowledge it.
*"We've messed up,
but so have you."*
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
The universe and
the cosmic system
is always renewed daily
with the divine helpful
ability to heal and refresh
our bodies and all that
concerns us.
Absolutely nothing is ever
stagnant in nature.
The cloud changes itself to
beautiful sequences,
even the winds twirling and
turning in complex moves gives
freshness to change the weather
to sooth and calm our nerves.
A new door just opened up,
though old in nature.
Signifying a new way,
a new beginning unexplored,
untouched, untapped by man.
The beginning of a new dawn,
another phase of the day,
with a new law in place.
Subtly efficiently and effectively,
unshakable in its chores
and in synergy exacts its influence
powerfully in order to help our life
function without interruption.
You don't need any key but just a push.
A new door is here,but it's ever so old,
the door to your heart
with a new law on love engraved deeply
within it,
though so ancient but ever so modern.
Find it urgently please.
Would you?
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
straight through my spine the desert winds blow flute,
before my burial under the sand,
my skull an empty can, whistle and hoot,
my ribs a xylophone, femur in hand,
the dissonant cacophany--my taps,
a song for funerals devoid of men,
the vultures took my flesh in neat-sized scraps,
efficiently disposed in nature's den,
oh, once a garden, lush with greenery,
our love, abandoned by my rib's dear Eve,
now with her heart removed, the scenery
decayed, and to the burning sand i cleave,
my covering completes with eve's new dusk,
out of her sight, this old forgotten husk
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
(I)
People used to light candles to ward off
prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.
What ceremonial significance now
do we seek for to slow the approach
of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness
bound up in silence
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for
the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.
All being, understandably, becomes
efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.
From effortless performances
of what made our lives important
back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,
now to this mongrel era of constant migration
beckoning....
The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.
The Familiar is now a land where
people don’t bother with any ideas
of an ideal existence beyond
what lottery tickets may bring.
Those who inhabit here are
more alerted to the purpose of lighting
coals in winter to shelter the children
and to keep the windows from cracking.
In summer find these same awaiting with
patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.
(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.
An entire adolescence’s
comeuppance is due.
Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited
for anything significant to happen.
Time to seek girls with inviting eyes
and lilting vowels to offer favors to.
Abled with a catalogue of charmed
intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.
(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does
he simply made do with morning, day and night?)
Then on your flight make haste
to ensure your visit merely brief.
Like only one dimension of
your day-persona be a hawk
that delivers messages
back to the ivory towers of
new central HQ, while remaining
all cloak and whisper.
Messages from where people live
but no longer speak,
as result of an assigned sense
of failure,or complimentary
wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.
Shattered lives, Ending dreams.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Hello everybody its M.A.N of Bone
Heart chiseled from graveyard stone
Tell tales never known
Story told may be your own
Relax..Take a seat at the table
Gather opinions get them stable
Put down rhymes..Sorry you are not able
Poetry in every part of you and me
Elevate it with fluidity
Edit do it efficiently
Soul spills out sincerely
Compute words like a nerd
Create a style so absurd
Fear it bash it cause its never been heard
Could care less with a flow I'm blessed
To manifest open eyes to my quest
Write like chess become every test
Mind full of solutions clean up a mess
When I string..I bring all my Demons to sing
Nature of a Scorpio is to sting
So Feel me slam! It goes BAM!
Small circle of peeps know who I am
Put soul into flow other poets go ****
A King of Poetry does not need a throne
Just minds to set on fire by this M.A.N of Bone...
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
How eloquently and beautifully we hid from each other.
You with your righteous truths, hard and cold like granite.
Marking lost-love’s old bones.
I gripped your proffered broken shovel. Worn blade rusted, and shaft broken.
Aged and useless now, worked and worked on too much cold, hard ground.
And so the old, cold, bones below lay undisturbed.
Deep and all but forgotten
Forever waiting to be found.
Mine? Barbed wire…a measured demarcation simply, efficiently separating a field of dreams from a shell-pocked Somme….taught, unyielding, sharp and unforgiving.
You, a brave soldier hacked and bit and and gnawed at the unforgiving steel wire, tormented by the verdant vision, which lay beyond.
Striving to reach that goal.
That which lay beyond the muddy battlefield….
Beyond the rigid stinking corpses….
Beyond the ghastly horror.
I know you saw a bright field of soft scented blooms and dreamed of resting, head pillowed on sweet, rainbow petals, scented nectar and soft green grass.
I would have gladly surrendered the wire cutters, but, blunted and useless, dulled by one or two, too many tries… there was no use.
You see my dear, they were long ago worn down. Worn down on many a marbled headstone.
Their once keen edge, ground and blunted on words which said ‘here lies love’
(May it rest in peace).
There they sit and there they lie, the gravedigger and the soldier….
The soldier, torn and tattered upon the ****** barbs……
The gravedigger, frail and worn, broken shovel resting on broken feet…..
These were the culmination of our defences
Our defences…
Mine a spiked barrier,
yours an epitaph in stone.
****** battered love hungry body
and weeping gravedigger by loves tombstone.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Efficiently expanding enchantress;
ingenious and charismatic -
expressing soulfully rich facets,
stitched with ancient fabrics.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC