"executions" poems
I remember the history well:
The soldiers and politicians emerged
With briefcases and guns
And celebrations on city nights.
They scoured the mess
Reviewed our history
Saw the executions at dawn
Then signed with secret policemen
And decided something
Had to be done.
They scoured the mess
Resurrected old blue-prints
Of vicious times
Tracked the shapes of sinking cities
And learned at last
That nothing can be avoided
And so avoided everything.
I remember the history well.
2
We emerged from our ******* mounds
Discovered a view of the sky
As the air danced in heat.
Through the view of the city
In flames, we rewound times
Of executions at beaches.
Salt streamed down our brows.
Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections
Monolithic accidents on hungry roads
The infinite web of ethnic politics
Power-dreams of fevered winds.
The nation was a map stitched
From the grabbing of future flesh
And became a rush through
Historical slime
3
We emerged on edge
Of time future
With bright fumes
From burning towers.
The fumes lit political rallies.
We started a war
Ended it
And dreamed about our chance.
Fat fish eat little fish
Big ones arrange executions
And armed robberies.
Our ******* shapes us all.
I remember the history well.
The tiger’s snarl is bought
In currencies of silence.
Eggs grow large:
A monstrous face is hatched.
On the edge of time future
I am a boy
With running sores
Of remember history
Watching the stitches widen
Waiting for the volcano’s laughter
In the fevered winds
Hearing the gnash
Of those who will join us
At the mighty gateways
With new blue-prints
With dew as seal
And fire as constant
And a trail through time past
To us
Who remember the history well.
We weave words on red
And sing on the edge of blue.
And with our nerves primed
We shall spin silk from *******
And frame time with our resolve.
________
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
17.4k
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Revolution: Part one.
The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.
The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.
A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.
The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous! God ****
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.
Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.
These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.
Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.
Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.
A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty! Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.
Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.
This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution! Revolution!
We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.
So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
2.6k
the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games
we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions
blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade
under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
If the world were flat I would argue
there would be more suicides,
Jumping from the edge of the earth.
The act would somehow be more redeemable
Than say, swimming into a concrete walkway.
City crews wouldn’t have to wash the mess
and children wouldn’t see the naked truth.
The news could do an expose
On this trendy new trend
In the inward homicidal debauchery.
I imagine the lower three miles would be much like purgatory
The pale-blue breath holders
With their glass frozen eyes
All floating in the under earth
Not sliced and bleeding,
Or comatose from pills,
Or lessening the brain via bullet,
Or gas like Plath,
Not even rope burn from a hangman’s noose.
No if the world were flat, they would be floating.
Some stitched with government satellites
Payment in the mail for their families.
Why yes there are other benefits too
Like executions,
Orbital burial and visits,
even gps tracking.
But I am no sales man
You should talk to
Samuel Birley Rowbotham
He holds a parallax
Between history and accounting.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
She gives us fevers and wraps us in time. She is the newlywed- our metamorphosis. Death clings to her open grave. Her movements are the executions of precarious and docile prejudice, ganged upon, and drenched in oblique misunderstanding and very indirect confusion.
We are all grocery shopping now. Your weapons of delivery are broadcast in takeout, Chinese or Szechuan Broccoli Scenario #96:
Where your mother finds I have taken the Mercedes for morning lemonade stand gallivanting, early Beach Boys mixtape scenarios fulfilled.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
Abomunist poetry
in order to be
completely understood
should be eaten…
-except on fast days,
slow days, and
mornings of executions.
Abomunist Goldilocks
eats the 3 bears.
But the porridge gets her
in the end. It is just right.
Abomunists read pictures
Downside
skewed
to their children.
Abomunists sing
south by southeast,
but fly Southwest
through time.
Abomunists adore a vacuum
so they fill it
with Abomunable gifts
like chicken seeds
and rose guts,
and the vacuum fills.
Abomunists abhor a vacuum.
That vacuum said rude things about your mother.
Abomunists have no mothers
and hang around streetcorners
shaking the lights until they go out.
Abomunists are obliged
to change the bulbs once
they die and continue shaking.
Abomunists encourage
police brutality
and are cheeky
motherless ********
Abomunists go
hand in mouth.
Abomunists go
go go go go.
Always go.
Abomunists vote to
abolish
red lights.
Abomunists ride hydrogen
bombs to work.
Abomunists go to
bullet heaven.
Abomunists slay the dragon
only on Tuesday,
but chase him
through the ***** den.
Abomunists lick cold poles.
And pull their tongue
out sometimes.
Abomunists
cry to Billboard
revelations in Coca-Cola
and lingerie.
Abomunists listen
to the bottom 40 hits.
And drink the middle classics.
Abomunists drain
their cups
and never ask for more.
They just take it.
Abomunists scream hoarse
and horse
and pony
and the rattlesnake
guttural hissing
serpentine buzzing
bees. You wouldn’t understand.
Abomunists elect
their drones and
the queen eats all
the honey.
Abomunists run
from office
and hold sway from
cardboard towers.
Abomunists are bad
architects and they
fall from grace
- so to speak.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
I got soul and I am a soldier.
I got soul, and I AM a soldier.
The world, is full of soldiers, some no older;
than ten, learning to use the pen.
Others, grow colder, killing with their swords again.
In the end, regardless of your reasons or weapons,
it would be treason for me to treat these soldiers like peasants.
The feudal lords send us to die on distant shores as though we were ****** bought and sent to supply their wars and satisfy their demands for more,
blood lust.
Human being does not mean mindless killing machine.
The next time a war scene, plays out in the news,
and you hear the same rhapsody about third world violence and blues;
take a moment of silence, to question,
if it was you,
would you take a different direction or stand up to fight for you and your section?
Soldiers come in all ages, shapes, and complexions.
Some use words for weapons, trading carnage for college;
that's why I don't drop bombs, I drop knowledge, and I don't quote psalms, I pay homage,
to the earthly soldiers of humanity fighting the insanity of a planet where they die in wars fueled by greed, fear, and vanity.
Men, women, and children around the globe rally to the banners of Love, Happiness, and Hope,
trying to cope, with the ropes tightening around their throats.
So they turn to the Pope, or the Shah, or the President, or the King,
all draped in their righteous bling,
blissfully ignoring, the mystery,
as to why history's greatest soldiers were common folks who just kept pushing forward.
Jesus, Muhammad, and anyone who survived a nuclear bombing.
Gandhi, King, and the few whites that stood against African-American lynching.
Galileo, Newton, and those that researched in secret to avoid persecution.
Wellington, Eisenhower, and those that died fighting tyranny in the darkest hours.
The true power, of the soldiers of Man, comes when we take a stand fighting for something we demand. Our grand,
struggles and revolutions are led by those fighting for solutions,
by those that may become political executions.
So to those that question me,
I state emphatically,
yes indeed,
no matter race, gender, or creed,
I stand with all the other souls that are soldiers of humanity,
fighting to save our sanity.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
The Wildest Conclusion
Who are you
To tell me
My thoughts
Aren't worth being heard
I deserve
And demand my rights
I might
Shout amendments
First,
Then commence
To irregular common sense
My stability
Is retained
By the imbalance
In my brain
You see,
I can't enable
These "Cain and Able" angels
That rest on your shoulders
Because
I ain't able
Fables
Fly out the mouth
Of an astounding author
His sound
Is profound
His prowess authorized
By his copy written
Signature
Which is his style
Italicized and laid back
Now,
Crack open
Another pack of pens
And draw out
The wildest conclusions
In deep thought
Then listen...
.The world disapproves.
The extent
Of my intentions
Were wilder than I could imagine
So I didn't know
I would take it this far
The words written
Were forbidden
In the foulest belief system
I wouldn't have wrote them
If my outrageous mind
Wasn't dying
From boredom
Boarding off the monsters
That alter ideas
From beneath the bed
They reach my head
And toy with my
Emotions
Tantalize and
Taint my tender mind
Then morph it
To be the tainter!
To picture death
You'll need help
From this
Morbid painter
Why do I
Write so wickedly
Then spread like pandemics
It's
Pandemonium momentarily
Shared with you
With whatsoever
You should do
With
Evil knowledge
Is truth
Look in your hands
I say
"Vice is right"
Can I persuade?
Like a gun used to
****** a murderer
Some executions
Are executed
At the exact moment
Of redemption
How tempting
Is it for
A wholesome man
To make
A half-hearted attempt
At prosperity
Sparingly
Laying in Evil's bed
But never staying
When he awakes
Will he use the tools
Because he learned the trade
Or teach others
To not
It's hard to reach others
When all they believe
Is a happy ending
I conclude
But
The true ending
You can't imagine
Because it's too wild
For you.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
Secrets drowning in blood
steeped depictions,
cunningly smothered
of familial tied executions,
heredity oft an unkind
sacramental entanglement,
deeply rooted in
disparaging divisions,
disintegrated 'neath ashes
of unresolved deliverance
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
it takes great skill
to fry ants--patience, precision,
the will to **** omnipotence (or)
a mighty magnifying glass
we don’t hear scorched screams
and only the most refined noses
smell the funeral pyres
some stay stone still
for their fiery executions
others scurry about
looking for their queen
as if she can save them
from our twisted wrist
that visits the sun’s
wrath upon them
while we watch
colonies ablaze,
in blissful silence
we, the ant killers
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.
For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.
Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.
Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.
Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.
In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
why was rome
built on bones?
hundreds of dead
caught by arrows or
blind cuts of steel
crowd the rivers,
the roads, the very
air and it is so so hard
to breathe–
every corner is a reminder
of public executions, outdoor
gallows, diving into shallow seas,
exsanguination in the roads till
red rivulets made new paths in
tempered cobblestone;
caesar was not the first man to
bring about *pax *** bellum*
to train armies to battle their own
hearts and find nothing there at all–
caesar falls,
rei republica falls,
rome falls
.
.
the dead do not become lazarus
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
i was brought up to
read books and play the
violin
i am from the heart of the
world you
know
a place among thieves
a place among business aspirations
a place among the pines
actually like a
postcard however
someday a clan of
gory
icy
determined
men came into town
men who took up
residence
between pines and a business park
buildings were built by the
men of the clan:
golden paint
giant offices
porsches
lambos
maybachs
gory
icy
determined
men had come into town
yelling in strange terms:
brate
hajde
jebi se
unexpected assassinations
executions of local mobsters
****** threats on judges
jebi se!
brate hajde
old methods
new turf
a war began
clan against mob
murderer against murderer
man against man
this place where i
lived
this place among
pines
turned into a war zone
year 2019
corners packed with hordes
willing to die
armed with
machetes
pump actions
rocket launchers
tanks
this place where i
lived
this place among
pines
turned into a war zone
year 2019
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
I feel unpleasant about my crime.
Something wrong with my brain.
I don't know what i was thinking.
I feel like i am sinking.
I deserve all the blame because,
It was my fault.
Now i realize, i am selfish.
I was always trying to impress the throng.
It was my fault.
I am looking in the mirror,
I feel Shame.
I clearly deserve the slap.
Now i feel so much iniquity.
I know what i did was wrong.
But from my heart,
I bring this apols.
I am so sorry for my crazy executions.
I wish i could sing a song,
To show my love for you, before my death.
Now i feel like i am trapped.
So i am starting to take pills, and
Slowly isolating from my breath.
Now,
It is my turn,
I am a criminal, hurting you was my crime
So punish me please, then forgive.
I just want to revoke my deed.
Once again I am sorry for all the hell.
Forgive me,
That's all i have to say!
That's all i have to say!
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
Who are you
To tell me
My thoughts
Aren't worth being heard
I deserve
And demand my rights
I might
Shout amendments
First,
Then commence
To irregular common sense
My stability
Is retained
By the imbalance
In my brain
You see,
I can't enable
These "Cain and Able"
Angels
That rest on your shoulders
Because
I ain't able
Fable's fly out
The mouth
Of an astounding author
His sound is profound
His prowess authorized
By his copywritten
Signature
Which is his style
Italized
And laid back
Now,
Crack open
Another pack of pens
And draw out
The wildest conclusions
In deep thought
Then listen...
The world dissapproves
The extent
Of my intentions
Were wilder than I could imagine
So I didn't know
I would take this far
The words written
Were forbidden
In the foulest belief system
I wouldn't have
Took it this far
If my outrageous mind
Wasn't dying
From boredom
Boarding off
The monsters
That try to alter ideas
From beneath the bed
They reach my head
And toy with my
Emotions
Tantilize and
Taint my tender mind
Then morph it
To be the tainter!
To picture death
You'll need help
From this
Morbid painter
Why do I
Write so wickedly
Then spread like pandemics
It's
Pandamonion momentarily
Shared with you
With whatsoever
You should do
With
Evil knowledge
Is truth
Look in your hands
I say
"Vice is right"
Can I persuade?
Like a gun used to
****** a murderer
Some executions
Are executed
At the exact moment
Of redemption
How tempting
Is it for
A wholsome man
to make
A half-hearted attempt
At prosperity
Sparingly
Laying in Evil's bed
But never sleeping
When he awakes
Will he use the tools
Because he learned the trade
Or teach others
It's hard to reach others
When all they believe
Is a happy ending
I conclude
But
The true ending
You can't imagine
Because it's too wild
For you
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
unicorn and all the soil ran
I turned and all the views and
all opinions and all appeals and executions
turned the whole ground under my feet
and how to walk now
how now to chase everyone from everywhere
unicorn unicorn
fast almighty eternal infinite
continuous unicorn
04.12.18
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
I watched someone almost die today
and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me
I see a life flash before my eyes
a million executions play like infernal theater
on multiple screens and the protagonist
keeps walking to the stop more afraid
of missing the bus than being run over
while the driver stares blankly, maybe thinking
about something they saw on Instagram
I am troubled by this but I’m feeling an odd
sense of bliss and reverence for my senses
flooded with multiple universes deserving
every bit of my attention indexed into
stories I tell my therapist laughing at
the absurdity of it all
the majestic tapestry woven
with uneven threads and patchwork
processes humanity has distilled into
averages and medians and experts
who think they’ve outwitted god
through postulating perpetual motion
towards Hell or Nirvana or Haley’s comet
whatever stops the itch
burning a hole in our collective consciousness
regardless of our upbringing we’re wired
to ask why are we ******* here
until the question becomes heavy
and our knees buckle and we
kneel at the feet of something
other than the ground we’re standing on
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC
we smoke and talk
of unbending gravity and **** negotiations
while cobalt tombs whistle
we perform joke executions she
exclaims as we howl naked freedom
it is my bargain of captives she *******
after salt, French and bayonets
August breathes absinthed
in careless expressions where wind steals September
Famous and blonde now
because you crashed your car where
Lights Burst Mozart
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
Close your eyes, lock the doors,
close your mind, a prison bolt
slam it shut.
Monsters are knocking, haste
harassment, starved,
armies full, of them.
Flood, flushing, drowning
me out, a rat in a gutter
ignoring its snare.
Snarling, wishing to feast, my
blood they so crave, vampires
blood suckers of dusk.
Passing the dis-ease, my
executions pass, the dis-ease
of this very age.
Blood is dripping, empty
carcass stripped bare, feed
from all there is of me.
On the inside, still locked away
my soul was taken, nightly theft
you have all of me, ****** harm.
My soul sits, waiting, as you pass
by my street,
my family clones, embraced at home.
Drink me up, make it quick,
**** me dry,
dear Carmen please don't cry.
It's all an alibi, one that sings,
as a lullaby,
a secret way out.
Passages behind closed, library
doors, caging me, in this
locked out house.
Bourbon and ***** forced,
oozing through, pores
seeping.
Alcohol weeps, tears,
skin cuts, red weapons,
a tyranny of pain.
Veins bleed, from single malt,
monsters watching me, cough
it all up.
Throwing a loop, I allow
them to jump,
through open shoots.
Private nights, protect me
from what I seek,
so desperately, a leak in the system.
A breach in oath, suicide presides,
my life starts to be,
brushed aside.
You made me this way, and I ask
why continue to stay,
you continue to make me pay.
My lover, my friend, my life,
it's nothing more,
than endless strife.
*For you,
for you
for you.*
I'd do almost anything.
© Sia Jane
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
We spend all our lives at Circus Maximus.
We are preoccupied by the external,
forsaking the locus of our sacred worth
that is our hearts and souls. Rather,
we gaze transfixed by ludi of clowns
who make us laugh, at inspiring athletes,
at plays and recitals, at celebrations
of our victorious battles, at gladiators
who thrill us by killing other gladiators
and lions and Christians, even at
public executions. Politicians sometimes
come to orate. But never do we hear
a word about love and being loved.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 10:42 PM UTC
I want to extract
my heart
(encased in a cliché)
and beat
for beat
time it to your
executions.
I want to extract my mind
(superbly hidden and dancing with iniquity)
and join
it to
your eyes darkest
dreaming.
I want to extract my soul
and leave me empty
(do you see,
beautiful void)
and let your smile
once more
teach it
birth. death. a secret.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
I walk in the shadows of the girls with the flowing hair and the perfectly concealed eyes. against them I am a mess with tangled knots and gray bags hanging low to show that I have stayed up for too long listening to the voices in my head. my weight is composed of a thousand words that will never be spoken, for I am too afraid of saying the wrong thing. Don't lie and tell me that you can detect no visible imperfections because that is not what I want to look like. All over I want to be the tangled knots and graying bags and I want to prove that you don't have to measure up to society's standards to be beautiful. I want to be so inevitably flawed that you cannot help but stare at how real I look. I know I am an incurable wreck, but that is what I aim to be. I want to be labeled as beautiful not because of the shade of lipstick I might wear, but because of the growing passion in my heart. I am a whirlwind of good intentions but bad executions, but at the end of the day I can promise you that you will never find an imperfect person that could love as perfectly as I do
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC