"forensics" poems
Maybe I’ll never make a good father,
the world has shown me it’s ugly face.
I see things too logically,
too realistically.
The things I’ve done and seen,
my dark sense of humour,
twisted sources of entertainment
and sexuality.
My sedated emotions
and even my choice of forensics profession
all these things probably makes me
a pretty bad father,
bad husband,
bad boyfriend…
And probably
a bad person.
N.H.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams
i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run
learned nothing in victory
learned nothing in simplicity
complacently
snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs
just relax
mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.
mistakes make us
deliberate chaos
tossed
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings
hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
when words are few,
or stuck in dictionaries
unused or unknown
like
compassion,
tyrants and wife-beaters
scream
with iron fists,
silencing fluent lips
in clotting streams of blood
...and machetes,
severing lucid limbs
from able bodies
in active states of articulation
...and guns,
the kryptonite of cowards
and buffoons,
the callow voice of philistines
and goons,
blasting cogent words
and vocal women
into oblivion
....and laboratories
where forensics of
fingerprint and dna
scream loudest,
sending tyrants and wife-beaters away
to sleep with the devil
in a shallow cell
on earth
or
hell below...
~ P (#Pablo#OTAWB)
(8/11/2013)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
a forensics-related investigation
of some sort
would probably prove very little
in terms of what it is like to be me-
aside, perhaps,
that it is something like
playing table tennis
with a frisbee.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
tomorrow’s raindrops
falling on our shoes
our sheds and our attitudes
dead like winter
feathers turn red in spring
grief is a funny thing
how the mind hides from itself
its faults are shed like yesterday's skin
frequent lessons to be earned
and then dealt with
never make a bargain with the devil
rather let yourself listen
and then swiftly walk away
take your space
and face your inner demons
reside in the cave of safety
within your heart
we know that love is an art form
with more music and magic
bursting forth like fungus
the moment after the storm passes
i am drenched in your fabric
within a glass iris
lions dine on sunlight
and a kind walrus
dunks his head in your oasis
drunk on stone fruit
we drift into this music
forensics are freedom
as hungry lovers
lick loquacious diamonds
mined in eternity
dine upon my consciousness
and find the rivers edge
why do we no longer beg to taste
each other's lips anymore
as long ago i wandered
upon the ocean floor
and saw a tiny star
eyeing me curiously
from beneath the sand
but when i bent down to pick it up
i was surprised to find
it was not attached to anything
it was just lying there
shining like a diamond
within it i could see
everything as clear as day
and it had a musical way
of saying hello
and that there was no need to worry
because help was on the way
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
One phonecall? Alert the public
Who would you call in a stance of conundrum in case the sky's falling down?
Desperate measures in desperate times
I carry an emergency kit with extra ink for my rhymes
And a band aid for my lips to cover up the disease they diagnosed me with;
Of Spitting up filthy ****
Labeling ill kids,
With conditions made up like myths
Deluded? Please.
Excuses are sad pleas to ensure the public's attention skips the obvious.
So I'd rather lock myself away,
And use my notebook to convey my love;
For the person I'd dedicate one last phone call to.
Lock myself away like Anne frank in the attic and write so much fire it produces sparks
the static is electric; the rush through my veins has me lost,
In the cosmic abyss of my thoughts
While I'm lit... I concoct schemes to conquer mics
If you dissect my insides with jabs, I'll retaliate with clever forensics;
Cut myself open for the world to see,
That all I'd bleed is metaphors in overdose...
Infinite similes are the catalyst to my rhythmic metamorphosis
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
So oblivious as you sleep,
I'm getting Wash a treat,
I saw those messages,
The ones you tried'a hide,
Ones you tried'a delete,
With forensics on my side,
It's clear you cheat and lie.
Very simple actually,
With a scan of the phone,
An analysis to read
And I'm better off alone.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
The saddest day of my life.
My mud baked excrement died at sea. Bobbing up and down with the style of a cheap ****** I wiped a tear from my eye as I said goodbye.
A part of me felt choked as white streams of bog role acted as the white sheet of a ****** scene.
No police, no forensics.
Strangulation appeared to be the cause resulting in decapitation.
Wouldn't have happened if I didn't use Manipulation to overcome the chronic constipation.
Last time I eat beans on toast.
Now I'm being haunted by a **** shaped ghost!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
Stars are history lit by lightyears of time
There is one for every being that ever lived
Every blade of grass, every greatest mind
That is why they are uncountable
(The value of life cannot be measured)
Light travels in years and years
Faster than cars every drunken day
It’s no wonder that it starts the planets spinning
Sets the universe in a haphazard dance
(Though music doesn’t conduct in the absence of air)
We don’t see stars like the dinosaurs did
We see stars as they existed back then
A lightyear is a tower with a thousand floors
On every one there’s a doorway filled by glass
(These lives are not yours to live, not yet)
You and me, we’re all condensed explosions
Speckles of supernovas and molecules of galaxies
Humans are a thousand sparks of history
Condensed into one hundred years
(The past repeats because it is always reborn)
Dreams are a symphony played by chance collisions
Seconds in a blink of eternity’s eye
Yet a single thought can flash-bang a revolution
Save a life or take a future
(No matter how you’re small, you really do matter)
We can map space to the edge of our sightline
Make quadrants for fire and roadways for brightness
Though it’s hard to draw lines through thinner than air
To hold electricity in a loop of motion
(Mastery over kinetic does not a monarchy make)
Every day we walk through echoes of motion
Fading into combination and reflecting forensics
Don’t dust for fingerprints, dust for enlightenment
The inspiration in the flowers of a fairy ring
(Eternal dances with skeletons always have the best music)
Shake hands with the ghosts of every stuttering memory
Life is a game played with actions, not words
We the people has always meant people, not person
That’s why East Coast waves echo on West Coast shores
(Midwest sings salt ’n dust chemical rain)
I’ve met people capable of infinite kindness
I’ve been beaten down by unconscious hate
It’s always a game of chess in this world
No one has less than twelve reasons for what they do
(Except with love, which is madness, which doesn’t count)
Every star has a person to belong to
Every past holds hands tight with the future
Every spark has a little bit of kindling
And the crescendo of dreams shifts the world on its foundation
(Burning bright means so much less than helping others catch flame.)
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
I polish mirrors
My story is the collision of what I say
with what you hear or
something careless
That I’m here for
just a sentence
Poorly wrapped
A bow untied
Unzipped
Unstacked
All fallen rose petals
Under-watered
wilted pages
Roots of wounded
Periphrasis
Antlers shed
Their velvet read
With some words flown
from lips and bone
much is left unsaid
Forensics show my story
s-stumbled
Witnesses heard three shots fired
My story channels
Along sidewalk seams
It seems my time expired
That I was right handed
makes my writing
average
marginalized
a ricochet of plans gone awry
Life stays two paces
ahead of mine
Still this story missed it’s stop
Back to the pages of your story again
when do I drop my polishing cloth
where does this sentence end?
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
I see unsolved puzzles
Of broken bricks and bones
Creating shadows, within us
Every step I move towards you
I find myself distant from truth
Then I reach this place
Only to find myself under the sun
But here unlike elsewhere,
The light defines,
Contours of darkness
I confide in this darkness,
What I couldn’t tell you
For I was always condemned
I feel loved in this solitude
I sit by the river and see stones shaping
Just like, my muppet mind
I feel the bliss, I feel life
From my experiences
Running the gamut from mountains to ponds,
I burn those puppets of papers
I say hello to the world
For there is no one to listen
But the trees and the wild...
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Never wear the same skin too long
Lest you get caught in your own death
The eyes were scalped from the skull
Teeth torn out and thrown to the deep-sea
Along with severed fingers for prosperity
Always leave forensics questioning
And wanting more
My hope is to one-day settle down
Make the world disappear
By looking away for a minute longer
Suffering anxiety and questions of why
The scorpion is bottled alive
Jazz on the quivering ocean
In the enclave of a cave
A watered sepulcher
Sometimes mortality is hard to ****
Like a tragedy
We’re meant to be together
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:52 AM UTC
“Boys will be boys,”
The bully’s parents said.
All that talk of discipline
Went over their heads.
The older boys at school
Gathered around the kid
With the glasses on his face;
Knocked them off his head.
Their words questioning
His manhood and his folks
And nobody paid attention
To the nature of the jokes.
“Boys will be boys,”
The principal said.
He washed his hands
Now one boy is dead.
They waited in an alley
Until the boy walked by
A place they knew for sure
No one would hear him cry.
They each one ***** him
Then one guy had a knife
After he killed the boy
He called him a lousy wife.
“Boys will be boys,”
The police officer said
Then used his baton
On the black kid’s head.
A black kid found the body
Of the white kid in the mud.
He brought the local cop, who
Thought him from the hood.
He beat up on the black kid
And took him to the jail.
Nobody knew about him, so
Nobody made his bail.
“Boys will be boys,”
The juvenile judge said
He closed the case
Went golfing instead.
There were no forensics,
No witnesses were sought.
No evidence of quality
Was asked for or brought.
The system had its criminal
And quickly put him away
And that’s where he is living
Until this very day.
“Boys will be boys,”
Never really worked
It only ever pointed out
That the speaker was a ****
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
these preserves are reserved for the children
infinite hours till immanent destruction
since you left i am all perspiration and fear
and gone are the tears of yesterday's inhalation
these fragrant leaves of grass are bound to our carriages
will forensics seal the deal once we are too blind for healing
in demented restaurants and lakeside beauty pageants
your saddles and mounts are rented out for our entertainment
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
Her mother named her White Dahlia, the consequence
of unplanned pregnancy while studying forensics. Or so
she told the boy selling orchids in popcorn bags (he ran out
of sheet music and poetry books). Renaming her Orchid
he’d ram into her all night so their breathing would fog up the
windows, an eternal 21C. A common misconception:
flowers have no bones. He learned what it means to
have a backbone when she broke his fangs
like sugar cubes.
A glass slide is too small a coffin for one convinced she
was “beloved”. The strawberry cigarette ash
should have been the tip-off. Rarely
will a botanist throw their own child under Industry’s wheels.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
expanding progression part 1
July 18, 2011
You can be the greatest man in the world.
Hold power in the palm of your hand like a deck of cards.
Whoops flipped upside down, impending doom, the jokes at your feet.
You're mediocre at best, a solid 2.
You're a dim light bulb in my closet, helping me spend too much time searching for what I want.
You guide me so great, that I feel lost even when I'm found with you.
Your moves are so new and fresh, you remind me of my annual rereading dusty books from the shelf.
When you dance, I feel the rhythm pulse through my immobilized knees, as they collapse to the ground.
You can make the very trees dance as they sit still in their roots.
You're the fiery flames on a boring sultry day.
I don't care to do much today, yet on today of all days, you are there eager and ready to go out and play.
Your fire is so fierce that even when burned out, it's far too expansive.
I think that I may be on to something.
So you're not good at what you're good at at all.
Maybe if you try something that's not quite your passion.
Farming, stock trading, free running, leaning on walls.
Boating, animal tracking, forensics investigations, and conjuring spirits.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.
A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to
know's
impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,
little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the
date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.
The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,
you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ***** with two chambers, ovule adnate to the
funicle.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
My cat WOKE:
Petra Electra Perpetua.
I’m telling y’all, she massive woke;
lit, like wicked wick holy smoke.
She outsmart Christopher ******* dreamin’
teach a dog where a BONE at,
discern every demon,
(not to mention advanced forensics.)
She rise, she yawn, she stretch, she flex
then start cashin’ every other pet paychecks.
She charge per minute just to LOOK at her fur
while she sharpen her nails. My Petra purr . . .
Dogs be all: WOOF
She don’t even answer.
Scribe rhymed Arabic lyrics
while she beat a belly dancer
with her TAIL, pfffffft. . .
My girl don’t tag, she SPRAY.
Mark every wall, y’all . . .
Seen all over the hood, gnome sain?
Offer her Sheba, she like:
Won’t touch it. Give me that Meow Mix.
My girl teach Afrikan lioness about *****
*** on a paean, droppin’ lyrics like mice
other feline get fussy
my kitty get NICE.
TikTok your Instagram feed
right into her bowl.
My girl so woke,
save her own fanged soul.
Slip out the house—she gone.
Workin’ secret route to EGYPT.
Roast every priestess in Bastet city;
My kitty taught CLEOPATRA (u feel me?)
about *****
She scratch Catwoman, pounce on Robin
Batman wet his weak-ass mask, sobbin’.
My girl woke;
so woke she don’t nap, she sleep—
profoundly. Soundly. DEEP.
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC
Five feet left from yesterday,
I think that's where Beauty died.
She didn't die from lack of anything
forensics says there was just
too many hands around her neck.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
My life is a blooming pool of burgundy,
maroon
gasping in the face of doom
dying on the **** of 70's carpet,
tears soaked right through
and you are my exit wound.
Some piece of me that is missing
a hole of despair that needs a fixing
eyes wide open, in terror
stuck glossy and still twitching.
Dearest wax figure of Bundy
when you love, why must you take?
Bring girls home on a Monday
only for them to never awake.
Despite what you say
it is not an act of fate
your manly hands are ******
and within them, lays the stake.
Your fingers reach out
making themselves known
in every shadowed alley
I've watched the news and cried
you've drawn another tally.
Only strong within the cover of the night
you cower away from crowded streets
pray it all looks right.
Someday, justice will find you
and she will win the fight.
Apr 6, 2024
Apr 6, 2024 at 10:53 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Though the evidence was none to slim
They still went ahead and indicted him
Double ****** his charge read
Death to him the jury said
Although the charges made no sense
He failed to mount a good defense
He might have died no one denied
On the evidence that they tried
Thirty years on death row
And then they let him go
The time passed by so slow
There was no evidence to show
That even though he did the time
He was involved in the crime
Let’s call it justice or a sign
Of how slow sometimes the wheels can grind
An innocent man might have died
On the evidence that they tried
Which is what they often forget
When they become an advocate
For metering out state inflicted death
Like no other alternative is left
Even though some are guilt free
Of their charges don’t cha see
Thirty years on death row
And then they let him go
The time passed by so slow
There was no evidence to show
That even though he did the time
His involvement in the crime
Let’s call it justice or a sign
Of how slow the wheels can grind
See he read in God We Trust
Before his life got turned to dust
He was cuffed and taken away
Straight to death row for a stay
That lasted for all of thirty years
Which confirmed all his fears
Justice delayed is justice denied
He thought about it while he was inside
And not for nothing nobody cared
That the forensics just wasn’t there
They refused to review the evidence
That might have proved his innocence
So he had to be patient and keep his cool
Until he could get the Supreme Court to rule
Thirty years on death row
And then they let him go
The time passed by so slow
There was no evidence to show
That even though he did the time
His involvement in the crime
Let’s call it justice or a sign
Of how slow the wheels can grind
Justice delayed is justice denied
He thought about it while he was inside
And not for nothing nobody cared
That the forensics just wasn’t there
They refused to review the evidence
That might have proved his innocence
So he had to be patient and keep his cool
Until he could get the Supreme Court to rule
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
it takes awhile
but the carpet depressions
in your room, eventually fade
even gravity cannot hold forever
your markings
they reside in curtain folds
behind loose baseboards
evidence exists in photographs,
our shadows,
locked, in silvered paper
exhibits to what was
and what we were .
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
Court is now in session
We are suspended business men
And teenage film stars
We are more marketable this way
Won't you take my word for it
All your wisdom is absurd
And a burden to your bank accounts
As the sounds of mountains
Are firmly standing up to bullies
We are millions of years older
Folding stock markets and overcoats
Wearing sweatshirts and sandals
Morning is our only time to pray
As we stray into the wilderness
Fences learn to keep their distances
And forensics is our only evidence
Regarding the dangers
Of too much living on display
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC