"excommunication" poems
She has dated boys before.
Boys who beat her
Boys who ***** her
Boys who did nothing wrong at all
But still did not feel "right."
One of them made fun of her
Told her she must be some kind of lesbian
(As if that was an insult)
If she did not want to have *** with him.
She smiled something sad on the outside
To deflect
To forget
To hide behind.
She thought
And what if I am?
What does that make me?
It's a question that wanders into the unexplored ruins
Of an unkempt mind.
A boy meets boy love story is next on the list.
They both play football
And think that means they must both be "players."
Really, they're falling for each other
With one swift and concise movement.
Boy A cannot tell his parents
As he comes from a rowdy and traditional Italian line.
Boy B is getting fed up
And yet waits, patiently
For his one and only to express this flaring emotion
A love, unexpressed.
Their families, churches and culture
Thinks they can change who they are.
They use different, cruel tactics.
Beat the gay out of him
Excommunication
*Force her to have *** and she will turn straight*
You tell the world that they are an
Abomination
Atrocity
Mutation
And yet, I ask this.
If the Bible was a Holy deity's, a God's message of eternal love
As any good Christian, as I am supposed to be, would proclaim
Then how can it be used to justify
Acts of such hate and genocide?
"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak"
(Matthew 12:36)
I hope you are prepared for your Judgment Day.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
of course i ********** every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...
circumcised: to purify spiritually
On the eighth day,
from my nativity,
circumcised,
as is the custom of my
wandering tribe.
marked thusly,
perma-identity carded,
thusly begins the path,
a pink-bricked road this one,
not to the Mighty Oz,
no phony curtain pulled aside,
where anyone goes to get
spiritual purification
for a price
Ah, you suspected something else,
something explicit,
not me~style,
give you honey,
road provisions,
come along for the observing his
clickety clackty clock
Ready?
For where we venture there is only
one exit,
And you are so not ready - I am who I am and I am
not ready too...
every line an enunciation,
every stanza an annunciation,
Angel Gabriel, a solo duo, unlike
Beyoncé and Jesus
we be on our way to any kind of purity,
poetry can buy
who knows what awaits us,
could be catholic, universal,
even the uncircumcised
get a chance to enunciate.
let me offer a clarification.
proclamations and sensations,
conditions and exploitations,
brown eyed girls, and surfer boys,
functions and malfunctions too,
abbreviations or adjudications,
conjugations in the congregation,
exhumation, the final excommunication,
I shun none,
I enunciate this:
false starts and junction boxes,
too many so so tired,
when can I lay down my shovel
and cease the decreasing deceasing of the body
this day nears complete,
and soon to eat
the last meal,
and still I ask
when can I lay down my shovel,
when will purity be mine,
my spirit's circumstances
repeat the commercial,
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...
forgive my abstrusion,
my metaphors always offer perfect laxity,
choose the interpretation that pleases most
and my drift is toward the end of days,
when will my brow be a motif of
anointment and crowning head birth?
This is my Enunciation.
I cannot yet lay down the shovel,
and this writ is as of yet, still uncircumcised -
completely incomplete, it will be finished
when the spirit says
you are the purity,
the trinity of two hands holding two others holding two others holding two others and the chain is perfect because
it is broken perfectly, a forever repetitive respective handle with care
process
Forgive my visionary words that
give little clarity,
so summary due you,
This is my
Pronoun citation
I am
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate
on my way to the purity of spirit.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Exposition
Exploration
Examination
Experimentation
Exhibition
Experience
Exercise
Excelsior
Explosion
Exposure
Expansion
Exceeding
Excitement
Excellence
except
Excessive
Expectations
Excuses
Exclamation
Excommunication
Excluded
Excreted
Exorcised
Expunged
Exacerbation
Exhale
Exit
Exeunt
Extinct
Ex-Star
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
There is violence
In this silence
In the words that you don't speak
Accusation
In excommunication
That lasts for months and weeks
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Allow me to be bold- brave prying eyes and bare all. Allow me to tamper with excommunication- to tempt ostracism- to tease trouble by talking of taboos... speaking of shushed subjects- oh, society's little secrets, the ones we're all willing to share. Allow me to expound on the lessons parents never wanted to teach- the lessons children are so eager to learn. The very act- the very word- that induces giggles, inspires poets, excites lovers, and makes or breaks "true bliss."
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns." -V.N
*** a word constructed of three of the twenty-six letters that make the English language go round. On their own, quite harmless, but collectively- a jaw-dropping, blush-inspiring, shush-provoking combination. *** the ultimate caricature of love and all that is romantic- oh, just look at this tangle of thorns. Tangled- because we have turned the beauty into a beast- taken "the two will become one"- and rationalized- two will always be two- Not you, me or me, you. No, nothing bad can come of this.
*** used to make lies beautiful and truth obscured. Sold in society- the promoter of skin- condemned in the church- discouraged as sin. All the while, teenagers are toppling around- neck deep in lust- desperate to be loved- fumbling- tumbling into the open arms of the ultimate outlet. *** a shallow solution to a deeper problem- a gift given, unwrapped, re-wrapped, and given again. Allow me to attempt to untangle these thorns- when does making love become wrong?
When it makes heroes into harlots and turns the righteous into romantics- when it complicates the uncomplicated? When it manipulates insincerity to seem sincere- liberates itself from simple mathematics, why, the more the merrier, and forgets three's a crowd? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, allow me to be ridiculed- expose myself as a hypocrite and define: It is when *** is misconstrued as a mere act of "love" that it becomes a crime.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
Anathema: Cursed by Ecclesiastical Authority
She blamed me for her excommunication
She blamed me for her banishment
She blamed me for her ostracization
She blamed me for her condemnation
She blamed me for her fear
She blamed me for her shame
She blamed me for her loneliness disgrace humiliation suffering
She blamed me for her pain
She blamed me for her agony
She blamed me for her dishonor
She blamed me for her punishment
She blamed me for her tribulation
She blamed me for her immolation
My name is Anathema.
She is my mother
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 7:24 PM UTC
*She was a picture of monotonous monochrome.
She was deathly quite in one jaunty home.
She lied in wait of eyes that could see through her bleakness.
One who could see the beauty in her , beyond her illusory mess.
People gazed at her and noticed the lack of chroma.
Then a man , destitute of vision , approached and followed her aroma.
He gazed at her with the touch of his finger.
And time stopped as he started to linger.
His gaze took him , in the depths of her beauty.
And she spilled colors and made him sooty.
With no vision he espied her coloration.
and world was hysterical
at their love in
such
excommunication*.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Thank you
for removing yourself
from my day to day Life.
I can't say I would have made that choice, but
I'm sure ******* glad I now don't have to;
I'm sure ******* glad to have my headspace back.
This isn't an attack;
it's a sigh of relief
on some levels.
This isn't surrender;
it's a work in progress
on some levels.
This isn't excommunication;
it's a period of change
on lots of levels.
I'm sure you can understand that.
It takes me Time to come to terms with the things I find within my Mind;
it doesn't help that a lot of Entropy has been introduced;
pardon me for taking my sweet-ass Time.
I know I can express myself abrasively,
but, you see,
Life is abrasive.
I find
abrasive expression itself
can be cathartic, when
existence itself
is abrasive.
This isn't an attack,
this isn't surrender,
this isn't excommunication,
this is a period of renewal and growth;
moving onward
moving forward
moving upward
moving inward
all at once.
I hope you can understand;
*I, myself, tend to forget,
believe it or not*.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
There is a condemned shack
on the bleeding edge
of this cracked mud cake prison
Rusted copper pipes snake out
into a murky puddle
holding the last cold drink
before setting out
I feel the ragged heat beating down
on the raw skin
of my hastily shaved scalp
The proud swing of flowing locks
cut off in shame
and thrown into angered fires -
Forever sentenced to wander
in tattered coated
highway robbery squalor -
Machete duel personalities
with blood crazed bandit gangs -
Hunker down on the edge of
gravel voiced pits
mutilating the rock face
in search of bitter roots
to replace the ones severed in
excommunication breakdown
I know
With you
It would be exile
Poor
Dusty
Hot
Banished
Marked for death
But nonetheless
we would sustain each other
I choose exile
with you
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Uncle Sam reclines and unwinds
In his Adirondack chair
The Statue of Liberty reminds the Mater at Arms
Of the time when he was put in a peyote trance
It was only then he caught on
He rammed his head against his headboard every night
Wracking your brain, trying to wrap it around the concept of the excommunication of those who have had their mouths washed out with soap
There will be no fanfare for the stray lambs
They are only meal tickets for the clergy
Concord grapes and word of mouth
Raise the question, "what is in a hot dog?"
Don't latch on to me after I dance with you into mad denial under a brass florescent chandelier in front of all the stock brokers and shareholders
I'll dismantle your silver lining with a spork
The cow pies disappear due to erosion
It's good to see you, I didn't know burlap sacks were all the rage right now
Stencil your name on it for good measure
How do you feel after your ego death?
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Art was religion’s enemy, but nobody knew it.
Ignorance’s persecution and deception’s excommunication
are invisible marks stamped onto every wooden pallete.
What with the saints’ every feature executed with the finest human touches,
it’s divinity could not be more countoured and highlighted.
The bold kisses of sunlight onto the walls of the cathedrals
remind tense shoulders and pointed slippers how much they are adored by the universe..
while they, not as much so.
God’s fingerprints are engraved onto every human brain
for the mind is powerful enough to imagine
vast forests and fine cloth,
sweet wine and golden crusts of bread,
cherry lips and tamed silver hairs,
the softest pillows for varnished beds,
herds of sheep and gallops of mares.
The artist is glorified, admired and lusted for the deceptions it’s brushes could print onto textured paper.
Perhaps heaven’s mess sent graciously upon wiked ground,
unfertile for carrying the growth of who is gripping too lightly on the artist’s border for beauty,
were the wrong tones of purple, blue, red, yellow, or brown.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
~
Today, a family friend marveled at how much I remind him of my father.
You must understand how much this scared me.
Nothing scares me more than addiction,
yet I perpetually submit myself to addictive behavior, substances, feelings.
These holes I've been digging cannot be dug forever.
There is a bottom and that is excommunication, prison, death.
No person will dig me out,
no person can.
The clock may move slower
after I use this,
and it may move quicker
after I use this.
It doesn't matter to me,
as long as moves in a way other than it does in sobriety.
The sun will rise and the sun will set,
all according to plan.
For hundreds of years into the future
astrologers have predicted at what time which stars
can be seen from certain locations on Earth.
Yet I do not know where I will be tomorrow.
I do not know who will be with me.
I do not know if my father will still love me,
or if we will still share a home, a family, blood.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
A fizzle.
A fury.
The rabbit and the hole.
Like puzzle pieces left out in the rain.
Overexposure,
White hot.
Ex-communication leads to excommunication.
This is your brain on drugs.
Intravenous lover,
**** the marrow dry.
White hot.
blistering
Pustules darling!
Transgress,
then offer a pause,
as though we had ever begun to play.
Like a claustrophobic *********
leasing out a shoebox.
I want in for good.
I want out for life.
Lets play hide,
all the seekers are dead.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Why do I insist on looking for solace at the bottom of all of these bottles?
I know full well that nothing in this world, nor in Heaven nor Hell, can fill the small, Gavyn-sized void in my heart and in my soul, yet still, in vain, I try to drown my misery in the suds and decanters of inebriation…
I have dreampt of you twice in the last week. That is more than my dreams have been graced by your countenance in the last year. Each time, upon waking, I have been found with a smile, painful in its hope, for waking brings the end of the dream. I spend my time chasing dreams, for dreams are so much more hopeful than the reality that my sleeping brain awakens unto.
In these dreams, I have seen your face, heard you laugh and cry and call for me. Seen you run and play and question, seen you witness the sun and the World. I have held you in my arms and felt you wrap yours around me.
This alcohol numbs the sting of this unreality, for when I awake, it is in the sobering arms of loneliness and longing and emptiness. My heart beats for you, and in your absence, continues to beat, labored and heavily.
Every fiber of my being cries out for you, every second of every day. I see my failure in the smiles of children, in the hands of Fathers and Mothers and Children entwined, for mine clasp only the pen or the pillow, the bottle or themselves.
I want to heal the pain of this world, yet I cannot find inside myself the focus to care for anyone other than you or myself, nor the capacity to heal your world, or my own.
My hope continues, beaten down and suffocating, yet alive; the hope of the ******
Whilst ****** I may not be, the excommunication from you is damning…
Am I dying, my Angel?
…Maybe.
Or am I just not living?
Try as I might, I cannot find the answer to this question. Perhaps, it is both. Dying while refusing to live.
For there is much to live for and much to die from.
Yet, my heart beats and my hope, my hope screams in whispers. Because of you.
I love you, Sweet Angel. With more than I ever knew that I possessed. These unshed tears are nothing more than unsung songs and unpenned verses in your name.
Sleep sweet, my love. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Daddy will be here when you wake up.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Righteousness of action
Assimilation despite protest
Gesticulating invalid points
Excommunication for beliefs
&
Hypercorrection to fit in
Accountableness and your actions
Thermodynamic reaction
Excuse me for a moment
Please forgive my descent in anger
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 3:40 PM UTC
I was a preacher in a church
and i fell in love with your mother
then came the excommunication
I betrayed my vows
I betrayed my own brothers
she said
women speak 7000 words a day
but couldn't find perfect words for me
so we went under
the house of bones
and there
I was told
ghost stories
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
People like me
Those tired of the act
******** is the only required skill and that's a sad fact
We've come to realize that life is a chess board filled with too many pawns and not enough knights
A place with too many battles to fight
Too many fears during the night
So many obstacles in sight
Simply too many to write
But onward we press into the light
Well aware and cognizant of our birthright
As our brothers keeper so together we must unite
That sense of duty we must reignite
Not minding how many times we must recite these words of revolution outright
Because the trajectory of this generation we must at all costs rewrite
So tonight
I not only disinvite
But to my greater pleasure I indict
Discord and strife
For tonight they must take their flight
Against them I incite
An excommunication ban of the greatest height
Because only after their departure can we begin to make things right
Bringing ourselves out of darkness and into a future so bright
A so marvelous light
With everyone forthright
The air ringing with delight and hearts so contrite...
A future like this would truly excite
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
There is no such thing as an "absence of mistakes."
Excommunication of mistakes
exemplifies stubborn reluctance
to venture wholesomely into the Unknown,
which, I venture, sure seems erroneous by nature!
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
Sessile and connected,
I'm sat here to ponder—
To draw the parallels
Of my own roots of understanding
And touch, once more, the slumber
Which heartbreak does not send.
We should only gauge our maturity
By the scope of the circumstances.
All things glowing,
Yet all by ourselves.
Landscape void,
Yet setting all but bleak.
You squeeze the hand of love
Sometimes in thinking
You can teach a tighter grip—
Deciding that carpal tunnel syndrome
Is sure to fade...
That writer's claw grips just as tight.
It does not.
The sonnets, I could not recite,
But sighed at the single fact
That it signaled my memory fading,
And so too might all the flowers.
II.
The buds that haven't grown
And won't.
The dark I've both loved inside and cursed,
The central city which accepted the trade for my soul.
All drifting now.
I hope you cannot relate.
You'll recognize it all in waves of belonging.
I'd bet they'll pass us by.
III.
Where has the plot gone?
Slung the ink from well to wall,
Because this Earth is completely canvas,
And all the Earth will feel it with great objectivity.
From cries of heartache
To cries of triumph,
And extremism in both,
And with joy lying off the spectrum,
All to behold.
Nothing moving forward
As we choose to read in lefts and rights
And restrict the privilege
Moving only backward.
Time travel is simple,
Don't you do it with thought?
Restoration to my smile,
Reduced me to dust.
IV.
Not my call and not in fact,
With strong mind to senses
The world was very teal.
Looked, felt,
The aura,
All distinctively teal,
Just as gentle and forgiving.
No mind to the fact that you've done wrong
And been terribly wrong
Toward the center of judgment.
I'd posit the scales
Are already in balance,
And I'd advantage you greatly
On the weight of your hope.
All in harmony,
Yet the water receded.
I must confess, I'm awful at predictions...
But you broke my calendar stone,
Tolled the bell with no rhythm
And never did you discourage it...
Of course I'm guilty,
I've found it in my nature
And I've been worshipping in your temple...
Excommunication carries the feeling of death.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
The town I’m from
has a history
an excommunication
of diversity
at the helm
of self-serving
Caucasian propriety.
My sister is 50 percent
black -
her ancestors once
ran towards the freedom
promised
in the small towns
like this one.
This small town -
97.4 percent white -
instead hung her ancestors
in the town square,
jeered at their attempts
to live among the same people
who were proud
to live in a land of freedom.
Only certain freedoms
are allowed, however,
in towns like this one -
only a freedom
of a certain color.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 3:32 PM UTC
A Saint's fall from grace
Was written in subtle remission
Misgiving the unknown lengths
Within his impending perdition
He sits alone with Familiar near
Drawing permissive ethereal energy
Through a single ring finger
Seemingly from nowhere
Incoming ancient rites
Through unprecedented sight
Which is merely a foreplay
Unto the forays of his personal plight
For he lays with the knowledge
Of angels, deities, and Divine kings
Paralyzed within these confines
And unable to speak
The peril of an incorrigible feral beast Presently feeding on his precious sleep
A sanctified clandestine ritual
Opaque within the haze
For the utter ignorance of his current form Can not be fazed
All the while perched above him looming
The orders of the past
Which cast his imminent ruin
Strangulated by a single urgent thought
To which is owed his undoing
An existence to remain subservient
Fluid, and entirely alone
As was the expedient nature
Of his excommunication from the throne
And though he's been devoted
Thoughtful and reminiscent
There still lies a lingering shadow
Dissipating in the distance
The latter to which can not be replaced
With any amount of insistence
For ice burns the veins
That label him a Saint
There's no way to defame
Or ever replace an ordained vocation
Innate spun the tine of the fate's Creation
Needless abandon to pursue explanation When the weight of his burden
Entirely subdues resignation
It's simply the ripples of the current Resounding within his present station
Whispering into the deep heart of his fear
With it's morbid, amorphous face
Ever reminding him the story
Of his final fall from grace
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 7:54 AM UTC
an idiot has raised a village
burning at the stake.
cooking for the forest.
a family of plants
burning in the sun.
a chorus of screaming heads.
bodies of illness.
harboring the mind of melody.
and a creature which does not exist
slithers in from every side.
a mouth open so wide
it is emaciated by its own strength.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC