"exploits" poems
I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Back in the days of old
when knights were bold
who with a sword or lance
in armour sought romance.
It was the age of chivalry
long ago in man’s history
when to fight for a righteous cause
one did gain considerable applause.
It was mainly for show, love and glory
they deemed themselves being worthy
to capture the heart of some fair maiden
which was the most desired prize laden.
Oh, they would strike heavy blows
on all of their opponents and foes
in a one to one combat defying death
as crowds watched with abated breath.
Yes, it was far back in those days of yore
that courage and strength came to the fore
where there was this life and death struggle;
such issues at hand the knights would juggle.
And in fighting for their country, faith and king
noble impressions on people’s minds would ring
that even through the ages are held in high esteem
those knights in shinning armour do now all seem.
There are many legends based on their heroic exploits
a legacy of tales which have been told with much adroit
highlighting aspects of human wisdom related to virtue and vice
and the lessons to be learnt are those of goodness and sacrifice.
History usually repeats itself time and again
as it often happens a situation comes when
we’re asked to do something for a just cause
and acting with chivalry we shouldn’t pause.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 10:20 AM UTC
The stewardship of talent calls attention for everyone to discover their purpose on earth,
knowing we are created with potentials waiting to be maximized.
The stewardship of time calls attention for everyone to maximize their time on earth,
knowing we are mandated to dominate and subdue the earth.
Nothing is found except it is hidden,
every one has a talent.
Nothing is hidden except it is a secret,
every person has a gift.
Nothing is a secret except it is a treasure,
every individual has a potential.
Every one has a secret hidden treasure to be found,
ln them lives unique talents waiting to be discovered;
lf only they can discover their purpose on earth.
Every person has a destined mission to accomplish,
ln them lives voices waiting to be heard;
lf only they can activate their gifts.
Every individual has a solution to provide on earth,
ln them lives great potentials waiting to be maximized;
lf only they can exploit their potentials.
How then can talents be discovered knowing that any talent wasted will be accounted for.
How then can gifts be activated knowing that we are mandated by God to accomplish a purpose on earth.
How then can potentials be maximized knowing that we are created to impact our generation.
Let him that seek to discover and utilize his talents on earth consult God through prayers.
Let him that seek to activate his gifts exploit God's given innate ability to man.
Let him that seek to maximize his potentials on earth search the mind of God through the scriptures.
Is there any reward for discovering and exploiting your talents?
Is there any reward for activating your innate gifts?
Is there any reward for maximizing your God given potentials?
He that discovers and exploits his talents for God will receive the Masters reward.
He that activates his innate gifts will be remembered forever.
He that maximizes his potentials will leave an indelible footstep on earth.
Hope you strive to be persistent and consistent in the stewardship of talent,
knowing that much is required of you.
Endeavour to be faithful and obedient in your stewardship of talent, knowing we all owe God the accountability of our talents.
Ensure you exploit the discovery of your talents,
activate your innate gifts and maximize your potentials effectively.
Strive to discover your purpose on earth,
Seek to activate your talents and gifts; and
Strive to maximize your potentials.
He that discovers and exploits his talents on earth,
will leave an indelible footprint on the sands of time that will be remembered forever.
He that activates his gifts on earth will impact the world and his generation.
He that maximizes his potentials effectively,
will engrave his names in the sands of time and seasons of the sky.
Talent is a Mandate not a Delegate.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
I was once a young boy wizard, who saved the world with his friends.
I was once the Mockingjay, whose
adventures had no end.
I was once Divergent, and
one choice changed my life.
I was once a Demi-god, and
my pen was also a knife.
I was once a kid with a treehouse,
That travelled to anywhere in time.
I was once a young girl who
lived in the woods, in a small house, but that was just fine.
I was once a young German orphan, stole books and read them for fun.
I was once a hobbit who found the one ring, but still my exploits weren't done.
When I read a good book, I sail away,
To Hogwarts, The Factions, The Shire.
