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Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2019
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
Brian Oarr Mar 2012
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.
AJ Jan 2016
I open my hands,
those spirit-filled palms,
buy some nails and read
Psalm 54
to bless the death
of my cells unto life,
unto life, those nails sing
the blood of my reward.

Jesus, feel in me, burn!
incessant
in the temple, hallelujah!
have mercy, sweet sorrow
too deep, keep singing, ah, yes!
its coming in light waves,
heavy oceans, lift me lower
into the darkness sea for black hit
running, where the waves bury me
in holy ejection,
its coming, its coming!
its coming in light waves,
heavy oceans to fill
my wet eyes with love.
I was
born to feel god devil swoon.
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
Killing time before I leave for PE class.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2021
You know exactly who I'm referring to when I say...

They have this habitual political ritual of babbling on
Rambling wrong, your standard God complex politician
Standing in front of a congregation spewin' lies, oozin' corruption through thin skin
Politickin' about a mission we should sht on and skip the Charmin
This is my f
ck you dissertation, a doctrine based on real time observation
A deep dive into what has essentially become an unhealthy obsession with sin
Holding a position I'm told I have no right to speak on much less be a voice in
But if one life don't matter none, no life matters son
Including your own, don't confuse facts with opinion
Watching your tone would be wise in this situation
Hooked on the slogan defund every police station
Convinced it means let loose the entire prison population
You know, just for fun
Stoke the confusion, skip any and all explanation, no need for a reason
Willfully blind to the sedition, a corporation backed rebellion, it's open season for treason
To quote the law men, "we'll even hold the door for y'all till you're all in"
Then when they're leavin' make sure to welcome them back again
A simple bewildered complexion brings 'em satisfaction
Chaos the reflection of a lagit election
Regardless of the facts within reach, we witnessin' half a population claim fiction
Feel the friction
Destruction is the reaction, falling for a complex distraction
The consumption of our damnation overshadowed by a mutation of this god forsaken nation
How did we wind up in this position? How'd we let this happen?
I reckon we sure weren't just placed in this situation, a fraction of us stumped by long division
It''s by no means an answerless equation but a question we still debate on
Standing upon a soapbox trying to out crazy the competition
What was once neighborly is now seen as the opposition
Someone please just hit the gong so we can move on
Restoration is easier than resurrection so stay strong
Hope has been long gone for so long, maybe to long, a hopeless conclusion drawn
No anti venom for our venomous condition
A symptom raised from conception, taught to the young
We bet on corruption inside a polling station
Ballets a currency printed on different stationery then it's just simple addition
Still waiting on the announcement that we finally won
But that day will never come unless you're higher echelon
Controlled by the elusive free mason, I'm guessin'
Can't know for certain what side they on, influencing our direction from behind a curtain
A mission forgotten, a population forsaken
Praise God as dangerous as hail Satan
That should be a$$ backwards but it ain't wrong, I'm just sayin'
If you were payin' attention you wouldn't need an explanation
Incarceration eludes the criminals behind the walls of that white mansion
Not a single one ever pays for what they've done and that's fuel for frustration
The people scream out objection and beg for a proper ejection of this borderline evil pantheon
But they get to run over and over again every election and instead of serving up a strict ten day eviction
We just turn to digital b*tchin', no real action taken so we're stuck with this dangerous faction
One that holds Rome as its inspiration so you know this nation is collapsin' it's just a matter of when...and if we'll even make it to the end

©2021
Joseph Childress Apr 2014
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.
Andrew Rueter Jan 2018
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
CK Baker May 2017
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
Nothing like the playoffs!
Billo Dec 2014
I'd rather not hear my own talk of hallowness
echo back at, around, and inside me,
but worse is to witness it hurting you -
'It'? Not the talk, but the topic.
And 'worse'?
This dejection can strip my self-worth
- but I'm used to the lack of attention.

So yes, when my mind feels ejected from my body,
when I need to sleep or hide some other way
from what's inside me,
I vacate myself in ways that may desert you
for a while.

I'll just ask that you be patient.
I'm sorry and I'm not;
you deserve a whole,
and I've got to
not be a hole
I've been thinking about R&D; -
the latter for you, the former for me
(vice versa, or neither
...or both)

...alternatively the last line can be read "not be AN a hole"
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
Misheca May 2018
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
xyloolyx Sep 2014
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 *******
**** 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 *******
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
not your mother's love poem
Danilo Florenzio Jun 2018
I wanna’ drop out
This is not the world i’ve dreamed of
I wanna’ drop out
This way i will have to drop off
I wanna’ drop out
These bad things take off my sleep
I wanna’ drop out,
The nice parts are hard to see
I wanna’ drop out, but there’s others just like me
If i want a better world,
To be better, first, i need
If you want a better world, start by yourself
JJ Hutton Mar 2014
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.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2015
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
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
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
Are you a comatose commuter?
GaryFairy Nov 2013
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
Bobuel Jul 2014
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
Don Bouchard Nov 2012
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.
A child
Laying on the ceiling
Has the look of me.
To the left
Another incarnation of myself
And on the floor sits the source
Of these reflections

There is no door, no window
To this room’s cube
Where all surface is mirror to light
No shadows.
I am surrounded by myself
Unable to escape

I am matter
And being so I am the only thing reflected
Endlessly

A compelling urge
opens my arms
my body is spinning,
And humming.
The cubic prison
Does the same
and friction of the self
is born from movement

I stop spinning
But my reflections do not.
The humming intensifies.
Glass starts to crack

I am thrown away from myself
Through and above the room

When it shattered
My body fell forever,
Until it hit the ground
Christos Rigakos Feb 2014
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
English (Shakespearean) Sonnet
Don Bouchard Sep 2014
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.
This is a work in progress. For some reason, I can't see a draft feature this morning on the iPad.... Is this an issue with IOS8 update?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
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.
Devon Leonel Mar 2016
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.
Neil Brooks Aug 2013
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
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
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.
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
www.eugene-moon.weebly.com
This one is about mercy killing your romantic side
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
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
JR Rhine Nov 2016
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?
+murfyness
Sit back and relax as i hit you with a bumper Jack
ya rhymes is wack make like a match and strike
as ya set ya self on Fire
ya just need to retire take notes from the Sire
Master of this Craft ill stay in ya *** like Shaft
Serious glare and no Smiles ya Styles
nothin' but a pity beat you til you silly
Grimace lookin' muthaphukka talkin' loud and hard
like you this and that
but we know you sweet as a kitkat
i despise chitchat and emcees that think that
they got the Hype
and your right your hype and unsigned
for a reason but im leavin' emcees not breathin'
steppin' into the battle field watch me demise in less
than 1 second to go with is like eternity
no chance to escape hell in a cell
im the Undertaker
bury you alive with no remorse check my source
i been credited before i was credited
ya style edited
must be walkin' with water under ya feet
cuz ya slippin' set trippin' got a mack if ya start lippin'
slam ya harder than Kemp combined with Pippen
only shots ya takin' is jump shots
ya lil ***** boy who emulated the hood
wanna be heard so bad ??? but no good
shamin' this beat with ya Elementary Lingo
come up with to me is like a Mastiff to a Poodle
Droolin' i come with the Roughest
prepare for the Slayin'
Shut ya Trap so What cha Sayin????


Check the poetry im full of prodigy
Fantasy witha touch of reality
Who can write it better than me
By the time they catch me
Ill be in another dimension
Youll be in detention Once the skools on session
Pack wisdom like bullets in
A Smith n Wesson wait for ejection
Of rounds knocking out clowns
Before the bell of the first round
Round and round
Ya head goes cuz you couldn't comprehend my death blows
Slow ya role like going backwards
My poetry and skills are mastered
No witches or board crafts
Are made here everything i made came from front to rear
Nope i dont have no fear i know the spirits is here
Good vs Evil you choose with sides
You wanna reside
Is it sell my soul and let my heart grow cold
Or stand with fire n let my soul glow
Against the evils that be
In the sneaky industry
Dusty raps get slapped back
My guns be aim at?
These devils trying to sell me out
So **** all that poise and noise
Cuz i aint down with slayin'
Peace to the rebels like me
So what u sayin???
An
ConnectHook Apr 2018
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)
HAIKU—you feel me,
all about gettin' that WORD
well-composed, gnome sane?
Fatal errors Pilot
There are no corrections possible to return to flight path
Your plane is going down
Mistake not, EJECT
You have waited far to long
PILOT- The time is now
Eject
A black hole if you go down
The plan did not pan out
The flight did not get to the desired destination
And it is clear the plane is going down
ARE YOU?
You have a pack with a worthy flight over the boarder
TAKE FLIGHT
Do not go down with the plane
No need to crash
Pull the rip cord and live a new life
HAVE CASH!
The mission is almost complete
The plan not what it was before
However there is a new world to explore
So Pilot-eject
There is nothing left here to protect
The mission now your heart to respect
I get it now, why they give you an ejection seat
Sometimes when the plane takes off the mission is not what we think
Marie-Niege Feb 2017
subtle reminders are nature's best ejection of pain, i swear i saw your shadow overcast mine every time i walked. cowering rationalizations seem to weep as though it's dying sense of control bends folding branches down against the base of my willow. i've seen you with my eyes wide open and with my eyes closed and each time I skip stones against the walls of my memory hoping to eject which ever flick is humming on repeat.
david mungoshi Feb 2016
the haloed sun above winked like a sage
and its searing smile stirred coy memories
that sailed the blue sky like feathery petals
cascading like a shower of floating fancies

and in a shallow pond above the rapids
where the waters gurgled and roared
their call for blessings at the mystic waterfall
the kingfisher was soon to be with the grateful dead

the couple engrossed in the snares of scented life
gazed up at the sky in search of the evening star
that twinkling would witness a girl taken to wife
in the misty coolness of a spray of charmed wishes

the timid bride with latent fire in her heart and limbs
had a wet kimono wrapped around her treasures mild
she prayed that if she be preyed upon it had to be wild
and abandoned; consuming even as the sun danced its exit

a snaky trickle of golden warmth poured down like honey
coursed through the articulate body to coagulate inside her cup
and she became paralyzed with the joy and wonder of creation
enacted once again in this moment of pleasurable stillness

and the first of her petals was well on its way to necessary ejection
and a soft landing in the hearts of those who wait for signs
This is now my final version
Michael Strong Jul 2015
All I can seem to do is write these songs
Read all day creating brainstorms
I try to surpass the things of old
The habitual desires that wants to dwell in my soul

I wont lie my spirit is worn
But through my inspiration i find strength in a poem
Bt what will i write only God knows
Words just seems to flow from within my soul

Day after day i encounter problems and problems
But with the ejection of a stanza i escape the sorrow
Through a pen and a paper my soul begins to sing
And only words can express the joy that it brings

And only a poem can express the pain inside
As the sacrs upon my soul wants to free my mind
So i place a pen on the page and lay down some verbs
Then my soul sings louder than the beautiful birds

The lonely pain meets its demise
Speaking to the burden you carry inside
Our souls are eased by the inspiration of words
Listen to my soul and let this song be heard

— The End —