"furthers" poems
To Ezra Pound
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.
December 1, 1967
3.8k
Violent roses
give me woozes everyday
I'm hammered on my own
something
is always slipping through
a filter of justifications
language misrepresents me
I don't think words that
spread ideas like intrinsic responsibility
are relavent outside of cults of personality
So I'd prefer to say
through a filter of new ideas
of what safe thoughts are in a fear house
reinterpreted
Soft violet soup
gifting a brainhorse with a two by four
or convictions falling
out of atrophy
or perhaps
a lack of neccessity
I don't know
maybe
a letting go of an abusive tack
that pressed you to let go of joy
Oh I don't knoowoh
To find yourself a damaged adult
with a mind aimed at forgetfulness and
forgivefulness
A new rage forms in tandem
with a promise
to a menacing question asked
by those who unfetttered their wallets
but that was ages ago
and now it's time for a letting go
at least that's
what the last night alone begot
but who is past that inside lie
that furthers time
well I can't see anyway
So **** it I'll lose it or die.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Can violence be countered
Only by violence?
To be equals, we must riot
To be just, we must fight
Why every government every state
Furthers the hate mandate
Even
To show love we must ****
Or the enemies will
We say we want justice and peace
Why, why then this malice?
Where does our heart lie
As we slaughter and die?
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
by which I of course am referring to this keyboard
that i’m writing on now
funny how that works ain’t it
62 minutes until my shift ends
John Prine & the Korean war don’t quite match where I am
clicking pool cues penetrate my headphones
I wonder how many bad games of pool it takes to shake a man’s confidence
by my estimate the answer is never enough
guys that can’t shoot love teaching girls how not to shoot
but the girls don’t usually seem to mind
how very 60’s highschool of it all
maybe Mr. Prine does have something here to say
47 minutes until my shift ends
people trust engineers warns my engineering professor
people trust you to know things he furthers
people trust us to explain
I wish they wouldn’t
tech support & translators for parents & grandparents
people want answers but only when they thought they already knew
40 minutes until my shift ends
pretty good, not bad, I can’t complain
seeing my old highschool teachers at the burrito place where I worked
sinking in the mire of chicken, brown rice, & black beans for minimum wage
ain’t it funny
I can smell the 45 pieces of steak & chicken I grilled when I get home
ain’t it funny
the outrage over the price of guacamole
33 minutes until my shift ends
Dec 5, 2021
Dec 5, 2021 at 5:31 PM UTC
Jingoism at its very best is still zealotry, and anyone with good sense can tell you none of that is good. Where has good gone? Narrowness is boasting ethnocentricity. The mind game of villainous blame furthers unkind possibility. Worse yet, demise of soul, to tout a right to defend, assaults a riffling on pith and marrow with no sane sense of psyche to lend. Basically then, we are told to "blend."
I cannot.
I am fanatical. My colors must be seen. This weathering of dark storm has unbiased relinquishment that must convene, upon a rainbow. With all heart and soul, given to Orlando.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
I remember the last note I wrote,
where he poured venom in ink
scribbled words placed blankly
at the tip of Saturday’s tongue
A mouthful of madness intertwined
between two diverging lives
as returning innocence sparked
cigarette, after cigarette
The warm taste of whiskey
fills a stomach freer than before
The smell lingers at each exhale to fuel the fire
of a breath’s subtle aching for forgiveness
Conversation now lacks substance
Words slur actions to violently attack
without awareness to rule direction
I felt who hurt you, looking back on it
Heavy eyes spoke language to
disease the mourning of our losses
with something to be permanent,
but not entirely forgotten
Your heart bleeds an intensity
of the darkest hour you could find
Separation furthers an inevitable exit
we both cannot control alone
He falls to his knees uneasy
The fall is an alarming salute,
a goodbye that cannot be understood,
a commitment I failed to believe
Across the room, I watch you
I try and tend to the plans you’ve made,
but I am weaker than you had been
The damage pierces my ribcage
It catches me off guard as it moves through
Starvation vows to carry in its place
to feed the body empty noise
I hear silence engage lost attention
An aftermath of memories led astray
to make believe the truth
I wore the flaws love wounded on skin
The scars gave weight to my appearance
to comfort a lack of confidence
Distance understood what was yesterday,
would not be tomorrow
Existing only to heal the unknown
We should of watched time,
return us to what we knew
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.
“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”
Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
The world can be a cruel and hurtful place
We blame fate, or Satan, or even God
All things that amplify
our own failings as human beings.
Fate does not deal in good or bad
It can bear no blame at all
All fate can do is point out
our own failings as human beings
Satan then must be the source of such
But blaming him only furthers his cause
All the dark one does is allow us
our own failings as human beings
Then God must do these worst of things
But that’s not the God I know
All God does is love and forgive us
our own failings as human beings
The world can be a cruel and hurtful place
We blame fate, or Satan, or even God
All things but where the problem lies –
our own failings as human beings
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 4:37 AM UTC
There is peace to be made with
this irretrievable beauty...
a seeming hands-off policy
of inmost heart.
We're implored to take this seeing
with us...for this life that must
be seen through.
This is how the promise of more
furthers itself...a call to eternal
life--the only way peace may be
made with this irretrievable
beauty.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Knowledge enforced to follow, it hurts to turn my back
Lack of truth in its logic, proof to make it easy to swallow?
Befallen by It's calling, resented all the good intended.
Twisted Tables and a created fable, represented by eyes labled shameful. Written words cursed no better, read a recitation, with my own interpretation, ahead beams of light began to enter.
Now they're looking bitter, calling out sinner
Preparing your forthcoming, preparing you for dinner
Forget em, who's rightously judging? First stone, lies are forthcoming.
Fighting our own demons, none but you percieve em
It's this feeling, the darkness and the sickness, the weakness that inhibits the message, soul and will conflicting at the hilltop. Vanity, the start of your calamity. It had to be that guilty feeling, draging you from your heighth of the ceiling.
Perfection is something we're all missing, lying furthers the evil that you felt. Perhaps you hate what's well and embrace the hateful, but its free will that leaves you blame full. Alone, be grateful, believe in Him on your own accord. As the race of the light takes flight I let it enter
Your mind at times, plays games unkind. Conclusions undefined, leaving its history your mystery. Grasp the signs in life, the beauty of your wife, the power in mere sight, surely you can overcome fright. We can't see the whole picture and all the painters live on the right of the sea. It's time to be who we're all destined to be, peace, love, and happiness at the center. The warm sun surrounding us with brightness in winter, let it enter.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Take a shot for me
take a shot, take a shot
as the clock furthers with it's tick-tock
i drink my feelings away
I'm stuck on this one chapter
time to change the page
time to start fresh and brand new
each shot helps me forget you,
helps me get through
wash away the thoughts of picture perfect
now looking back criticizing it was it all worth it
was it all my fault
was I the reason our relationship came to a halt
was it doomed by default
naw it wasn't me
one, two, maybe three
take them for the memories
and let the cup replenish
and the bad times diminish
each sip let's my pain relinquish
as my cup begins to finish
I start to forget thee
but you
you'll remember me
so **** all the ********
and take a shot for me
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
Overcast evening mixed with air and rain
Foreboding hairs rising, thoughts in vein
Words a loss at most to the gloss of this face
Strikingly beautiful to the beholder to trace
And it comes to this,
To care once more
With armor and all,
Flocking feathers fallen a more
There heeds no guide
No aide
To why we do
What our mind forbade
Discipline furthers its stretch
This man and his juvenile mind a mesh
Simply a child seeking a maternal figure
In every woman, a trigger
Trickling on the sides of faces
Are theses outlines for lost graces
Mixed ways in dismays from everyday
Departure to fool into rapture today
This is how it revolves to the middle
Month where a year comes,
To so little
A refreshment course to the choices
Taken hold by desirable answers
Trying to figure not to procure
An imminent ache to secure
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
If it were up to me, I would fill all of my sorrows into a bottle and throw it as far into the ocean as I could.
Then I would run as hard as possible while they sink to the farthest depths that this world holds.
Reaching the darkest pit they so desperately needs to be.
No longer along side me.
No longer inside me.
Finally, then I would be free from it all.
Still continuing to run as the sinking still furthers.
No thoughts as where I would run but somewhere.
Oct 22, 2021
Oct 22, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
bless the weakest those who feel the very souls
who suffer if far near unknown
bless those who speak in truths
whether or not it furthers their causes
bruises their hearts
takes that toll
bless the meek as the bible said
would inherit this earth
as prophecies spoken
mere worded phrases speak the god
talk the angels wing flutter upon
here
there are angels
there are demons
there is sufferings
and plagues
hardnesses seen how each being each
flowered ****
goes through these stages
like our blindnesses
we feel how the hurts surround us
and few those gifted
those who deserve blessings
have this new sense this soul
that lifts the spirits of the eagles wings
to soar above the tallest
mountains and me
who tries so hard to suffer
self flaggelate and shudder
harm myself when others need
take off now
trying to be winged
to be an angel
with time left to utter
a word
a prayer
a hope
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC
Wings set adrift for a tomorrow that worries
for itself.
Wind's plaything whose opulence restores all
retiring worlds.
As if thought perfected down to its wire connects
and disconnects freely the Whole.
Pointedly that Whole knows of itself, and as yet to
know of itself--that lapse that furthers vision in a
flash.
By all soothing shadows that swim hardboiled things...
resigned amongst the transit of other things,
partaking thereby becoming...momentarily.
The welcome home of thing unto itself whose shadowy
screen blew about a holy commune, bows now to its
place to know of it, as an angelic head superseding
gravity.
By blood geared below the surface lapping feverishly...
till a luminosity assays flesh.
Strange the way, The Way is lit...in an instant a world
forgoes itself without changing its heading.
Lone and left to, what's lone and left to...for what
profits an eternity but that which must attain it.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Betwixt our better and worser angel's voices in our heads
That aren't, nor curser, for our inner candle's always lite
So we don't curse the darkness, weeded, bring forth from
The Earth more, demanded by our roots, feet, hands, score.
Solutioning with reality is always diluting or concentrating.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 4:28 AM UTC
it doesnt come frome
his ability to cry
his ability to sing
or his ability to act
even his ability to think
A Poets Fame
comes long after his death
when children can relate
or when women decide to rest
when men decide to weep
it doesnt come from
his ability to write
his ability to ryhme
or his ability to laugh
even his ability to hear
A Poets Fame
comes when the world sees fit
when life seems worthless
when death is at your door
or when emotions grow to heavy
A Poets Fame
is written in history
bound to the pages
and his lost sanity
furthers his legacy
that we try to follow
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 8:15 PM UTC
There's a Tree wiThin our cenTer -
a Tree lies aT our core.
a Tree connecTs us all,
holding ThoughTs from us, and more.
iT Teaches us,
iT dreams wiTh us,
To us, iT is everyThing -
iT furThers us,
iT hinders us,
life is whaT iT will bring.
This Tree is us,
iT defines us,
connecTing us aT our core -
iT is our mind,
iT is our soul.
and iT is so much more.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
In a land where convenience furthers
Not perseverance, and 'ignorance is bliss',
Is amiss, as it's far more than "Godliness",
It being, "All", and n'er is perceived,
The universe of a grain of sand, as it,
Like love, grasped, Just falls from their hand,
Even the hollow of belief
Is an unattainable goal,
For the path less traveled
Is more travailed, n'er sold.
In their opine,
Their best, "skol".
reality
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
Blame it on the system
That never helped those within
Blame it on the depression
That furthers a spiritual recession
Blame it on those around me
That ignore, deciding not to see
Blame it on the one at the center
That ignores the cold in winter
The blame rests on my back
The blame rests on all I lack
The blame rests there till I crack
The blame so restless a heart attack
As I fall into an abyss thoughts turn black
Hard fought steps forward just to fall back
The last call back as I step right off the track
Stand tall even as I sink into the depth lost in cracks
Cracks like valleys and in valleys a kindness
Escape from happiness and all that brightness
Lights so painful to my shadowed eyes
Fights and spite my dark outcries
Lost in the shadow of the valley
The fire of rage snuffed nothing to rally
Acceptance of blame so biased is folly
Is there any blame out there really
The blame dies in my thoughts
The blame dies in my throat
The blame is just a frame caught
Snapped and shuttered shot
Nothing to blame when nothings wrong
Bad break after bad break nothing wrong
Abandoned by those close, nothing wrong
Expectations and high hopes somethings wrong
Assumptions of happiness and fulfillment
Consumption of giddiness and achievement
Got me dying of consumption
Lost in my own assumption
Get ****** over get put down doesn't matter
Bad luck but I still get up and it doesn't matter
Dont deserve any of it not the enemies not the hate it dont matter
Don't deserve any of it not the friends not the love it dont matter
I could die sad and alone completely undeserved
Or surrounded by those closest completely undeserved
I deserve nothing and if I get everything its completely deserved
For all my work to die in a gutter or a home is what I deserve
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 4:36 AM UTC
*Love is the river that we're all emerged in.
We must embrace it for what it's worth if we ever hope to win.*
Going against the tide causes a lot of frustration
While standing still only furthers contemplation.
Whatever your muse, only you choose to do what you do,
and as your eyes gaze upon that big beautiful blue
you must ask yourself what's best for you.
For in this time when we are carried by the grandest emotion,
you see that the river expands, into an ever-growing ocean.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
Boxed red wine and the stench of cigarette smoke
seeping through the cracked door of the back porch
brings back memories of childhood
Another hole in the wall resides next to the liquor cabinet
the size of your father's forehead
You wrote a novel on your wrists with your fingernails
about the stitches he needed from the fall
You wept to me
Saying the fissure in the wall felt
like the countless hours your mother spends
in front of the computer screen playing spider solitaire
She forgot to ask how your first day of school was
for the second year in a row
You don't remember the last time she slept
You said every night spent in that house
taught you what the inside of a coffin feels like
The photograph next to your bed
of a smiling family of four
taken on your seventh birthday
Whispers a story of a mother who refuses to speak
the name of her firstborn child and
Writes its own eulogy
about a light that was put out
fifteen years after it was ignited.
You said time does not heal wounds
it just furthers you from who you once were
what you once had
Now you wake up every night gasping for air
after dreams of a devastated car wrapped around a tree.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
You're a pillar of smoke
that rises up
out of a pile of ash leftover
from a fire I thought
I'd extinguished long ago.
You're the **** of a cigarette
now smoldering
much after I've quit smoking,
and the smell of you
reaching my nostrils
brings acid from my stomach
to my throat
and I'm forced to choke for a moment.
You're the dark ring
around the tub
even after years of scrubbing,
and I hate it because
it reminds me of the rings,
dark and stubborn
around my eyes.
You're the agitated
pressure marks
on either side of my nose
from the glasses I habitually wear
although I've far outgrown them.
You're the splinter
that sits just far enough beneath my skin
that any attempt to remove it
just furthers my irritation.
I can try to forget about you,
let you slowly work your way out,
but it simply takes one rub,
one bump in the right direction
to remind me
you're still there
and I'm sore all over again.
Simply the thought of you
makes me ache.
I ache from my shins
like I did that night
you swung a metal bar across them.
And my ***
And my chest.
And the back of my head
when I tried to roll away from your thunder.
I ache from my lips
like I used to when they'd swell
from the contact of your palms
or your knuckles
or my teeth
so I could hold back my screams.
I ache from my throat
like I would for days
after you would grab me -
I swear you'd squeeze harder every time,
and if given a choice now,
I'd happily pick a noose
over your hand any day.
But most often I ache
from my head as a whole -
my eyes,
my nose,
my mouth -
my temples throb.
I can hear my own heartbeat -
Everything tingles
like when you would box me,
pack me up with your fists
into a small package,
sealed with the stamp
of your forehead
pecked against mine
like a hammer to a nail.
But every beginning has an end,
under pressure
diamonds are formed,
and it's only after a star is destroyed
that we see it twinkle from Earth.
Every bruised eye
has made mine shine brighter.
Every fat lip
has made my smile wider.
Every tear, every plea choked back
has made my song louder.
I am now
the tree you tried to cut down
but my seeds already fell
and I'm growing again.
I am the picture
you tried to shred
but I became a puzzle
and someone else
put me together.
I am the star
you tried to black out
with your darkness,
but I became the sun
and now it's summer time.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
One can easily take that pungent taste on their tongue
and turn it into an emotion.
But it will only describe that who is you. In truth.
She is so carefully crafted, not a true wordsmith,
but with a scornful mouth indeed.
And her language cuts deep in others,
but her pain showing as volatile and misleading.
A sensation so subjective,
that it needs no signal from the brain.
Taking her is similar to a hint of arugula
and a side of unwanted dill, or the lack of water
while swallowing a pill.
The self-pitty only flies with birds.
There is no beauty in antagonistic pride.
It only furthers the alienation.
And there is no life jacket
when drowning in animosity and resentment.
Which is bittersweet in my opinion.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC