"fumigated" poems
our destination is the journey
edged with culture
curved with meticulous attention
infested with corruption
fumigated with potential
waiting to reveal itself to the world
taking time to perfect itself
because like fine wine
we don't age, we mature
into something so different
refreshing the norms
creating a new era of dimensions
a relentless spirit
perfectly flawed
oh blooming flower
a tree known by its fruits
a shackled continent
waiting for the chains of judgement
to break
freeing the truth
this is africa
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
You are
a brass framed
feather bed
in the middle of
a dilapidated forest
white
waxen
cadaverous
arms and metacarpals
outstretched
screeching praise to
Father Fumigated Sky
a tie dyed atmosphere
embodying the ambiance
of some apocalyptic rose garden
bled gold, wine,
& liquid ecstasy
and leaked through chemical clouds
or the coagulated tears of
God...
my strange,
creaky comfort.
may we
watch it all
crash down
in peace.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
nerveless, tingling fingers
hold my brow
snot trickles down my throat, i can
barely taste it
residue convolutes
synapses,,confusion &lapses;
let the temple be fumigated
is this really good for me?
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Broken wings plagued from forgetful skin. A mess soon to leave, from sin conceived of distasteful aggression. It multiplies inside, dividing between the lines, as feelings contrive dead from lies. Processed protests and breathless ambitions argue with this continued fate, we choose to make. So push away the humanity its been ***** by society, clawed and fumigated scared ever last seed, the light that was once held, is now the glass broken inside, were all guilty ****** of our streets, gone to far from what we believe to fight this disease.
haven't written in months so i hope its good lolz xD
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 11:53 PM UTC
A curled-up bundle of skin and hair
Adorns the window-seat
The sorry remains of Kitty
The old lady down the street
To those who saw her struggle daily
With her heavy shopping trolley
All of her ignorant neighbours
And her estranged sister Polly
To all of the people
Who used to stand and laugh
Here lies Kitty, loner Kitty
Written on her epitaph
Kitty was a lonely soul
No family or friends had she
Only the teenagers two doors down
Tony, Beth and Marie
They'd pop in on pension day
And ask her for a loan
With no intention of paying her back
Got money for drugs then left her alone
Just the other day
She'd decided to have a look
In the sideboard drawer
For her pension book
The book wasn't where she'd put it
In the right-hand drawer
Maybe she'd done like two weeks ago
Dropped it on the post-office floor
Mrs Kemp had brought it round
Said she'd noticed it after she'd left
She stressed she was lucky that it had been found
Nearly a victim of I.D theft
Her state benefit had been cut
Though not told the reason why
Thinking about rent and energy bills
She'd often sit and cry
Tony, Beth and Marie are banging on the door
What do they want from Kitty?
They've had it all and they want more
Kitty is now at peace
Her maker she has met
She died alone in squalor
Her heart filled with regret
The council fumigated the house
Used disinfectant till it was replete
The only evidence of Kitty
A large stain on the window seat
There are so many like Kitty
But no-one cares ask why
Abandoned by society
And left alone to die
All that remained of Kitty
Was curled up on the window-seat
The quiet soul with no-one
The old lady down the street
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Thinking about you,
As I play the piano,
Waiting for you to get back from the bagel store,
I grin like a satisfied cat,
Full of sweet cream, lovingly provided.
Our church is being fumigated,
And today will truly be a day of rejuvenation.
The dog is yipping,
The bird squawking,
Alice is singing,
I'm playing,
All this is a mere pin drop
Compared to the choral ensemble
That sings your praises
Whenever I whisper your name.
Knowing your love shall return,
With a bag full of bagels,
And your singular spirit of loving,
Is what makes my play,
Makes Alice sing,
Makes the bird squawk,
Makes the dog yip,
Makes me grin like a satisfied cat.
That knows that it is loved.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up
They looked upon the creature with a loathing undisguised
It wasn't disinfected and it wasn't sterilized
They said it was a microbe and a hotbed of disease
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as banished hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap
In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears
They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand
And elected it a member of the fumigated band
There's not a micro-coccus in the garden where they play
They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day
And each imbibes his rations from a hygienic cup
The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Her love fumigated
my
soul and healed me
of
my heart aches
and
took away plaguing
cobwebs.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
Smoke clad skies
Begin to eerily darken
As I walk down the hill
That's seemingly never ending.
Travelling decades
In seconds as
I admire beautifully
Crafted houses.
Appreciating brickwork
Uniquely telling of times
In which period they joined
The awe inspiring collection.
I catch myself off guard
As I breathe in the
Bonfire fumigated air
And smile.
Fireworks being released
In the far off distance
Begin ricocheting
Throughout my body
Shooting ear to ear,
Head to toe
Screaming, exploding,
Then imploding in my mind
Painting stories way up high
As if they're being told
Soley for me,
My own private show...
The bright colours
Steal my breath away.
I find myself fighting off
The demons of my past as
Suddenly innocent
Childrens excited
Little voices begin
To catch my attention,
Dressed as ghosts and ghouls
Of long gone centuries
Setting off to collect their
All hallows eve treats.
No tricks are needed.
For the first time
in what seems like a lifetime,
I feel alive.
© Karen L Hamilton, 2015
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
Sod the fumigated thoughts
that were meant to be
reflected upon.
My original attention couldn't
be spayed upon, like it was
cockroaches of originality.
I'll crawl upon every blank lyric,
that seeds every page with my
worded heart beat.
Never can my words be confided
to the delusions of others
repetitive replications.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
were extinct is this country once, have been brought back from holidays
abroad.
he said.
they smell of almonds and so does bakewell **** with jam and coconut.
and arsenic.
two on a slide to enlarge,male and female, slightly pink and quite pretty.
i can see his doins without the lens. they live in beds you know, he said.
if infested one must be fumigated by the pest people, with some fumes.
i took a photo, yet wobbled in my enthusiasm so it did not work well.
i told the lady on the bus about them and she said yes she thought she
had them once and cleaned incessantly.the doctor said it was gnats
that had bit her.
she said she never puts her suitcase on beds while on a holiday, abroad.
sbm.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
I close my eyes and recall yesterdays beautiful summers
barbecues from charcoal bricks and slow basted meats
aromas that lingered long after the first sizzle of rare
Mother arriving with a platter of raw hotdogs and steaks
dad fanning the fire with an old tin top. Fumigated waves
of thick gray smoke filling the air, we waited hungerly .
Later stuffed as little piglets we would gather round
the wooden picnic table, and tell stories and jokes.
The sun would slowly begin to descend and the air
would gently cool. We'd all go inside for hot tea
and a little T.V. sitcom.
How I miss the old days, wish I could bring back
even for just one day,. so I could smell the barbecue
and drink mother's sugary strawberry Koolaid,
one more time.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 10:17 PM UTC