I am the characters I read,
I'm Leisel, I'm the Girl On Fire.
So sail me away, give me a book,
I promise you it won't bore me.
For when I am reading a well written tale,
Though I am me, I'm the story.
----------------------------------------------------
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *********
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
The Ganges rushes in
torrents from my eyes
and threatens to sweep me
away
it’s been four lonely years
Sai Krishna
I wait in the foothills of Mount Kailash
the sun and the moon wait with me
the earth has ceased its wild spin
and the stars have lost their merry twinkle
O Swami what we wouldn’t give to gaze
once more into your lotus orbs
Sai Krishna
mountain peacocks with bright plumes
chant Your name
and silver tongued nightingales perched in
high branches sing of Your
divine exploits
the empty jhoola is adorned with garlands
and sweet rose petals
Blue skinned Lord
You alone are the source of
Bliss
Grant us Your divine darshan
cuddle close to us
tonight
http://www.sairapture.com/krishna-madhava.html
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
How do we create a system in which women are really free?
Is that we want undefined freedom where we have no men and we hve what lesbians have? Or do we want the same equal rights as men?
We as feminist cannot be so narrow minded
+Liberal feminists want women to have the same equal rights as men.
Are they not the same women who want their men to be all-male and masculine?
+Marxist/socialist feminists focuses on investigating and explaining the ways in which women are oppressed through systems of capitalism and private property. According to Marxist feminists, women's liberation can only be achieved through a radical restructuring of the current capitalist economy in which much of women's labor is uncompensated. For these women, do not realize that they are the ones who chose to became mother's and end up with the 'unpaid compensation' of taking care of the child that comes along.
Radical feminism blames men entirely on the exploitation.
If there was no men, would we have been as happy as expected if we were to really revolutionize this system, of oppression, capitalism,discrimination and exploitayion.
As women, it is always right to fight for what we believe in.
But it is the truth that we should fight for, justice and peace among men.
Exploits made my men over years have cause women, who are considered'by nature' to be subject class , to think that they are really less than men. ?In truth, we are made from the same flesh and organs just as them.
Is it not us females who bleed once a month, bears children and cope with the problems that comes with the family we have to grow and breed?
We are strong enough but at the end of the day we need someone to submissive to and that should only ne the lawful wedded husband that the Lord himself has granted us with.
We are called to be strong but submissive when the time and place comes as there is a time and place for everything understand.
Strong and submissive should be our mission without being confused by men and that is the type of feminism we should live by.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Money is a **** producer, who mascarades as a professional film producer, promising fame and fortune to young girls in LA.
Money exploits us all, telling us to cry on his **** as he forces it down each of our throats.
MMM
Money talks its valuable poetry, cha ching as we take the money shot, the money shot, the money shot...
Blaw! we take the money and run. Exploited, every one of us carries this inflated value; running around with our heads chopped off.
Where did we put our heads?
Not a one realizing how.
We put our heads collectively in the sand.
Money talks, but we dont. Money walks, but we wont. Money marches, but we cant stand. Can't form a coherent sentence while we're getting ******
"If my dad finds out he will destroy me!"
"I won't tell."
Money wants us young, dumb, and full of idiom; and as the bubble bursts, we can't help but feel depressed.
Our faces are all over the internet. America the beautiful, I can hardly see your face behind the biggest, blackest ****
If you want to turn anyone into your own personal ***** first you got to get the money!
Money is king. But is he kind? Money is our god, but what kind?
Money money money, MONEY!
The lyrics of every rap song on the top 100
Can we get some hoes and some money that we can throw's up in here!?
It's what we all want, and its what we all fear. Money controls us and rules us without a peer.
Money replaces trust, it replaces common decency, and puts a friendly mask on the face of a murdering monster.
Money makes me sick. It smells like burning flesh if you read it just right, and put your nose up real tight, it can start to burn you too.
Roll a hundo, give Ben a sniff. Money doesn't care if you sell it off to buy drugs or a train wreck. Money isn't ethical and neither are you.
Money wants us all to bow down, and when we rise up, we look like monopoly men.
Give me some money and I can change the world into a paradise on earth; give your local bank some money, and our world looks like a shopping mall.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
And our brother, too, the metal shaman
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
We chant, guttural grunts, primal urges
And fierce grinding teeth clenching and screeching
The shaman dances and
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
And we SCREAM shrill
Bare our necks and bring the knife across, ****
A sacrifice to the metal beast
The shaman stares straight up,
Plucks knowledge from the stars
And the blood leaves us
Hair turns grey
Daily exploits lost in deepening wrinkles
The macabre ritual culminates...
The Shaman, unappeased
Laughs like Hyena, cackling
REACHES UP AND PLUCKS KNOWLEDGE FROM THE STARS!
The existential cacophony diminishes
Din dimming
Beast is empty
Bits flow like blood
Ones and zeros in a jumbled pool
The shaman delivers
The family sits around the glowing box
A tribe in an ancient ritual
Flip the switch, change the channel
The children plucking out their eyes
Little blind Oedipus
Smashing faces through the tube
To the life on the other side
Celebrities, products, and reality shows
Forget thought
Present your mind
To the beast
A cinematic ****
Send Damsels to appease the Minotaur
Change the channel
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Miles upon miles
slither along old,
forgotten bends and
dance with evening
tides.
You exist across
the vast exploits
of their secret
vices.
I exist among
the roots of
their ***** deplorable
deeds.
One day, we
will encounter each
other's beings and
visions.
And what a day that will be.
-s.r.b.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Why are people intentionally cruel and malignant?
Are they too blind to mistake their Achilles’s heel for their forte?
Or do they intentionally enjoy obliterating anything that comes their way?
Indubitably, reeling into their self-destruction and collapse as the roof caves.
Repelling any benevolence into their lives,
They will close all doors with their narrow minds.
Atrociousness will prevail and set forth unfathomable tongues of rhyme.
Seeking insatiable supremacy governing in disguise.
Clearly oblivious to the detrimental exploits they expose,
They will lead a life that is solely self-imposed.
Cultivating an environment of animosity is not astute you see,
People will always revolt and eventually be set free.
Unless you morally evolve and realize you have wronged,
You will embark on a journey that will negatively consume your soul.
It begins with your physical state, depleting with every irrational action you make.
Ultimately, deteriorating your body into an anemic vegetable state.
Reeking of insecurities through the infusion of wretchedness and despair,
your life will begin to turn inside out transforming into an eternal torment of misery and hell.
However, it's never too late to change your tyrannical direction.
It's only compassion, empathy, and altruistic love that will be your salvation.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel
His eyes burned into hers like sapphires
Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers.
They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs
In the pub after the game he saw his quarry
She was a prize
His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion
Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white.
The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area.
Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying.
Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers
It was love!
Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates.
It had been a hard day
But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place
But her night of passion was not assured
If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place.
On Monday he would be but a memory
Next week it's an away game
She will miss him
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Now,
We are mellow.
Having spent the evening exploring the threads of friendship.
That had come adrift of warp, weft and weave.
Time and distance had
silks, snag-tagged-torn,
on the bustling-busy,
hectic-hustling of work
and family.
Teasing-taunt,
needle-gnawing,
small, gap-rip-rents
in the snug comforter
that is... the wonder of us.
Us, so many secrets woven. So many, nights of tissues and sobbing tears.
Darning in daring exploits. Cutting away knotted,
fear-angry-scream-fighting feuds.
Cutting work, for days of delight and nights of desperate yearning.
We used anything at hand, rough wools, pieces of string and twines.
To weave a blanket,
to hide us from life's storms.
We were,
so young, so strong, recklessly-brash,
stupidly-joyous
and braveheart-fools.
And now, time and age,
has softened our work. Felted and fuse-melded,
the fibres into a beautiful entity.
That we store-save in the heart's cupboard,
of special and precious things.
It is an heirloom of sorts.
We bring it out,with occasional, humble-grace,
to be dandled and stroked with reverence.
Caressed and cossetted are our memories held within the abstract weave.
We are the dwindling
of a youthful exuberance
flung-thrown-heaved
to the wild winds.
So now, we are grateful to be curator-custodians of the retrospective nature
as we augment-append
and reiterate-repair.
A new thread here,
now,
embellish-embroider,embed
and tatt-stitch.
My son and your twin girls, squeezed, splashing
into your tiny bathtub
big-grin-giggling in the gurgling water.
Our future, here and now,
is the brightest of silks,
Our past, mellow and yielding in,
the luminent opulence,
angelically-asleep in,
the other room.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
If I could
I would
But I can't
So I won't
--Be the carpenter to the building up of your ego.
--Shower you with confident praise, umbrella you from dissident things.
--Figure out the high and low moods of an adrenaline *****
--Nod in agreement, like a court jester, to the latest exploits of a drama queen.
Its a constant chore I abhor just to get you up and moving out the door.
Push you out the nest to fly,
throw you in the water to sink or swim, to try.
It's what we do when children are all grown,
NOT what we do for girlfriends who are afraid to leave home or be alone.
It's not a keeping score point system where I'm giving more than I'm getting. Its more of a witnessing to the feeling of the allowing and the letting.
If I could
I would
But I can't
So I won't
-- pave a yellow brick road through your misgivings.
--Smooth off the edges of your indecisions.
--Give you the cowardly lions courage he got from Oz.
--Lie to boss Hog that your sick in bed.
-- Tweezer out the splinters of your perceived injustices.
If I could
I would
But I can't
so I wont
Cottle you, bottle you, can't promise you or promote you. Must remove you and remote you, no longer develop you or devote you. Your on your own.
And in the end, dispite what I do and the might that I do it with... the final road is one we walk alone.
I have to let you go now.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:43 AM UTC
There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;
legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
We live in the unlighted state of America
Where what happens when we turn the lights off
Is dealt with darkness
And matters of delicate touch
Are treated with sharpness
When our only language
Is to inflict anguish
We cut connections in the bedroom
To clear our cynical head room
For contempt and judgement
People looking for a feeling to fall into
Or a reason to live
Must face frigid climates
When the public invades privacy
And ill fated ****** exploits
Pervade salacious tabloids
Our ****** regrets
Cut the deepest
Society reaps them
Sowing us together with resentment
We provide each other with relief
But not the relief we're looking for
We give each other hours of relief
Until those useless hours become days
And those fruitless days become years
That engender endless tears
As it remains warm in our car
But the winter outside freezes anything that breaks the plane
And our air conditioning only helps so much
When the spinning wheels are in our faces
There is a national coverage in the media
That presents a bleak picture of the ****** health of America
I feel I sit somewhere in between
*** offenders and a disgusted public
When I observe the observers
Who are too scared shitless to ever face their own emotions
Judge those for overindulging in their emotions
They lived their life in fear and safety
So they could be the righteous ones
To admonish the risk takers and mistake makers
Yet they are of the least value to humanity
They're the people who grade all your answers as incorrect
Without providing their perfect alternatives
While trying to erase the context
Because of what the context has to say about society
People feeling that they can never be emotionally vulnerable
Until they experience sheer desperation
And no dollar contract
Can replace human contact
Yet we give men so much money and power
And ask them to feel fine in our cold shower
Until we are soiled by their intention
A nation committed to selling Stella Artois
A nation full of Blanche DuBois
Humanity folds in on itself
When we attack with ***
Humanity does itself a disservice
By not trying to understand these attacks honestly
We forsake forgiveness
And embrace desperation
Until we become unbearably desperate
For attention
For approval
For ****** contact
For money
For validation
And sometimes our desperate desires become tangled
I'd like to think of that as love
And not a meeting between two practical rapists
That conjoin in the middle
Yet somehow come out distorted on the other side
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC