"futilely" poems
my
poor
ugly fat
sister with her
ugly fat body blotchy
body and ginger ***** hair
yells in terror futilely begging
'no more Daddy, please, no more blows'
as my drunken old ******* of a stepfather
lashes her wobbly *** mercilessly as he yells
bible-inspired obscenities and hatred from the pulpit
of his demented brain and I am powerless to intervene or else
I know I shall be next and my many wounds from last week's thrashing
are still so tender and unhealed so I sit and watch and gently
********** myself under the cover of the odourous blanket
but things are taking a different turn this evening
as I see dear old Daddy taking out his ugly ****
and then ravish my sister's bloodstained body
and this really is too much even for me
to bear so whilst he is occupied with
the edifying task in hand I reach
for the rifle and taking aim
I blow Daddy's **** off
in filial love
and then I
come
with a grunt into my snot-encrusted handkerchief
OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
There's a beautiful gun in my hand.
Flawless.
The nightshift sun gleams off the barrel like a swan on a lake
At home against the humid sweaty dark pressing against everything yet awesomely singular
The clock stopped a long time ago and gunshots took over in place of the ticks and tocks…
(I'm chewing on something soft)
… and I never noticed.
It seemed natural.
Every bullet chambered was just another hour passing
And though it feels like forever I know its been half a day
Blood laces the treads of my shoes
Hugging the rubber and drawing patterns that I'm less aware of than I am of...
(What is this? It's good.)
... myself
Everyone I know is sitting in a pile.
No more alive than the gun itself.
Still they talk. Memories are shared and advice is given. I don't care to know if its real.
*Everyone talks. It makes sense.
Even the dead*.
The ceiling fan noisily labors diligently if not futilely against the unspeakable heat. It's the only sound I can be sure of. The motion helps.
Nothing else is moving except...
(Chewchewchewithinkicanithinkican)
...My jaw. Steadily gnashing through…
(Everyone talks)
My tongue. I don't care about the blood at my feet or the fact that its coming from my mouth.
What worries me is that now everyone is staring at me and I dont have any gun at all
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
glowing waters, tranquil as though the ocean were holding its breath
and yet breathing in and out, in and out
rhythmic, an inexorable drum
an explosion of ripples as I drop the kayak in,
the disturbances swallowed by marsh grass, waving in protest
murmuring to be still, stay still.
I shift in my seat, heartbeat in my ears, loud breathing
scared of being swallowed, lost to depths where darkness clung –
yet hardly imaginable in this world of dripping sunlight.
dip the paddle in, tasting the waters
right, left, right, left
cautious, careful, clumsy at first
splashes of droplets as I pick up the pace,
salt on my tongue, tasting the burn.
the pull and tug of muscle against the world, a silent war
the ocean protesting futilely, but
surrendering to the kayak with a creaking moan
as I shoot through the water like an arrow, splitting the curling, white-crested sea.
the wind picks at my braid and throws it to the past with a lingering sigh
my paddles cutting through that glossy mirror of cloud and sunshine
shards of brilliantly stained glass.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC
Waning dappled moonlight mantles
the margin at the wild-wood edge
Stiff tufts of summer dried grass spears
sporadically sway — raking against
the scarlet poison oak leaves
gently sweeping away the moonlit silence
airing the sounds of velvet antlers rubbing
barkless mountain willow trunks bare
Subtle nuances constantly animate
twilights rhythm; heaven flickers
upon a dark umbrage of forest pillars
softly as a candlelight’s fluttering glow
evanescing half way across the sky;
the sparse illumined clouds stream through
the lambent halo around the rutting moon
fleeting in the blink of sleepless eyes
and like the silent touch of a talisman,
transfixed eyes are entranced by all
the restless night disrobes,
captured and cocooned by the seeker’s
awakened senses
An erratic, familiar feral bark peals haughtily;
a pack of maturing spring pups yip, bellow and shriek
in youthful pursuit; the howling report back,
ignited by the scent of a rabbit's paling squeal,
aroused by the pulse of brother wolf
rippling deeply through their blood
The dried grass game-trail crackles towards the ridge top:
an aging full moon is not enough skylight
to see beyond a seeker’s stirring silent reverie
the coyote choir’s sudden reveling echoes rekindling
an extraordinary sheltering intimacy within;
bending slithers of moonlight into a dull moonlight mantle
but I can feel its weight breaking me ,... forlorn I can't physically
reach out to touch them in an absolving moment —
understanding love was always the purpose of being ,...
futilely repining — I can't face myself alone again
harlon rivers ... October 2019
.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 8:39 PM UTC
Your love,
Is sharper than the edge of the crescent moon
that was struck in my heart and i futilely mourn.
Glimpse of angelic dagger was your lies,
and you burried it deep within my eyes,
and now im blind.
Your love,
Is hypnotizing like the beauty of the moon above,
In the vague sight of my blindness you're a white dove.
Pain chastised me! tears drowned me! but i still love you,
For you're my heavenly poison that i can't resist through,
and now im weak.
I as your moon wanders beyond lim'tation
just to flicker my lil light even at your reflection.
Go run away from me as far as you desire, leave!
But when you're in need, it'll took only 1 glance above to give,
and you'll see me waiting for you.
Far above the grey sky i silently watch o'er you,
Tears frozed, blood drowned my crippled heart as i stare at you
With your new found happiness that's far brighter than me,
You have your sun now, so ill just force a painful glee,
and you'll see tears in me as i smile for you.
Far above the blue sky you look up and found me no more,
But you never care and thought I'm atlast gone for sure.
Your sun just blaze to its peak & covered me from your sight,
Now my love you're so blinded with her spurious light,
and you never see that i still light for you.
Far above the black sky and now that your world's down,
Now when your life's darker than the darkest night's lawn,
I'm your moon, gladly being a moon rather than your sun,
to give you light in your tragic night when your fake sun sets down,
and you'll see that I'd never will ever leave you.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 5:46 AM UTC
It is almost five a.m.
With each thump of the echoing bass,
of the synthetic revenge and heartbreak,
angry percussion wraps me closer than your arms ever could--
tremulous and heavy,
more absolute than the sunset fictions
you contentedly let me cling to.
A venomous chorus drips from my lips,
once-swollen eyes now itchy and dry.
This is the still serenity of the predawn slumber,
the yearning of the yetsummer,
the quiet before the birds begin scavenging
through grass, trash, and recycling.
I protest--
tongue, fingers heels teeth and lungs
restless in spite of themselves.
You have chased me out of bed,
across dew-dampened grass,
over uneven pavement as treacherous as your voice.
You follow me.
Sleep is merely a forlorn memory
peering sadly from a forgotten heap of warm cotton thread,
whimpering futilely against the anxious pulsing
of overworked headphones
and overthought peculiarities.
You introduced me to this time of day.
You summoned it once with impatient chords
and a staccato keystroke melody,
casually ignoring the plaintive honesty
I willingly accompanied you with.
But the sunrise casts a strange glow, I guess--
rosy and well-intentioned,
fickle and fleeting, like your grin
or the capricious depth of the summer sky.
No one remembers that wandering blue
the same color as her eyes;
but it seeps through your pores,
curls into the caverns of your chest,
an aching in azure only because you let it.
You have bathed too long in the sun.
As the scarlet sunrise erupts across your shoulders
the sky settles into your lungs.
But don’t trust that sky,
that constant companion.
That sky is a cannibal
and it will eat you alive.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Your words---love , deserve, forever---
Cling to my skin
Like clothes sopping wet,
******* futilely at my neck,
Impossible to shelter from
The torrential nature
Of your need
Your need,
Like the clamoring cries of an infant,
Screechy, demanding,
Hanging helplessly on my arms,
You pine for affection
From this absentee mother figure;
Futility resurfaces.
I feel the weight of you,
Pressing on my chest:
The crushing force of responsibility,
Of dedication, of obligation eternal.
I have written nothing
Since your frigid winter crept into my home
And ravaged my bed, my body, my dreams.
You created my hollow life.
You carved your name
Into my tender wrists
With teeth honed to knives
And fingernails like acid;
You seared it with a kiss,
Poured your toxin in my veins,
Planted rue in my garden.
Ruined.
Never before have I wished more
For death's swift embrace
Than when I hear
My name in your mouth.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
There's a temperamental rainbow
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
it's not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.
He might, he can, win its sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering
medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill
his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,
and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
Your hand fits in mine like it's made just for me,
But bear this in mind, it is meant to be
Since you've dreamed a vision of us together
And I'll love us, you and I, always and forever.
Cause when I'm with you, my world is so different from any hell I'm living
And when you're around me, your eyes light up like the stars have been spilled out along with all the suns of heaven into your eyes
You're the one who seems to love this wildflower so she feels as lovely as the sweetest camelias, and strong enough to push the planets out of orbit
As for you, I only know what you've said to me;
That my kisses are oxygen when you can't breath, and that
You feel such an intense desire to protect me from any potential harm
That you plan to marry and live with me for years to come.
But I know with less certainty than you that we'll be together forever to come
All I know is you love me and you make me feel so loved
More loved than the moon is loved by the sun, chased endlessly and almost futilely for a mere glimpse of her silver face
And I know this is a scientifically proven-to-be-incorrect metaphor, but I still love you
And will love you, until the sun falls into the sea of milk, the knees of those arthritic elephants shake and kneel with feebleness, and the great sea turtle turns belly-up, drowning the world in the Milky Way
And even past then
Past the time where men and spirits fade into ghostly memories, forgotten because there's no one to remember them
Past the time that the sun is finally swallowed and held in the sea, past King Arthur's return, and when the giant serpent finally kills Ra
Past the time when the gods grow tired of their human games, and fall asleep at their chessboards, one hand dipped in the Adriatic and a finger spinning the galaxies ever slower as dust and cobwebs of invisible spiders come to blanket the universe
And even past then, past all these mythological improbabilities, past Death's abandonment of his duties and his scythe while sand no longer runs in glasses and he reaps himself
Past then will I love you and think of the spilled out flaming stars in your eyes and the velvety sparks in your fingertips and lips.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Why are we conscious?
Why life?
The universe
infinite flux
Epic Smashing parts together
Brains splattered by speeding bullets
Simple physics
Described in abstract numbers
Sublime
It’s so plain
So regular
How Life is extinguished without emotion
In an instant
Unseen and unremembered
Why did we even bother?
To become conscious at all
To perceive futilely the world
And despair in the flux
Anguish in the face
Of pure entropy
Absurdity is the only legitimate feeling
And yet there are so many more
Why? I want to know!
Why this fait?
Why could I not be a chair?
Simply sitting, never thinking the thoughts
My bane and my bone
My plagued thoughts
In pursuit of clarity
Like a sore that would go away
If you would
Just
Stop
Picking it
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Dying is not the real pain.
The real pain is living inconsequentially
futilely, while others forbid you to die,
but forbid you feel earnestly;
seeing a whole unblemished person,
but little do they know
I am already dead.
#
It's not my pain that disgusts them,
it's the cutting
and that's why they treat the symptoms
but neglect the cause
and forbid me to talk about her
because the sound of her name
makes you regret me.
#
I AM MATURE:
I am new and improved and dead.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Have you ever looked through frosted glass,
and tried, with futility, to define
the outlines of a distant subject?
All my life I have done so.
My eyes are the icy glass of isolation:
They awaken me to empty human shells that,
Despite their sharp scents of smiles and summer,
Are uncoloured with a vague sense of fogginess.
For if you thought them geometrically similar,
Outwardly identical and biologically matching as I:
Just as you would not expect one to talk to animals,
I find myself equally inadequate and
isolated.
I yearn to smash: first, this glass I look through.
Then, the shells of the first body I find.
In hope that, the blood of non-isolation,
Of non-emptiness can wash and flood,
Drown and dissolve the despair
Of an inability to reach across,
Of living behind a glass,
Of fading
away.
All your life you have looked through this glass, and
All your life you have lived in this claustrophobia,
Smashing futilely.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:16 AM UTC
this watch strap
was meant to be
made of genuine leather
the highest quality
chocolate brown with
a steel pin buckle
alligator patterned
finished in matte
though whether cut
from that soft yet durable
popular reptilian hide
as was "guaranteed"
questions will remain
it was not after all
purchased from one
of the authentic
branded sellers
so would appear that
i may have been
caught out by one of those
virally pervasive
regrettably persuasive
and ever-prevailing
peddlers of ****
once again
instead of the promised
"many years of enjoyment"
that were blindly expected
i am left resenting
those moments between
glances at that glassy face
futilely aware of the seconds
minutes and hours
that each split and crack
grows wider and deepens
beyond repair
Nov 24, 2023
Nov 24, 2023 at 9:52 AM UTC
Their freedom to tell their depths is now confined to a week.
But despite the propaganda, they are still afraid to speak.
On the outside, they are perceived as nothing but freaks.
On the inside, their lives are catastrophic, yet also bleak.
From their mountains of anxiety to their valleys of depression,
Nobody wants to listen to their pleading expressions.
They're forced to hold down their feelings with constant suppression.
So desperate to become invisible, it becomes an obsession.
As if their sickness was not as legitimate as one of the physical kind
Just because it plagues their body on the inside of their mind.
Behind their daily masks, they are continuously confined,
And the rest of their lives will be wrapped in a box and predefined.
They often wish things were how they saw them: nothing being real.
They use third person pronouns to describe how they feel
Because, whether they like it or not, they aren't made of steel,
But continue to futilely dance around the solar system's wheel.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
Sadness is a curse as well as a benevolent splash of water in the face.
You concentrate on every dark thing in the world,
The grayness of the dew drops, the depressing and cold impersonal face of the rolling smoky cloud overhead.
This pushes you back to a memory: A song, perhaps, a family trip maybe, something that depresses you in a way that makes you smile futilely. Futilely in the sense that, you will never write a song like that, you feel like you will never have enough fun as you did on that trip. With this, you grow hatred towards yourself. With this malevolent tempest inside of you as a muse, you inscribe beautiful things into the notebook. With your own blood. Too far. Sadness is a force to be used by the ones in touch with self-control. Please, throw your ****** notebooks away and write in pen. Your poems will look better.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
.
returning to my childhood home in thought
returning to mallard quacks tolling
and the hour toiled
by ever thirsty church bells
cold damp rock house with ammonites
and belemnites coiling in the walls
and a cooling ichthyosaur
futilely trying to swim in the silty soil
struggling to catch prey
beneath the foundation
its darkness is rummage
.
a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene
monkshood mint cotton grass and ling
warm mentions an evening fire
and the family room
i'm mooding through the memory
and it grooms apart organic
birthing not river not smoke
rat sized earwigs take to the air heat
over the boiling tar garage roof
and i return home back through time
child swinging on thick vines suspended
by the yew over the stream
the willows dapple and paddle
the fir trees return
fierce sproutings of involving shade
ridding the house
of the intruder new extension
riding time back
and the caravan my parents
would later park on concrete
is swallowed
the storms of a bad year return the old wall
at the property edge
and the cottage reforms an ancient pace
with its surroundings
.
it's no longer my families claimed place
re-seemed with ghoulish history
the workhouse returns
and files with hard poverty
the wall punches through
in what will be the kitchen
and the cottage runs through long
with the neighbours space
dormitory takes the whole upstairs length
and the legend of the garment thief
drops ghost and rumour to live again
and then all this too flees out of history
.
rushing back through time
and this all sinks into the levels
swamp life takes over
and the ammonites
moisten with anticipation
prehistory is sprout to begin
.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
My life is poetry and yours is prose
I can mean things nobody knows
All hidden away in my sweet sharp mind
A thousand guesses are guessed just fine
But they read you better all straight and clear
There's no scheming with rhyme all messy and queer
Though I'm simple enough to decipher and see
For minds majorly lazy nor dullards ain't free
Away, I sit where old red roses bloom
Alone, burning minutes this afternoon
My tears are stuck behind my eyes
This bitter beauty beneath grime disguised
Fumbling around while fair skin bakes
The city is quiet now, make no mistake
I think awhile and then go to wander on
These roses belong to all and so to none
One cool jet of water tries to pass for a fountain
A man in short shorts strides by unaccounted
Laughing at how I’m besotted with my own malaise
I must remind myself that a poet’s task is to praise
But it’s terribly hard to make shields without sarcasm
And loopy concerns will throw wise men toward spasms
It’s almost better to float through hydrocodone dreams wide awake
Than to sing futilely of sand and flights and smiles felt not faked
For this insult to suffering can’t end quickly enough
And the Suessical rhythm leaves much to rebuff
Despite luxurious lucidity the inconsequence falls on
Until next year’s parade and hope of less scorching suns
Because I’m not like the roses I’m not like the water
I’m not like the dude whose shorts won’t go farther
Maybe you’ll realize finally after thrice the **** crows
That my life is poetry but yours is, darling, still prose.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
I swat futilely at the moth
whose larvae happily eat
my bedroom carpet
here for my nightly ritual
antacid
teeth clean
bed
suddenly I wonder
at my own mortality
where is this all going
then I smell it again
odour of rancid sweat
only in one small area
but no mistake
it feels as though the moths
and someone have unfinished
business here
a carpet to eat
a life not long enough
to achieve everything
still hanging on
not quite ready to leave
so maybe we never have enough time
to be satisfied
still, no heartburn tonight
and my breath is minty fresh
(I can almost hear those buggers chewing
as I go to sleep)
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 2:00 PM UTC
The instructions for handling catastrophe
(earthquake criminal activity
explosion medical emergency)
posted, stately, the know
better -
we aren't able to act so calmly in real
crisis
and fear regret,
but not the mistakes that lead us there,
but, as if from the mind of a bad author
at 2 am
suddenly I am saved.
YOU can be a teacher!
YOU can study the Holy Roman Empire!
YOU can dine with engineers!
YOU can delve into ancient religion!
Histories and futures juxtaposed
opportunity mingled with memory
the place where
creators and learners
engineers and historians
the inventive and the studious
partner
to dance the dance of
unrepeated history
The amazing thing is that it isn't helpless
like a personal pint of ice cream
before dinner laden with far too many
chocolate chips -
it slips over the spoon that tries
futilely to sift
and mix -
of all creatures,
the dreamer
is the most random eater,
it fears making the wrong decisions
to live with regret... well
This is none of your business,
yet intimate, the way surprise is
open, vulnerable
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
A universe that breathes its natural joy,
through geysers, and the summer sprinkling
of sugar atop burning crimson oranges.
Which finds necessitude,
in orbits of tender frequency.
Which finds contempt:
in vacuous headlands
and marshes filled with spider's legs.
Which seeks unity:
by golden dusty saturation
and celestial chapels
strewn with haunted bursts
from depressed musical chimneys.
Where I am,
futilely seeking to dethrone myself.
["Your mothers and your fathers,"
said he, at the AA meeting beneath
the musty and deserted Anglican church.
"Where the rooms and the furniture breathes
a sigh of relief as you enter.
Where your bodies succumb
to violent pangs of movement,
movement that is nothing other
than the tides of the ocean
and the tautness of a kite string by the shore.
Where three hundred white silken dancers
trot in flowing garments
Dutch windmills to catch the wind
and flow closer to omnipotence."
Before him, a child sadly sings.]
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
There are moments,
Brief instances in time;
Where I convince myself that the feelings will subside.
Fixated on the past,
Perpetuated by fantasy.
Tricks of the mind,
To assassinate the ecstasy.
Any bliss of romance,
Masked as sins of my ignorance.
Live in it.
Fester and brood.
Allowing time to pass,
Expecting duration to change the mood;
Enter you.
Notice how the air has only thickened.
Imprinted on my heart,
The loss has left me sickened.
Distraught,
Futilely taming my thoughts.
Longing to be connected,
But through trial it’s been tested,
I took too long to learn lesson.
The risk of progression.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
My mind traces your every curve and valley,
yearning for adventure in new lands.
For though unexplored, I can see you fit
me as water in glass.
So why not rush into me, why evade?
Guiding is my specialty, but you writhe
as if in storm, with wind in current as I
grasp futilely at your crashing
waves,
beg for your ordering.
But so it goes,
again,
again,
until I see you have no waves, you weather no storm.
It is merely my eye-shard's trick,
reflected as I lay broken and shattered
about the kitchen floor.
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
he’s got this look like he doesn’t know how much he’s into them for and the kicker is he’s alone. I’d subtitle him as nervous but it wouldn’t be ample. we’re brothers, 4 years between our bleaker anxieties. he talks with his arms and I see my father at age 32 and my father sees me and winks. brother he knocks the table wood that separates us with both knuckles and tells me he’s gonna need luck in both of these and he shows his open palms. he begins to gag and I **** but he shows me again his palms. I lean back in my chair and pretend I am in a very small space and pretend I am cigarette smoke. I see the oval in his throat and then an egg and then the egg broken on the table. my brother he loses his cool and bites his palms and futilely tries to set the table afire with matches, some light some don’t, no matter. he tells me he usually catches the egg and telling me calms him. still, it’s some trick and I say it. not a trick, he says, but magic. he drowses right there in front of me and my subtitle is **** because I am scared. we go inside to the dog we’re sitting for and I retire to the guestroom where I check the eggs in my bag to make sure they’ve not broken. I go into the bathroom with one of them and say down the hatch. I spend the night on a hard bed and care for my stomach. my stomach and not the egg.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:33 AM UTC
Time alone is the ultimate conqueror.
It wears down great men and empires alike.
So too it withers the wildflower;
all break before Aggressor-Time.
The hot sun burns into my turned back.
I thought I'd taste the asphalt for a while.
A begging thumb moves faster than a running fool,
but the sun has baked the asphalt to my feet.
Every northern town worn down by Aggressor-Time
awaits the final blown of urban renewal;
and pop-art will decorate the city streets,
where Aggressor-Time has chosen to leave a slum.
Still, the taste of asphalt and the smell of gasoline
carry me beyond these thoughts
and I run from Time, that sadist,
a shimmering mirage just down the highway.
Resting at night, there's always a bar
and a girl upon a stool, who'll listen for a drink.
Kiss her, love her, then run with the dawning sun.
Beware! For Time creeps up on you at night.
Broad expanses are diminished by the asphalt,
so too your memories lurking in the forests.
But that which you left behind awaits you,
Time, like the rings of Saturn, has no end.
Savor your victory Aggressor-Time!
Your pestle has ground down mind and body,
only calcified bone left in the mortar,
that futilely defied your crushing weight.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
your voice in the night
a siren song waking me
chanting through the surf
beckoning and bewitching
pulling me out through the waves
deeper and deeper i slide
immersed within my obsession
i call your name futilely
then stumble and go under
drifting out to sea
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC