"geared" poems
So it is a controversy. So they say,
Marriage sours if your parents are gay,
The idea of this seems like a self-centered
View, that gay marriage partners aren't
Well to do. Get over it, gays need rights as well,
It's not to decide, as if you were a god,
Whether they will wind up in this place
You call hell. Leave them alone, let their dream be,
You call this a free country where marriage is free?
Or maybe you believe in the idea that all marriage
Should be defined as only for straights, it's per my
Humble opinion that is a favouritism argument
Geared just against gays.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
The girl whose hair
Hung strung from
The crooked inner workings
Of her geared mind
Dusty, rusted, and unkempt
Against her most eager desires,
Bathed in the waves
Of the oblivion that surrounds us
During this night she absorbed
Into the fibers that nestle
Into the strings of her shirt,
Singing against the gentle flow
Of an evening breeze
Much cooler than that
Of one plagued by the day's sun,
And while the fire
Has been extinguished
And its flames dancing in licks
Have laid to sleep,
The moon has kissed her,
And she portrays the wisdom
She locks away behind a steel box,
Chained and covered with padlocks,
A glow never dim seeping
From beneath the lid.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
Thoughts are running through my mind,
Trying to make me look behind,
Why are these thoughts intent on hurting me?
I've become distant from friends and family.
"Why is this?" My thoughts scream in disgrace.
But the smile is still stapled to my face.
Until my thoughts mince the words that I had feared.
I know this now, my thoughts are geared.
They're geared on causing me so much pain.
I can not take much else again.
But as all this is happening in my head.
I smile like I didn't hear what my mind had said...
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
Eternity's cogs
geared and ratcheted
to the chain of time
We settle for the simple
ignore and refuse to witness
the obvious glory
of this world
insist on a miserly view
a pinched token
Then the night
closes in
an embolism erupts
into silence
I take a different view
hold out hope
for far horizons
settle for nothing
and struggle to drive
a hard bargain
with one who holds
all the cards
In the end
I expect beauty
a bright light
and a chilling plunge
into the grey Pacific
I hope for more
of course
a taste of watercress
a glass of wine
and an epiphany
All paid for by grace.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
I am cab ma, please
don’t! Is I, lass, I who brought
scald without such pains.
I am mumbling
coherently a ******
most apparently.
Phospholipids leave
envelope area soon
endoplasmic doom.
Opened neutral taste
I’m sinking in laughing at
something sunken in.
What hell overwhelm
brings ribosome organelle
use geared hither, tell?
Seceded certain
atoms like Democritus
withdrew incursion.
Truncated heavy
organelles under tissue
systems use cycles.
Half polypeptide
accents intergenetic
nuclear spaces.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves
It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster
This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******
I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"
This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married
You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them
My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed
But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts
We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in
I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches
I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands
Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
A friend can be like the storm that blows everything up, tries your patience, causes changes; but reminds you to be geared up and vigilant.
A friend can be like the rain that, at the first pour, leads into anxiety; but later on, raindrops keep you calm, thus a friend shows tranquillity upon everyone – serene and happy.
A friend can be like a lightning rod that strikes everyone surprise with annoyance to the ears; but reminds you that a surprise – with all its noises – grants unsolicited bliss which lasts in memory.
A friend can be like a cloud that separates from the others in the vastness of the expanse, and floats alone – the emo, ; but reminds you to be considerate and sympathetic at all times.
A friend can be like the mist that seems mysterious and unreachable, full of secrets and vagueness; but reminds you to take risk of knowing him profoundly so to appreciate the truth within.
A friend can be like the sun – superior in nature – that can heat up the situation; but gives you warmth in times of coldness, reminds you that darkness would just pass, and that the new morning unfolds soon to absorb your pessimisms.
And a friend is as constant as this – day or night, sunny or rainy, cold or warm, filled or cloudless – the azure that covers everyone beneath any threat, any trial, any worry, any doubt; the azure that holds a promise of watching over you as it did yesterday and is doing today, and the azure that awaits your hopeful tomorrow…
Is that which embraces you under its shelter and defence – yes, the great sky.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
My woman is the essence of being, she gathers the ruin of the day to offer moonbeams. Her touch, geared to moods of the moment, oscillates between slap and caress.... is always, though, kind, considerate, caring and layered betwixt lavender levels of love.
Mother of my boys, protector of the clan, matriarch and Monarch. My Janet, the very love of my life.
M.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 2:21 PM UTC
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
2.1k
Hot boys express emotion
in the resonance and width of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and bitch-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.
Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.
Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
i do a really good imitation of a woodpecker with my hand clenched into a fist, knocking on my forehead, as if knocking on the forehead of others - i admit, i'm searching for an echo of the rat-tat-tat thumping drill for the cure of headaches.
when i inherit what i might inherit
i'll book a ticket to switzerland's auschwitz,
but drinking a bottle of whiskey
and a few beers each day... i'm praying to the gods:
gods! a heart attack! gods! a second haemorrhage!
gods! a heart attack! darwinism taught me
insignificance... so i countered...
well... an insignificant theory and practice...
like nietzsche said about the darwinists:
'imagine speaking for the entire human race!'
well, english journalists already do...
and i'm like hey hey hooray for iraq!
get blown up by a bomb i'd like my limbs back,
or at least the idea of having them once...
shiny happy people holding hands!
**** old age and grandchildren, there's no
accomplishment in that... fake teeth like
no teeth at all... apple goo pulp and then porridge...
what a great reward! ooh! ah! i'm all geared up
for that fear of death... no... i'm scared of being 100 years old;
i wouldn't be, had i been born a Galapagos turtle.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
to suspend
metal gibbet
quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather
whipped
combed and packed snow
ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
an extreme combing exposure
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today
On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
an environment sealed window
wolfing my lunch on a short break
in the warm fire escape
i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind
he drags a heavy kit
mummified in protective clothing
passing my spot and he then heads outward
towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
of the breath stealing
brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 2:07 PM UTC
The Perfect way to “Grow Up Too Fast” is by being a spectator for as long as you dream
yet you know just by submitting an application, you could be on the team
Failed by a daughter’s first hero, the warrior geared up,
Dreams still filled of rainbows and unicorns, lilies and daisies,
fireplace and wooden cabin, hot chocolate and cosy blankets,
chase towards the sunset, walks on the beach and dives into the seas.
First, it was electricity.
It got so shocking, it became cringy.
It was a nice piece of candy, with an intriguing wrapping,
you took a peek and it came alive. Chasing and haunting.
Too eager to have you taste its sweetness, too eager to have you love its taste.
Later when the obsession died down, you realised it wasn’t the flavour you want.
Then, it was bonfire. It got cold, deep in the woods.
In the dark, you see the fire from afar. Attracted, you closed in.
The fire crackled. Your new favourite sound.
You sat by the fire, telling stories of a warrior, of how she dreams in her town.
Ways to take off her shields and disarm her.
It was too hot. The fire almost melts you with warmth.
So you took off your jacket and moved closer.
It burnt you. You became speechless, as you were the one holding knives, so why were you the one bleedin?
Shortly after, a friend came over to look at those healing stitches.
But the request to show the scars were too absurd. You overreacted.
Leaving you in disgust and you zipped up your jacket.
It was just a scratch on the surface. Yet you felt you were quickly catching up.
No longer the new member on the team. “You learn fast”, they said.
The burden, the distance, the emptiness, left you as you were, as skin heals in seconds.
It just made you more familiar as a player.
Bandage ready, you are set for a new Match.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC
Put on your mask
Don't touch your face
Remember to leave
Six feet of space
Look at you now, you're doing the Covid Rag
Get all geared up
Go to the store
Can't find a thing
That you came for
Throw up your hands, you're doing the Covid Rag
You're doing the Covid Rag now
Doing the Covid Rag
Really, it's ****** sad now
We're doing the Covid Rag
Keep people safe
Don't touch too much
Remember you must
Wipe what you touch
Look at you now, you're doing the Covid Rag
Best stay at home
Do not go out
Eat what you want
Till you run out
Throw up your hands, you're doing the Covid Rag
You're doing the Covid Rag now
Doing the Covid Rag
Really, it's ****** sad now
We're doing the Covid Rag
So, Put on your mask
Don't touch your face
Remember to leave
Six feet of space
Look at you now, you're doing the Covid Rag
Throw up your hands, you're doing the Covid Rag
Stay safe at home, doing the Covid Rag
Doing the Covid Rag, Doing the Covid Rag
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
Boxin' up progression
Lockin' down session
Rockin up to lesson
Dressed
Fine pressed
Geared up for givin' blessin's
Confessin' to felons
Commitin' crimes
Soakin' up voddy in our melons
Shoddy villains lookin' back at us
Jhon Goddi riddums
Billin' em for scandalous
Band of trust
Lost
Wankers spittin fictitious
Malicious lies
Leaves respect for wise guys sleepin' with the fishs
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.
No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.
Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.
So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
It may be that you were an astronaut before
And now you clamber unknown chambers of my heart,
Knocking down the tilt-up walls
To find the inner space of your reservoir
And your oxygen; my bloodstream
My heart; your pulsar beating out cosmic revelations
My future; framed by your unblinking past
Terminal comets tumble alongside
Undisturbing of the velocity of your experiment
Exploding suns in supernovae spin-cycles
Left your scientific mood untouched
The last horizon, my need for security
Has been hitched to your superior fuselage
Now we float together, at the end of a single lifeline
I breathe out as you breathe in
A symbiotic bellows, in perfection geared
Neither of us make a move
Except we go in the same instant of direction
This must be what heaven feels like
At the end of time and acceleration,
Facing the unknowns inherent in the expedition
There were never any promises made,
Discovering the wonders and terrors of deep space
And at the finish of my hibernation,
I awaken to explore a mysterious new portal:
Held open for me, an orbital doorway
In galactic eyes of bluest heaven-shine
Which will stir the primordial chaos of my existence.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
I surveyed from my electric piano
Seated in monotonous comfort
In the skewed seat of a classroom, to the left
In my orb of scrutiny
The light was yellow and thin
Each child seemingly no good
Sewing away at their desks, the days literature
One of them contorted, still feet facing forward
Her petite waist shifted mechanically and geared to a stop in my direction
In native culture, her spirit would be something feline and pleased
It was in her focused grey stare, fluorescing milky blue
Her iris’s de-crystalized and oscillated in thick Rorschach drops
As the spell was cast I remained, seated in observation
Wanting to style her maniacal lips
Our thoughts made love in a cloud above this sea of starving fish
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
*One side of my life is alive, the other is dead
I'm walking down the road trying to upgrade
Half of me is in a light but there's darkness in my head
I can do nothing though I pity those going days without bread
While the haves just flip through those pages I've read
They never see the floods and slides cause they read about business till their eyes' red
A part of me believes that I will make it through
Yet the louder part really doubts that is true
All I've done since is cease every opportunity by the beard
Because they claim he is bald behind
Worked my finger to the bone to be kind
For besides failure, there's nothing else I've much feared
Albeit the motor of my courage keeps breaking soon as its geared
You cannot guess the number of times I ain't cried when my eyes are teared
Take it from the racer, take it from a chaser
Take it from a player or pick it from the game
Take it from the greater, even from the lesser
Yes you might be better, but you might miss a lesson
Part of me gave up sometime back, the other says hard luck
I cannot swim across that ocean, not even like the ducks
I've seen less illumination and more of the dark
My road is filled with mud puzzles,once or twice I stuck in that muck
I struggle to survive, I'll hustle till the day I arrive
I'm like the worlds most wanted, karma wants me dead
But life thinks that's fair so she wants me alive
Unless I hit the canvas I won't throw the gauntlet
I might lack tributaries, I won't run out of faith through doubt outlet
All doors seems closed, I know there's one that got me here
The race is getting tougher so the finishing line should be near
Sometimes the sky is cloudy, sometimes It's clear
Some days I'm stressed without a solution, sometimes It's bear
Yeah
Take it from racer, take it from a chaser
Take it from a player or pick it from the game
Take it from the greater, even from the lesser
Yes you might be better, but you might miss a lesson*
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC