"ejection" poems
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
I am the pretender
You must precensor
When I'm an inventor
Who can't get centered
I'm the apologist
You're the psychologist
We have a suitable deal
You provide an even keel
And cook delicious meals
And let my fingers feel
But you do so much more
Going deeper than the shore
You make a difference
By insistence
I see your footprints
In the distance
They lead me to progress
My mind cannot process
Those things I can't fathom
You effortlessly grab them
You were my bastion of behavior
I thought you were my savior
You're more like Charles Xavier
Controlling my mind
To keep me blind
By taking my vision
When you make your incision
And put me in prison
You're Sigmund Freud
On steroids
You fill my void
Then get annoyed
You cured me of my madness
Yet instilled sadness
When I got addicted to your healing
But then heard your tires peeling
After all your analysis
You deemed me talentless
You used to be my example of what to be
Now you're my example of what to flee
You made me hate the number three
While running my car into a tree
Which made me scream ouch
My ejection from your couch
So I hide in my palace
And drink from a chalice
Filled with mindless malice
While holding my phallus
But I learned my lesson
One last confession
Someone that can calm my brain
Can also leave a permanent stain
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Preparations
For Love and Destruction
Volatile environments
Whose inhabitants
Distract inhibitions
By enacting emotional exhibitions
Fueled by liquid fire
.Injection.
Fluid spirits
Energize the soul
Chemically reacting to stress
Freeing the hostages
Housed inside the hostile hospice
Of hearts
.Ejection.
Nature’s neutrality
Doesn’t do much
For this current
Wave
Of Lust and Frustration
So,
Lo and Behold
The solo soul below
Who bellows
In the belly of beasts
Like growls
That grows into speech
As I transform from
Animal to Anomaly
Asking for the one thing
That will keep me
From the answer
.Rejection.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Five for fighting
hands to the face
personal foul
player disgrace
Illegal contact
leap in the fray
willful head shot
leg astray
Encroachment defense
mouth guard out
roughing the passer
back field bout
Grounding the pigskin
mis-aligned
horse collar tackle
clip from behind
Knee on knee
offside end
unnecessary roughness
too many men
Gross misconduct
poke in the eye
hooking the shooter
sticks up high
Match ejection
over the top
face off folly
penalty shot
Unsportsmanlike conduct
chopping the block
slew foot infraction
hammer lock
Stick to the head
kick in the crotch
**** end jab
adhering the watch
Slashing the d-man
spearing the wing
running the keeper
back checking
Intentional grounding
stoppage in play
punching and hacking
delay of the game
Striking the ref
aggressor in fight
obstructing the line out
ear in a bite
Loss of downs
hands in the ruck
pinching and boarding
illegal upchuck
Rules of the battle
by the bye
pushing the limits
with a wink of an eye
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
O-One has been kept waiting for a long spell
N-Not knowing if one can get out of this hell
E-Endless days one has spent in an unlit well
H-Hope seems not to be journeying one's way
U-Under clouds of darkness one shall e'er stay
N-Never shall one see a bright sunny day ray
D-Deemed to be unfit to walk that old hallway
R-Realizing this fact sure makes one feel gray
E-Excluded from the folks at the homely bay
D-Dare one say one is mired in a boggy clay
A-All is lost one can't redeem one's former place
N-Negotiations with other are now a void space
D-Dear me one is in a position of sheer disgrace
E-Ever so badly one did behave all that time ago
I-In hindsight good manners needed to be the go
G-Grave is one's standing and so very full of woe
H-Heck the word one called when one had to go
T-Tidings of ejection delivered by the boss honcho
Y-Yonder one was told on the spot to quickly go
D-Down in the dumps one has been for so long
A-Away at a lone outpost well out of the throng
Y-Yearning to once again hear their joyful song
S-So one is on an island for those who do wrong
O-Only three chances did one get at that game
F-Four weren't going to be allotted to this dame
F-Folly to think that one could avoid any shame
L-Leniency not given one has to wear the claim
I-In the finally wash up one's lesson is to be tame
N-Needling the boss honcho scrubbed one's name
E-Erased one shall be for being a bad egg dame
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
high finance and terror
you had half a job
the commissioner made a huge mistake
where words just disappear
oh do help the rich and well-connected
they need you
careful that your boss does not see you
favoriting my tweets
unstar! unstar! panic! panic!
social media illiteracy
bio: follow or **** off
**** the king of hearts
quadruple cheeseburger
acidic fruits
keep chugging
harm on y
a night of debauchery in the works
our minds refueled with petroleum
entropy hour with free golden shower
where truth gnaws at your legs
but you continue walking
human irrationality
gets beaten to a pulp
by bot rationality
how bland and discordant
getting them drawn and quartered
humanity can do without us
that **** poet saw the egg hatch into regrets
**** the only one who cares
manufacturing awkward silences
and making a killing
what the hell is anergy
miss world virginity 2012
what have we done
ghost eating humans or some **** like that
someone already thought of that
funny thing you wanted to say
your timeline can beat my timeline
mute only the users who make too much sense
the epitome of trying too hard
and then coronal mass ejection
all the over the place
you know this goes nowhere so you want out
no more outreach from this point on
shredded the flow chart
too much in the projects
exit stage down
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
He stands solidly still, a malformation
Rush hour commuters about him whirl
Arrival or departure in subway station?
Intrans intelligence, subconscious swirl
Isolated, his mind in most violent hurl
Facing whole extent of impertinent data
Comatose commuter suffers info slow-mode
Wife, boss, kids all part in sub-matter
Too much for one brain to devour, decode
Cell phones, microchips, transistor’s overload
Components lack tactile connection
Wavelengths of broadcasts, meltdown occurs
Keeping too connected, causing mind ejection
No app for that on tablet to refer
Now stuck in commuter rut with no transfers
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
It'll all be over in about eight minutes,
Give or take, depending on your side of the Earth,
Plasma therapy for the masses.
Just like that, we're all crispy critters,
Pork rind skins flavored with dehydrated sea-salt.
That beautiful aurora-generating magnetosphere,
Shrinking daily, as the planet's poles reverse,
Will puncture like a too thin prophylactic.
The Christians will have just minutes,
Reminding us that we were prophesized
To all go out in fire and overlooking
That we're actually being ionized with radiation ---
A mere trifle to the True-Believers.
Will the Dow-Jones sell off in those final moments?
Will the Russians attempt to launch a Soyuz?
The Brits will take it all in stride with another pint;
Aussies venture on their final walkabout.
As for me, I'm gonna saddle up a pony
heading straight out to greet the Joshua trees.
I want to meet annihilation on my own terms.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
there is a poem lurking
in me tonight,
accompanying me from nighttime
into the muddled currents of the wee hours,
awaiting for an ending
of this, this vigil,
or perhaps,
ejection from the birth canal
where and whence, it irritangly demands, is
my commencement,
the origination of its peculiar species,
to eternalize it,
tattoo a unique number
upon its wrist
in a ledger of words
they sent me a message that the
DedPoet is in deed
dead, gone, cremated
but that is not the poem
stalking me
right now
for now
vanilla numbing of the heart,
sadness that this fellow runner
of my human-writing race
is no more upon the track
but that is not the poem
talking to me
right now
every flutter of eyelash
is a line,
a forgotten fragmented verse,
a lost and gone forever Clementine,
even before the thought completed
numerous sun ray titles flash
but few are caught,
though all glimpsed in dazzled shining glory
the hook, line and sinker,
themselves, yeoman poets all,
have nothing to show
oh woe is me,
oh woe is me
there is a poem lurking
in my chest
yearning to be free
by being created
I know it not yet
in any form recognizable,
so well as it knows me
from our shared womb,
now torn
5:08 am
Sept. 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
Mom shot Jake's cat
with the screen door open,
with dirtied snow covering the
gravel drive. And Jake, bless
his little soul, watched from
the door frame as Dad took
over, snagging the bloodied
mess by the tail and dumping
it in the waiting grave. Mom
told Jake that's the way it is
as she opened the .410's ejection
port and deposited the shell into
her hand. She gave it to him.
A memento. Jake didn't know this
word at the time but years later,
four to be exact, he'd look up
memento for a spelling test,
and think of Dad piling loose dirt,
tiny sticks, and snow on the cat
while he, Jake, stared at the
discharged shotgun shell,
still warm in his hand.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
When affection is met with rejection, the whole section of confidence is affected, introspection leads to a new direction, and the infection is seen in reflection, this correction changes your outlook's protection and your eyes meet with objection, your new perception is dissection and detection, close inspection ends up as an inflection, another deflection and another ejection, looks like another for the collection, no perfection, no hope for a connection
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Starlight
floating
on a hot
summer night
Photons
escape
from a
coronal
mass
ejection
The speed
is incredible
Warp 1,
671
million
miles per hour
the C in e=mc^2
Celerity
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
The garden meeting adjourned and moved...
Management abruptly cleared the premises,
Canceled return visits,
Speculations inconveniently disrupted,
Wonder-rousings interrupted...
We found ourselves somehow
Standing on the Great Outside.
No wistful entreatments heard He,
The Grand Proprietor,
In spite of our new knowledges,
Our now-wise forays philosophical,
Our sophisticated posturing;
He seemed without empathy
In His Garden's sudden closure,
In our ejection and dismissal.
Stumblers of unexpected freedom,
Following a shadowed river
Narrowing down into a Valley,
Darkening down into a pinprick end,
We gaze behind, ahead, behind,
To see, high sword gleaming,
The standing doorman, glowering.
Eden, receding from our view,
Serpent joins us as we walk,
"Where were we when we left our talk?"
His lowered voice renews.
We notice now, the air is chill
As an endless sun slips down
Behind a darkening hill.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
With pompous fanfare I delight those few,
To smiles and loud ovations from afar,
Who sit upon my daydream's blessed pew,
And light night's darkened pathways as the stars,
With half-truths, bland omissions, outright lies,
I paint the murals colored by success,
To cover over failures, my disguise,
And hide their idol God has yet to bless,
For had I told the truth and never lied,
Those precious few would see and nod their heads,
Acknowledge my ejection justified,
Accept their children's love for me as dead,
For any food that fails to carry taste,
Is cast aside as utter worthless waste.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
He had no idea if he would...
If he could actually do it...
When the time came,
When his sergeant gave the nod,
Let slip the dogs of war,
Unleash the copper bees,
Send missiles hurtling up or down
At targets moving now...
On men who may be wondering
If they could fire the same,
When the time came....
"Steady, men!"
"On my command."
He lay there,
On a roof,
In a ditch,
On an open field,
Crouched inside a turret,
Bellied down in a plexiglass ball,
Hurtled above a world mostly covered in cloud,
Standing far below the earth in silo'd steel,
Seeing still, through satellite eyes....
Peered into the mil dot scope,
Ignored the cross
To see through the center,
Found the circled aperture,
Punched coordinates into a seeing machine,
Saw green circles on the screen...
Aligned the circles....
Tried to breathe.
So that was how it was
For farm boys, Mowers of hay,
Grocers' sons, smashers of ants,
Carpenters, hammerers of nails,
And bakers' boys, cutters of bread,
Just in from shooting marbles and BB guns,
Transported into war,
Fed soldiers' ration:
meat and bread and beans,
Five cigarettes apiece in boxed MREs,
Sent off to **** and to be killed
With mothers' tears still fresh upon their cheeks,
With lovers' ache still glowing embered heat.
Training fresh,
Waiting command
To fire only when the order came...
To remain firing til the order came...
To hold the breath and squeeze...
To hold the sight just so...
To squeeze...
And to reload
Keeping head low,
Eyes on target...
To ignore all but the sergeant's yell,
To think of squeezing on new targets,
To wait awhile to process coming hell....
And when the time came,
He squeezed,
Felt the sudden life,
Heard little but the sound of
Clean ejection ...
Saw his bullet,
Saw his missile,
Saw his target meet,
And in the meeting,
Red,
And in the meeting ,
Fire and smoke,
And in the meeting
Knew that he could do
What soldiers do.
This boy
Now cutting hay,
Now stomping ants,
Hammering nails,
Cutting loaves of cooling bread...
Caught in the maelstrom of war
With no moment left but now,
No possible tomorrow...
Only targets,
Only targeted
In ferocious winds
Of battle.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
poetry is gymnastics, plain and simple, it requires a good stash of words and a tongue like the skeleton of an gymnast, each part mandible, nimble, snail goo; or at least a pair of eyes like a kaleidoscope content with crude images that phonetic symbols are. oh the day when you're kicked out from the garden of the dictionary & thesaurus rex (the tree of good and evil that you have to eat from) - once you've abandoned that canonical foundation of the indexing fruit that keeps you aligned and in formation with a lazy vocabulary, once this ejection takes place: you're basically skydiving.
why do philosophers have this
rigid and predictable
vocabulary? god they're so rigid
with words when they
begin their so called "adventure"
into systematisation.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
It’s been three years.
As I drag myself from the wreckage of yet another crash
Lungs full of smoke and skin seared with burns
I can’t help but think of that day
Three years ago
When we stopped playing hide-and-seek
Each of us circling the same gorgeous little two-seater
Each of us refusing to believe we were not alone in the hangar—
When we finally climbed into the cockpit
Admitted that we wanted to fly this thing
And started preparing for takeoff.
It hummed to life like it had been waiting for us
To put our hands to the controls
Like it was not a machine to be flown
But a connection and extension of our very minds
How it leapt down the runway and soared into the sky!
How glorious the flight through clear blue skies!
How terrible the storm that hit.
Enveloped by black clouds
Tossed to and fro by the wind
We wrestled with the elements
And then my controls locked up.
A moment of panic—
“This thing can’t fly without two pilots!”
A desperate grab for the handle by my feet
One last look at my copilot
Then a sharp tug, a violent flinging into darkness.
I don’t know how you piloted out of that storm
How you got that thing out of the sky
But when I tracked you to the landing site
(After months frozen to my ejection seat
Numb and unable to move)
I could see it was in bad shape
Beyond repair? I didn’t think so
But I arrived just in time to see you walk away
Your helmet, left in the dust by a bent and twisted wing
The last reminder of you.
They say you’ve taken wing again
A new copilot at the controls
(I catch glimpses of a tiny speck high overhead sometimes)
And after three years I can naught but wish you well
But, burned and ****** from my last disaster
I cannot help but sit here on the ground
And dream of the sky.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
It's September 2013.
A Coronal Mass Ejection scorched the Earth,
collapsing the Global infrastructure.
Those that weren't fried up in the killshot
traverse a world nearly foreign to them,
devoid of any form of luxury.
They make their ways to the FEMA camps,
setup all over the United States,
because that's what their TVs told them to do,
just days before the blast.
But they knew since the Remote Viewing program began in the Cold War.
A teenage boy,
now forced to be a man,
leads his Mother through the terrain,
avoiding building fires and roving gangs.
Finally they arrive,
the camp like a shimmering oasis
in the burned out barrens.
They stand in line at the gates,
poor and huddled masses.
When it is their turn,
they present the IDs they were informed to bring.
"Sorry son, your name's on the list,
you can't get in."
"What do you mean? What list."
"The list of people who didn't know how to keep their mouths shut on facebook.
So, you're out, but your Mom can come in."
Another guard approaches and squires her in at gunpoint.
"No, I won't go, not without my Son!"
To which the guard interjects
"Shut the **** up..
take your clothes off..
we're going to pour powdered sugar on you."
"Noooo! Mahhhhhhhm."
"We're gonna **** your Mom kid." the gatekeeper laughs.
Insert Whale sound
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
I wanna be the one to make you laugh
Throw your head back, eyes squinted
Your mouth in the form of a toothy grin
Maybe some dimples here and there
But it's okay if you don't have them
I'd still think you're perfect anyway
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
You didn’t like it.
My rejection.
Your rejection.
My rejection of your ********
Rejection of your ejection.
You didn’t like it.
So , you rejected me.
You ejected me,
From your being
You
Rejected my offerings,
My laugh,
My traits,
My whole.
Me.
All of me
You shunned
Would you have liked it
Had I accepted what you ,
Unsheathed, would the rejection be reversed
Or would it be stalled.
Until the ejection,
Then subsequently the
Guaranteed rejection
Of the whole,
The rejection remains
And we part ways
Ejected,Dejected.
You seemed to like it then
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
I need to answer the ******* questions tormenting my brain
Stop torturing myself with hope
I know how it’ll go
I know how it’ll go
Dreams don’t mean much in the back of a stinky bus
Dreams die in city lights
I board a train wreck before it happens
Thinking of the
Reaction
Will the boxcar doors free me in a rapid ejection
Will I go to heaven?
Will I make it out west
Or will the train crash somewhere down south
But answer these ******* questions and board
Because we already know
This train will lead to scorn
Another complex
Another regret
Another train wreck
Let’s board
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
I can still be nice, even as i slice your neck.
What you lack in manners, you will earn in my respect, as all those pretty pink bubbles come bubbling out of your neck.
Nicety.
Slicing the grumpies with said mutual respect, instead somethings are better left unsaid through the smiling cleft in your neck.
Don't be nervous just yet, as the shivers nurture the onset of your ejection to Set.
Elect a breath, to let go of the mess you made, and stow the experiences of this place in your wake.
Just go the **** away.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Inside I’m wet
With memory soaked
Trickling youth-filled woes
Which cause leakage
Into present
This spouts
Uneasy gushes
Visceral ejection
Out every pore
Sweat pulsing chemicals
Of that toxic touch
On place forbidden
On secrets hidden
It churns
This thing inside
What you took in stride
What I must now somehow hide
With gulp I swallow
My pride
You, my moist reminiscence
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
Climactic excitation
cosmic copulation
sidereal sensation
astral frenzy
sighs, stars, moans
her moans, hormones
interstellar ***********
endlessly interesting
of course.
Reduced to this—
cosmic carnality:
black holes, shooting stars
spurts of intergalactic light
spasms of ejection
from the corona; solar fire
deep into lunar mysteries
outer space beyond her solar system
I seek dark beauty
new direction
off course.
Waiting
for a bigger better bang...
(out of space)
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Splints are beginning to break,
wounds are seeping through the bandage,
sores have become infected,
scabs picked and pulsating--
Aspirin won't take away the throbbing pain,
nor will morphine numb the brain--
the leg below the ****** turniquet
grows gangrenous.
Maggots inching closer,
flies eagerly buzzing overhead,
divebombing into ruptured flesh
oozing blood and pus--
the body bag lingers menacingly
sporting its gaping maw,
hungry for mangled flesh
and broken bones.
Bloodshot eyes pleading,
crooked mouth on a broken jaw begging,
a sick contortion of a once beautiful body
****** forlornly on busy streets--
writhing in the weak mortal vessel that damns them.
---
How long?
How long has it been lying there?
Trying hopelessly to stand stumbling like an old dog
in its final moments of consciousness
before the impending ejection--
how many have passed it by
with a blind salute
and a knowing fake smile?
How long must this poor soul drudge through time
slowly draining its insides
and flesh feasted by the flies,
dragged along by marionette strings--
when will we see this creature,
in need of its good samaritan--
when will we stop the transient fix,
peel off the blood-soaked bandages,
and ultimately stare into the fissures
for a final, effective prognosis?
Look this ******* in the eye,
peruse its peeling sallow skin
hanging loose off cadaverous limbs--
lying,
gasping cries rendered soft moans,
lying in a cesspool of ****** fluids--
**** and **** and blood and pus
drowning within itself--
trace your fingers along the scars and wounds,
inhale the stink of death,
accept your incapacity to understand the weight of its history--
a great anguish heralded by generations afore.
Do not, then,
think it wise to abandon the poor wretch,
as your forefathers had done--
The Poison lies within you.
To heal, then--
is not a matter of medicine,
is not a matter of science,
is not a matter of faith--
it is a matter of action.
It is sick.
It is dying.
And it will take us all with it.
Would you die for its sins?
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC