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zoie marie lynn Feb 2018
“‘i really can’t explain water,’”
she told me gently,
“‘i can only say it’s hard to breathe,
but god is it worth the smell.’”
by the time her drunken voice went out,
i realized we weren’t talking about the rain anymore,
she once fell for me
and i once fell for her.
never again,
i vowed,
the day she made these godawful tears pour,
but here she is,
and i’m hoping i won’t want more.
we were a match made in the middle of a school,
i never thought i’d be thinking how could she be this cruel...
things change and feelings do too,
“but baby one more thing,”
she said half asleep,
“never forget that i love you.”
maybe that's it. we eventually go numb; because you can't break a heart that's already broken
L Feb 2016
Only an angel can know there's love to find behind closed doors
In time you'll know when you're ready for more
Though you have not a lot to say, let me roll the
stone away
Through you I am saved...
Thank the good Lord
For those godawful things
That brought you to me
Lake Street Dive

For B

Leigh
Veronica Smith Jun 2013
She sat in an empty booth. It was a Tuesday, mild, with a thin veil of cirrus clouds on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barked. Outside, the Commercial Street Flower Market opened for business. A ******* stood on the corner.
        With one the sitting woman opened the menu, scanned it, and dropped it back on the table. A bleach-blond waitress arrived. Before the waitress spoke, the sitting woman cut in.
“I’d like home fries, fruit salad, and a cup of earl grey, please.” The waitress nodded, slightly wary, and scribbled the order on her yellowed order pad. The woman went back to staring at her fingers. The waitress left.
She opened her purse, rummaged around, and grasped a worn paperback of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. A small likeness of a snake twirled up her left index. She wore beige eye shadow and a full set of fake lashes. Her nails were lacquered candy apple red. There was a large scar on her neck. Sighing, she settled in to read. The snake ring’s eyes were rubies; as she turned the page, they glistened brightly. The café’s door jangled. Seconds later, a man slid in to the seat opposite her.
“You’re late,” she said. The man smiled. He had lidded Egyptian eyes and a set of straight, white, fluoridated teeth.
“So terribly sorry. Pressing issues.” He tapped a finger on the plastic table. The woman licked a finger and turned a creased page.
“Still reading that blasted book, are we? How many times has it been now, Laura? Twelve?”
“Fifteen, to be exact.” The waitress arrived with plates of bright fruit and steaming potato. She waitress had poorly tattooed eyebrows. They rose.
“Can I get you anything?” she said to the man.
“Strong cup of coffee. Two cubes sugar, slice of lemon on the side. Thanks.” The waitress smiled.
“Certainly. Your tea will be in, miss.” Laura nodded. The waitress sashayed off and the man leaned in, breaking the barrier between them.
“Why are you still reading that godawful book? Wasn’t once in Junior year enough?”
“No, it wasn’t. If you don’t mind, let’s get to the point. What are you doing here, Jack? I know it has nothing to do with harassing me over my literary opinions.” The book closed with a muffled snap. She slid it back in to her large purse and adjusted her dress.
“I got the part.” He said the two words with barely veiled excitement; they sounded unnatural and foreign.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” she asked. She stabbed a home fry with her fork and sprinkled it with salt.
“I’ve made it in, Laur.” He said. She dragged the fry through a small puddle of ketchup and smiled. She leaned back and drew her hands through her hair, bit her lip.
“Who’s directing?” she asked. The waitress arrived again and they both leaned back, away from each other. He nodded his thanks, blew on his coffee, and drank deeply. She dipped her finger in the cup of tea.
“Some guy by the name of Cranston. Will, I think. He’s good. Directed a film called The Devil in Whitethorn. You might call him an artist.”
“Oh, Christ. You’ve made your big break, have you? With a ****** arthouse director no one’s heard about? I’m impressed, Jack. Real impressed.” She sipped her tea. “What’s your deep, philosophical movie about, Jack?”
“A man dragged wrongfully in to hell who has to prove to the Devil that he is a good man,” Jack said. His chin rose slightly. “he goes through his life as an invisible man, observing all of his human mistakes. Eventually he discovers that Hell is just another version of Heaven and it’s all a test to get him to look at his life as an outsider. I play the college version of the lead. I’m third-highest billed.” He reached over and snatched a strawberry from her plate. She smirked.
“Wow,” she said, “sounds deep. Almost like one of the sappier episodes of The Twilight Zone, twist and all. Tell me, does Shatner play a PTSD-riddled man who sees monsters on an airplane? Is the Devil a fan of billiards? How many aliens are in this movie of yours?” she smiled at him, exposing a line of somewhat crooked teeth. “A movie, huh? Congrats.”
“Many thanks. I thought that someone who appreciated the subtle insanity of Vonnegut might appreciate a good deep film. Are you going to finish those?” he gestured at the fries. Six of them remained. Laura slid them across the table and tucked in to the fruit plate. “No more awful local commercials for me, love.” She scoffed at that.
“You’re a crap commercial actor. How much money are you getting for this little highbrow film of yours? One K or two?” She stabbed a honeydew square and crunched it between red lips.
“Four, doll. More than you make in a month.” Her cheeks reddened.
“I don’t need much, Jack. You of all people should know that.” She coughed lightly in to her napkin. “You’re a tricky *******. How long have you known?” He licked a spot of ketchup off of his  finger.
“Oh… Five weeks? Six? Somewhere around there. We start shooting next month.” He leaned forward, lightly brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. “It’ll premier downtown on the seventh of July. Be prepared, since I’m dragging you out there with me. You’ll need a cocktail dress and modest makeup.”
“How modest is modest?” she asked. He surveyed her face, scanning with his eyes squinted slightly. Her face flushed a touch more.
“Hmm…” he said, “drop the red lipstick, add a few more spots of cover-up, light champagne eye shadow and less blush. Also, ditch the falsies.” She laughed, a light trill.
“I don’t leave the house without them. I suppose I can scour my collection for some more… What was the word you used? Modest pairs.” His fingers stopped rubbing the thin, veined skin on the back of her right hand for a short moment.
“In other words, you’ve said yes.”
“Yes, I have.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood up. “Call me some time. You haven’t forgotten my number, have you?” Laura grinned. He picked up the lemon, separated the meat from the rind, and rubbed the white flesh on his teeth.
“No, I haven’t.” He dropped a single white envelope on the table. She surveyed it, placing it next to the tattered paperback in her purse. He walked away.
“Oh, and Jack?” she called without looking back at him. He stopped mid-step. “I wasn’t wearing blush today.”
He grinned harder, waved his goodbyes to the waitress, and left. The door jangled. She finished the last dregs of her tea, dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table, and stood up. It was a beautiful morning. She walked outside. The bells on the entrance jangled, stilled, and their song died.
Written under the influence of WAY too much Hemingway.
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
When demons are your judges,
you are guilty of everything
They will string you from the Hanging Tree
then drench you in gasoline

From Smoldering Skies, to infernos inside,
I'm writhing as my demons sing,
"Let the ****** burn!"
as the godawful guilt is churning

I should've come clean quicker,
but these walls keep me filthy
Maybe, a burning is what I need,
for right now, I'm guilty
Aarya Jan 2014
It's lunch time
And I'm in my math teachers' room
Writing godawful poetry
When I have a math test next period.
Our health class
Just watched a video about cyber-bullying
And the girl forgives her lying backstabbing ***** of a friend
I just called my friend
Who is absent
I called her twice
And she hung up twice
          Sixteen seconds
          Eleven seconds

I'm sitting in the library now
On a circular table
          Table for four.
I am one
But I always sit on a table with empty seats
So that I always know I am alone
This red ink looks darker in this lighting
A much more appealing shade
In comparison to how it looks in my bedroom

I'm thinking that I all I should be doing for the next few years of my life
Is math and music
          More of both

I'm really scared one of my friends will come and sit next to me  
I'm pretending the monsters from Six Skies are there
This might be unhealthy

Some ***** Megan just sat here
           She's not really a *****
But can't she see that my monster friend is angry
Because she just took his ******* seat

Whenever I'm in math class
I always feel like writing poetry
When I am writing poetry
I don't want to do anything else
Math class is over in five minutes
I think I did okay on my test
But Spanish is next
And I know I won't be doing okay there

My stomach feels as if
The acids that are supposed to be breaking down my food
          There is none shh
Are killing the lining of my stomach tissue
I have a self-destructing *****.

Once upon a time
This used to be a math notebook
That's all I ever write about in here
          math.

This is satisfying
My monster friends from Six Skies
           aren't here
           and
           I really wish they were.

I'm sitting encased in a red velvet colored blanket
It's actually my brothers
This is his third blanket
He got it for Christmas
Its his for a while, and then I take it
          even though I already have one of my own
So I guess he'll be getting a new one soon

The monsters from Six Skies
           are here
           watching me
           protecting me
I quite like their company
I don't want them to leave
           even at school
It's not a metaphor
But then again some days I look at myself in the mirror from several different angles of view
More satisfying than I'd imagined.

I forgive everyone for everything
             and I don't angry
Before it was anger and unforgiveness
Slowly I realized feelings like these
            were just too unnecessary for me
I think I do too many unnecessary things things like that
And I want to cut all of it up
I like basic
But I also like intricate

I have been writing poetry
           for three years.
           since I was in the sixth grade
They all used to rhyme
And my parents would be proud
Because I was proud
           as I grinned while I read them to them
And they were proud because it was about things
            like sunshine
I wonder if they would be proud now
Because I never even show them
And the only time I write about sunshine
            Is when something else is eating it away.
Jai Rho Jan 2014
When I got to the hospital, the nurses told me he was still recovering from surgery for some internal injuries and this and that, but I could go see him for a bit. So I went up to his room and realized that I didn't really know what he looked like, other than blood and bruises, but I could still tell it was him by the way the bandages were wrapped around his head. "Hey Chief," I said, "howya doin'?" This time I knew he was conscious but he didn't say anything. He just gave me this look like he was saying, "Who are you?" and "How do I get rid of you?" at the same time. So I replied, "I know your name is Mitchell, but I figured the only way you'd remember me is if I called you 'Chief,' like I did before." That got his attention and he threw me this sudden, glowering stare for what seemed like a real long time, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. I thought I had ****** him off with that "Chief" crack, but then he said real soft,  "My name's not Mitchell."

     That suprised me a bit, so all I could say was, "But that's who's room this is, according to the nurses."

     "Maybe so. But that's not my real name . . . It's just a name I made up."

     "What, you on the run or something?"
    
     "Something like that."

     "And you ain't a Marine?"

     "How'd you . . . ?" Another stare, and then, "Nope. Not now. I was though."

     "I don't get it."

     "Mitchell was a name I made up when I joined the Corps . . . "

     "So, why did you make up a name? . . . You got a record?"

     "Nothin' like that . . . My real name is Irniq . . . It's an old Inuit name. When I joined up, I thought I was puttin' those days behind me."

     "Inuit . . . What's that, a kind of Indian?"

     "It means, 'People' . . . but you prob'ly think of us as 'Eskimos.' We don't like that name, so we don't use it."

     He stopped looking in my direction and kinda tilted his head back and rolled his eyes back before closing them. Then he took a few real deep breaths, and said, "I grew up in a village that was mostly hunters and fishermen. It was fun, when I was little, kind of like goin' on an adventure all the time. But as I got older, I realized how dirt poor we were and how we seemed to catch less game every season. And then I learned that our tribe owned land that the oil companies wanted to drill, and that the oil money could end our need to hunt, and get us modern, comfortable lives, but the tribe kept clingin' to their old ways. My father said it was oil that wiped out the herring habitats, and caused the seal population to crash, and was keepin' the ice away. I didn't care and thought he was a fool fightin' a losin' battle. I thought I saw the future and that he was goin' down with the past. We had terrible fights and I believed that the man who had once been this mighty hero of mine had turned into a pathetic has-been, and I didn't want to get dragged down with him. I thought that by leavin', I could somehow be part of the future. I didn't have too many places to go, so I joined the Marines."

     "Then what are you doing here?"

     He dropped his head forward, opened his eyes, locked them right on to mine, and said, "I left the Corps a couple of months ago. When I joined up, my father told me he no longer had a son. I guess I didn't really hear those words until I went back home and he shut the door in my face. My mother came out and tried to welcome me home, and get me to stay, but I knew that my father had been right all along, and that it was me who was pathetic. So I got on a bus and went as far as I could until my money ran out, and here I am."

     "What do you mean, about your father being right?"

     He closed his eyes again, brought both hands up to the sides of his face, and said, "When I was in the Corps, I got sent to Iraq. I was pretty gung ** at first, and thought I was fightin' for freedom and the way of life that I wanted, but then it just seemed to get pointless. Day after day of cat-and-mouse with an enemy hidin' in plain sight and no real purpose other than bein' there and gettin' into firefights. Then one day I was on this mission clearin' some homes of insurgents. I was leadin' a squad goin' door-to-door and not havin' much trouble 'til we went to this one house and there's this woman screamin' and tryin' to get past us. A couple of my guys had to hold her down while the rest of my squad got her family to kneel down beside her. The woman kept on screamin' and we didn't have an interpreter, so I went up to her and tried to calm her down. I told her in as soothin' a voice I could that we weren't goin' to hurt anyone, we were just lookin' for bad guys, when I saw this blur out of the corner of my eye. The woman started screamin' louder, and I turned and yelled, 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' a couple of times, but it kept movin' fast and I just reacted . . . I didn't have any time to think . . . it just kept movin' . . . and I was yellin', 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' . . . but it wouldn't stop . . . it wouldn't stop . . . it just kept movin' . . . . . . and I reacted . . . I just reacted . . . . . . and then there was my muzzle flash and this red mist . . . . . . this red mist that just erupted . . . and kind of hung there . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and then the woman wasn't screamin' . . . and I wasn't yellin' . . . . . . . . . and there was just this little boy . . . . . . . . this little boy, lyin' on the ground . . . . . . with this mush where his face used to be . . . . . . . . . . . and it was quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . so quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . until I heard this sound like nothin' I ever heard before . . . this kind of moan . . . this deep, hollow, primeval moan that kind of rumbled at first . . . . . . . . and then it grew louder . . . and louder . . . and the pitch got higher and higher . . . . . . until it turned into this ferocious gut-wrenchin' shriek that filled my head and reached way down and ripped my insides out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and every day I try to put that boy back together in my mind . . . . . . I try to see his face . . . but I can't . . . . . . . . . . . . I can't see his face . . . . . . and I can't get that sound out of my head . . . . . . . . . . . . every single day . . . . . . . . . . . . and all I can see is my muzzle flash . . . and that mist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that godawful red mist."
Robert Zanfad Oct 2013
it's another autumn
migrating geese bark like dogs in distant clouds
marking their journey for earthbound creatures;
tree-crowns browning in rust
frame liquid skies neither of us reached,
though, our younger selves tried

from shelves of every Beatles' album ever made
organized alphabetically by noon after a vetted maid left;
we imagined rock stars strumming guitars,
turning our godawful poems into even worse lyrics
to make us feel important
in hungry aftermaths of disappointments

five star dinners cloistered within the entourage
of strongmen your father sheltered;
they would close restaurants for us
he spoke hushes of business from a stead at the head of table,
and broke men like you,
ordering salads made only from tender hearts of lettuce,
the rest set on plates of those less demanding

I remember blinking away teenaged intoxication like fever,
a world without rules for behavior,
a sixty mile drive to buy Italian hoagies in Atlantic City after midnight
because there was no one to deny an urge
to bend night to daylight; they reopened business for the son...
you knew they had no choice...

you showed me how to climb to my second story window once home again
leaving me hanging from the sill 'till Mom woke to let me in -
mind spinning, mumbling my drunkenness -
goodfellas never worry over consequences
she thought she hated you then,
I learned a measure of self-assurance

but there, in a too-small pup tent
you bought one summer by the sea
to work a job flipping burgers at the boardwalk for money
otherwise spent like water at the public shower
you bathed in

to be near any nagging mother
who set out an extra plate at dinner, because she secretly loved you, too
to be close to broke, dangling brothers like me
I felt the poverty of family

this morning I found the black suit and shoes in back of the closet-
abandoned search for lost yarmulkes that lived among mated socks
and wondered when my shadow disappeared
so many agos, this beard gray, time a dead skin I live in today

we'll lower a set of mortal remains into yet another Gethsemane -
under the cemetery canopy,
covering a carpet-rimmed hole still moist with yesterday's rain
I'll see the blue tent you sheltered in that season at the beach
feel closeness again as if there were no
intervening ocean of living between

there will be neither memorial service nor repast, after ...
only this
Klvshp0et Oct 2015
If God don't like ugly
God don't like me.
Which is why
I'm so unlucky.
It's like my money
telling jokes in my pocket
because it knows it's funny.
I live in Texas but
My days are never sunny.
They are much rather gloomy
and the darkness consumes me
until I get a bit wreck less.
Faded
till I'm speechless.
Smoking
till I'm breathless.
Til my mind isn't restless.
Sippin the devils elixir
made me far from quicker
but I feel deathless
because I'm high
off of **** and antidepressants.
God don't like ugly
and the people
walk about corruptly
in this world of vanity.
That grips the sanity
til it produces
a lack of empathy
for its fellow man.
This world of vanity
has me trapped
In my own reality
because I'm not
appealing to the eye
and my words
not appealing to the soul.
Still dress to impress
to catch a lost ******* soul
lackin control
to ride this ****
like a slippery *****.
God don't like ugly.

If God don't like ugly
God don't like me.
Like a ******* child
that's he's forgot about.
Made in his image
but far more warped.
Who realized his potential
and leaped from the porch.
Into a sea of fakes
trying to achieve an image
sharp as a sword.
Just as mighty as the lord
but they always come up short
because they are mortals
between the portals
of heaven and hell.
So the paranormals ******
the brains of the godawful children.
Until everything is up for sale
including their soul.
To feel a feeling that will never bail.
This life has been hell.
Yet, we bask in the heat
of the moment.
When temptation rains upon us
we always lose focus.
How can we resist it
when him and his enemy
sent it.

If God don't like ugly
God don't like me.

-Klash
Please like & share :) much love!
Turquoise Mist May 2014
My fingers roll around the handle
Holding tight, I twist
Slowly, I make my way around the can
All of the sudden
Her hands
Cover mine
Stroking, squeezing
Not guiding
No
Not guiding
But
Her, warming up
Me, cooling down
Yes, freezing me
With the knowledge of what is
To come
With her other hand
She makes a fist
And punches straight through my sternum
Blood sprays and
Shattered fragments of my ribs
Litter the floor
Reaching in
Her poisoned fingers
****** my heart
Leaving behind
Black prints
Red streaks
Evidence
But only I can see it
Within seconds
My spine is tingling
Every muscle in my body
On edge
This gaping hole
These fingers
Draped around,
Constricting the one thing
I thought she couldn't touch
Yes,
It's too much
I am ice cold
I am about to close my eyes
Forever
But before I can succumb
The air in punctuated by a palpable
Pop!
I lift the lid of the can
Set it off to the side
And pour the thick liquid into the ***
The stench is overpowering
It crawls it's way all over the room
Cramming into the very crevices of the wall
Behind me
Above me
Beneath me
I can not escape this smell
I am smothered in a blanket of this decaying odor
I am boiling up
Hot and steamy
With every inhale
My nose is filled with the tendrils of this pungent aroma
Soon I can feel it
Gnawing through my flesh with no set course
I can do
Nothing
I am at the mercy of this smell
It will do with me
Whatever it desires

Please, finish!

Her voice breaks through the fog
Scratchy and distant
But there

You need to finish!

Again, it comes
This horrendous voice
But I don't want to
I know what will happen when
I finish
I know
And I don't want that
I will never want that
I am sick to my stomach
Really, I am
You make me sick
You and that godawful smell

I can't even pick up my spoon

All I can think is
Tomato soup is served
Way too often here
Alexa Sep 2012
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.

The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
    so they pack their sacks with their old guns
    to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
    condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.

The first bullets abandon their barrels,
    the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
    eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
    booming into cacophony
                                                      in shrill-major.

Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.

Out come the canons,
              dancing on their wheels,
           silencing the gunfire,
         spinning on their heels,
     dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.

Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
     armadas sing in baritone
     while civilians scream soprano.
         Children cry in alto.
         Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.

While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
       fashioning,
       always,
    a bellicose smile.
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
godawful walls built from my guilt
put up around me, like bars around a freak
and here I am to wallow in the filth
surrounded on all sides by a fate so bleak

faceless corpses hung up like blank picture frames
putrefied pity seeps in through the cracks
choking me, as I'm made to give them names,
but my own reflection is not intact

before me, a shattered mirror
in each solemn shard, a piece of me
with every one, I'm all the less clearer
and my ******* I'm disgusted to see

as the remorse raging within grows
the walls around me slowly close in
threatening to crush me between my throes
of guilt and shame that build within

another tally to be marked upon the slate?
fearing I may join the lifeless numbers
before I can say, "it's too late"
clawing at my face, hoping for a silent slumber
What does it take to build a House of Hell & Horror? Walls, for one. Walls of guilt that slowly close in on you as you struggle to cope with something you created. Walls, chalk full of vague memories that have come back to haunt you. You can run from them, but once you pass the mirror, you realize you can never leave, because the walls are closer than you think.
i remember again why i hate the summer as the jeep jostles on the bumpy dirt road to the river

my shorts ride up over my knees and i have to keep my hands splayed over my thighs so you won't see the godawful things i carved into them years ago

the music blares and skips like my heartbeat does when we hit a pothole and you go flying into me

you laugh, leaning against my shoulder like it's nothing to you

i laugh, the heat of the day creeping into my face because you're everything to me

i stammer out something dry and everyone laughs

you look at me, the glitter of the sun against the river quite clear in your eyes and in your smile

you tell me you smile with your eyes and i believe you

i adjust my sunglasses for the third time but by the time we arrive in a cloud of dust and laughter the sun is already behind the tree lined mountains
" IT is like there are these two Dogs
that I hold inside of me.
One wants to sit in my lap and lick the hand
and play and dance and go for long walks.

THEN there is the other, it wants to grimace and growl
and bare its teeth
and rip off the face of this world
and of everything that it sees."

HERE,
in the mechanics of the mind, as it matters,
halfway from heaven, half way from hell,

SOME just aren't mechanically inclined,
and while most move forward
others get left behind.

A BOOK talks about this big war of Spirit
an its stress is that it is no game,
no politics physical or not can steer it,
there will be no passing of the buck,
no pointing the finger in blame.

NO LONGER
am I walking with my head
up in the stars,
my feet are  flat  right  on  the  ground.

I PUT MY EAR
to the track and hear
that heavy chunk of metal
with its painfully mournful sound,

THAT
painful whistle
with
its mournful sound.

I AM
walking on earth, that half way place,

I AM
being tugged

AND I
don't want to dig a hole,
I don't want to go back down.

I TELL YOU WELL,
the universe is saying
in no uncertain terms
that I had better hold back,
that I had better take heed,
it isn't just me that gets cut,
no it isn't, no, all others bleed.

ALL those **** good loving deeds
that hath spawned better life
and don't know that I don't know about!

WHAT ABOUT
all those hurtfully hostile things,
those things
that gave Hell for many to carry,
Those things that gave Hell for many to tell.

THEN
a breeze broke the solid heat
and quelled the sweat
and quenched the thirst,
you can toast the twisted souls
or you can have them cursed.

MY MINDS EYE,
for one brief moment,
no longer enveloped and inflamed,
nor will I ever see things quite the same.

NEVER
is it one cause, one reaction,
and Oh
my thoughts and my actions,
my
shame that comes
in fractions of degrees.

I CAN say there are other planes,
I can think that if I please,
though with every breath that I breathe
I'd rather announce to the world
that I'm not out just to feed.

BUT THEN
there is that sleeping dog,
that one sick soul,

AND
out of some emotional need
to make it better,
some need to make it easy,

LIKE it had some pain or purpose,
or a point of some need
of something that just had to be said.

THAT dog that you kicked
only had a snack of grass
before he laid himself down to take his bed.

YOU have been nudging him
with your boot and now he is awake
and he is going to open his yap
and ***** on you shoes
before he commences to growl

AND that godawful hell... will be back
and its going to extract

ONE BLOOD CURDLING HOWL.

You may as well just throw in the towel
because it can't be tamed, no your mind is trained,
this devil goes by so many names.

end


Al Rights Reserved@1997
Bailey B Apr 2010
as a whole I have
{been listening to your godawful racket}
ruminated
for an entire rehearsal number
{though it felt like six}
and have a few things I would like to address
as a
{brutal bandslaughter}
kindly input
for your improvement
flutes
{come on now,
have we ever heard of a tuner}
great job, watch your pitch on the A, though
again
{scratch that, where's the shotgun}
...right.
clarinets
first parts play
{no, stupid, you are SECOND part
you got demoted last week
when you couldn't play the riff in
measure nine}
wonderful, now could we take it from letter B
just first clarinets, okay
{FIRST clarinets
FIRST FIRST FIRST
god where's my coffee}
right. let's just move right along, shall we
oboes

oboes, I--

right.

let's have that F again
{you're flat you're sharp and
both of you
just plain ****}
okay, one at a time
{oh my LORD my ears are bleeding
who the hell invented this thing}
you're a little sharp
can you fix that
...your reed is old
{you bought it last week}
...you've got spit in it
{you just took an entire twenty measures
of the last movement to
pull out your swab}
...someone broke your horn.

right.

okay French horns
let's hear the G
rebecca Nov 2013
I must
run,
escape from all this.

I need an oasis
to get me away from this desert,
this cruel, godawful desert.

I can't survive,
always living in a daze,
just breathing in and out.

Why can't my oasis appear?
my mind is a gnarled, jumbled mess,
of unfinished thoughts, evaporating sentences.

Why can't it end?
the pain, the suffering, the state of perpetual fear,
the sleepless nights, the hazy days.

My oasis,*
is self inflicted, like my pain,
so why am I gone before ever seeing it?
Ohmygod this is really bad idk what I was thinking....
Megan Hoagland Mar 2013
She stares past as her life flies by,
some memories sweet
while others dissatisfy.

She remembers she was 8
and her dad pushing the swing
with muscular ease
as her hair swayed
with the honey-suckle breeze.

She remembers her 15th summer
racing on through
bringing with it raging hormones
and ***** boys.

She remembers bitter tears
shed on mother's caring shoulder
when Robert said that they were over.

She remembers prom and
mistakes she made
and the boy who never again
glanced her way.

She remembers the agony
9 terrible months later brought
for a tiny, screaming baby
and she remembers the love that grew
in spite of the pain.

She sits on that bench and
quietly remembers her child’s firsts:
teeth, words, steps that grew into strides.
and her only regret: only the man
with his godawful pride.

She climbs on the bus
gently grasping the hand
of her bright eyed
and well-loved child.
And this child,
this child,
who is wealthier than most
for the child knows only of
love.
Kinda slapped together, but enjoy...
Anna Vida Jul 2013
Las Vegas is *****
Las Vegas is mean
Don't swim in Lake Mead,
Your skin will turn green.

Be careful on the Strip
The tourists are brutal
You can't avoid traffic
All efforts are futile.

Las Vegas is *****
But the suburbs are clean
Yet no one can drive
Their expensive machine.

I hate Las Vegas
This town is a drag
It's hot beyond reason...*

I was going to continue this poem in verse
But hatred doesn't stick to measure
Hatred cannot be contained
And hatred is penetrating
And hatred lives in me.
When I see the signs of this godawful town
And I want to slink out of my skin
And bleed out on the tarmac.
Melissa S Nov 2016
The leaves were just at the very peak of their color
and the air was full of change
Seasons have come and gone
and still I cannot forget his name
Sometimes we have to let go
of those godawful memories
In order for our heart
to forget the pain
Darkness will try to ride up on
its darkened horse from behind
Some days I just ride it out
Other days I beat it back down
All that animosity makes us go blind
I have to remind myself that I am not back there
I have to remind myself to just breathe
Some days we all feel sad and I think we just have to ride it out
Feel it, then move on
mark john junor Oct 2014
this noisy head i live in
it just never quiets down
theres some motherf#@ker screaming at two am
about some unpaid bills or parking tickets
and some other idiot going on and on about some girl that left
somebody is always throwing trash out in the common area
little bits of some ancient relationship
small parts of some old mystery
just want to tell em all ''will you all please shut up"
stop that godawful freakin racket
some fool on the roof shouting poetry just when your drifting off to sleep
another idiot in the basement throwing monkey wrenches in the works
always somebody causing some kind of ruckus
just want to scream
"can we PLEASE get some peace and quiet for five minuets"
this crazy head i live in
i want to move
to some nice quiet country house
where you never hear a sound
peaceful with birds chirping
where i can get some rest
not this confounded noisy head i live in
not this apartment building of lunatics i call a mind
(do me a favor...shut up)
Frank Ruland Nov 2014
My Flock, must we endure
these Godawful discrimination?
Must we be blackened--
branded, by this bastardization?

Cast aside and left behind?
By the demons that demonize?
The errors of their ways,
they don't even care to realize!

You are NOT black sheep,
nor are you pariahs,
merely because you're
belittled by self-proclaimed messiahs!

Stand up!
To Hell with these heathens--
sardonic sadists, berating with pleasure,
proving themselves hellish hedonists!

We are no strangers to the anger,
but due to no fault of our own!
We strive to find green pastures,
though they leave us with no home!

They treat us like lepers--
throw us away like trash!
They take what they want,
then discard us like cigarette ash!

No More!
We are people with names,
not their ***** scapegoats
to go and place their blames!

My Flock, do not turn the other cheek!
WE ARE NOT OUTCASTS
We are a proud people,
and this abuse will not last!
You tell me one thing one day
and another thing the next.

What takes the cake is
you turn around and wonder
why is it that I'm perplexed.

Even the ugly has its place,
what is ugly to one
is beautiful to another,
that is , once you get past the face.

A silent psalm does surround
a starry angles glow,
wiping the tears of fears. Stand tall when you can.
And see that it is you that has you bound.

While here, in the mechanics of the mind,
as it matters. Some of us just aren't
mechanically inclined.
So while many move forward, hordes are left behind.

A Book talks about this big war of Spirit,
and its stress is that it is no game.
No politics physical or not can steer it,
there will be no passing the buck, no pointing the finger in blame.

No longer am I walking with my head in the stars,
my feet are flat,  right on the ground.
I put my ear to the track and hear
that heavy chunk of metal, with its painful mournful sound.

I can say that there are other planes,
yes, I can think that if I please,
though every breath that I breathe,
I'd rather announce to my world that I'm just not out to feed.

Like it has a pain or purpose that arose out of some need
of something that just had to be said.
That sleeping dog that you kicked only had a snack of grass
before he laid down to take his bed.

You had been nudging him with your boot and now
he is awake and he yelps and then vomits on your shoes
before he commences to growl.. and that godawful Hell will be back,
and it's going to extract One Blood Curdling Howl!  

The Universe is saying in no so uncertain terms
That I had better hold back, that I had better take heed.
It isn't just me that gets cut,
no it isn't, no, all others bleed.

All those ****** good loving deeds
that hath spawned better life that I don't know about.
On the other shoe, all those hurtful, hostile things,
those things that gave Hell for many to carry... hell for many to tell.

Never is it one cause, one reaction,
and oh, my thoughts and actions,
and the shame that comes,
coming in fractions of degrees.

Then, a breeze broke the solid heat
and quelled the sweat and quenched the thirst.
You can toast the twisted souls
or you can have them cursed.
Ormond Oct 2014
Small HP playground,
So many Godawful writers,
  .  .  .  Recess is over.
mask Nov 2011
I’ve been thinking
And I don’t know.
I’ve been thinking,
And I just don’t know.

There’s no point in pretending things will change.
I think things might change,
But we won’t.
None of us will ever change.
I won’t, she won’t, you won’t.
We won’t. We are all awful.
Me, her, you.
We are selfish, hopeless, and clueless,
Respectively.
And we are all stubborn.
And human.
We wear that as our alibi
But anyone would tell us that we are guilty.

Life doesn’t fix itself.
It doesn’t break itself either.
People do that.

I was tired.
Emotional baggage
Weighs more than you’d think.
Heavy hearts aren’t fun to drag around,
Especially when you know that other people are so
Free
And have room.

I am sorry that I burdened you with my words.
That is all I will apologize for.
I’m sorry I brought it up
And I’m sorry I let my fingers fly
And make words and phrases
That conjured up
Emotions
and thoughts.

I am not truly sorry though.
If I could go back, I would do it the same.
Because I am selfish. That shouldn’t surprise you.
I cannot deny that speaking now was better
Than forever holding my peace.
And now you are a bit less clueless.
Win-win?
I think so.
You probably don’t.

Not understanding
Is no longer an option.
You will think it is stupid
And juvenile
And that is okay.
I am stupid
And juvenile.
And I think that is okay.

I am telling you now in plain English what I want you so badly to understand:
You and I are fundamentally different.
It’s as simple and complicated as that.

This is me. I obsess.
I put everything I have
Into everything that I do.
I clamp onto things hard
And I do not let go
Until my fingers go numb
And holding on
Becomes a hazard to my sanity.
And even then,
Sometimes,
I keep holding on.
I am emotional.
So emotional, almost to a fault.
Actually, to a fault.
My rationality and emotionality
Are constantly
Fighting
For power
Over my personality.
You know that.

I am a storm.
A godawful storm.
But I’m done apologizing for that.
Because I like what I am better than what you are.
Lawrence Hall May 2017
Liturgy in Time of War

I will go to the altar of God
To God who gives joy to my youth

ENTRANCE ANTIPHON

The dawn (evening) is coming, another hot, filthy, wet dawn (evening).  Let us arise, soaked in sweat, exhausted, to speak with sour, saliva-caked mouths, to meet the deaths of this day (night).

GREETING

In the name of Peace in Our Time,
For the Hearts and Minds of The People,
For the Land of the Big PX
For round eye and white (black) (brown) thigh,
I greet you, brothers.

PENITENTIAL RITE

All:

I confess to almighty God
And to you my brothers
That I have sinned through my fault
In my thoughts and in my words
In what I have done
And in what I have failed to do,
And I ask Blessed Mary…

But how can I ask Her anything now?

My brothers,
Pray for me to…

But how?
Priest: (But there is no priest)

KYRIE

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, Lord, have mercy on us now

Have mercy, Lord, on a generation
That sits smugly in college lecture halls
And protests endlessly in coffee shops
The war they hear, see, on T.V., for free
Justice and peace by the semester hour
Like, y’know, peace, love, Amerika sux
Play the guitar, ****, apply to law school

Have mercy on us
Who crouch behind sand bags
And clean our weapons
And protest nothing
And **** in the heat
And die in the hear
And throw ham and lima beans away

GLORIA

Glory to God in the highest
how many bodies yesterday?
And peace to His people on earth
Vietnamese? Or us?
Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father
ham and lima beans?
We worship you, we give you thanks, we praise you for your glory
Doc, I can’t go home to my wife with this clap
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father
cigarette, canteen cup of instant coffee
Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world
******* magazine
Have mercy on us
relief behind the sand bags
You are seated at the right hand of the Father
i rot
Receive our prayer
i want to be clean and dry
For You alone are the Holy One
clean and dry.  just once.
You alone are the Lord
why do they chew that?
You alone are the most high
you mean the betel nut?
Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father
incoming!
Amen


PRAYER

A

Father, you make this day holy.
Let us be thankful for
The many little joys of
This day, for life, for
The chance to worship
You.  In the end, bring
Us to you, so that we
May be cleansed of mud
And sweat and filth and
Guilt, and live with you
In peace forever.

B

Father, just get me through
Another day of this mess.

LITURGY OF THE WORD –

FIRST READING

From the Intensive Care Unit, NSA DaNang

A twilight world
Of neither peace nor battle
And of both

A man world
Embracing life and the grim death
Both

Peering into infected wounds
Night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float

Broken bodies from the war somewhere
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka

PSALM

A Song of Descents

I cast down my eyes
Into the mud
Into the blood
It seems cleaner than death and drugs and casual ***
Drink Coca-Cola

I turned my eyes away from you, O Lord
And made this
Build this
Came to this
Samantha and Darren on Bewitched

Have mercy on…but how can we ask?  How dare we ask?

SECOND READING

Old Man, Viet Nam

Old man, a dog is barking at your heels
Old man, with the tired, weathered face
Are you afraid to turn around and deal
This dog a kick, to put him in his place?

Or is it, old man, that you’re just too tired?
Just too tired to turn and show anger
Just too tired to have your temper fired
Beaten by years of contempt and danger

Where are you going, trudging so slowly?
What are you thinking, behind those tired eyes?

Probably not about ham and lima beans

GOSPEL

In the Cold White Mist

After an all-night run on the river
Our boats arrive in the village at dawn
Dawn is never cold along that rive
Along that steaming, green, hell-hot river
But the mist is cold, the grey-green dawn mist
And after the engines are cut – stillness
Foul brown water laps at the mudding bank
Sloshing softly with fertile, smelly death

In the cold white mist

The boats are secured, and watches posted
We step off the boats and onto wet land
And follow the track into the deep mist
It becomes the street of a little town
A dairy lane along which cows slopped home
And where dogs and chickens and children
      played
Bounded by carefully swept little yards
And little wooden houses with tin roofs

In the cold white mist

But some of the houses are burnt.  The smoke
Still hangs heavily in the whitening mist
The lane is littered with debris.  A lump
Resolves itself into a torn, dead child
Across a smaller lump, a smaller child
Their pup has been flung against the fence, its
Guts early morning breakfast for the morning
      flies
We smoke cigarettes against the death-smells

In the cold white mist

Beneath a farm tractor rots a dead man.
When they – they – had come at sunset
He had hidden there.  And they shot him there
A man with bare feet and work-calloused
      hands
His hair is black; his teeth need cleaning
They shot him beneath the village tractor
His blackening blood clots into the mud
And our lungs choke in the white mist of death

In the cold white mist

White mist.  The path disappears into it
Smoky skeletons of little houses
In which there will be no tea this morning
No breakfasts of hot tea and steaming rice
No old widows to smile in betel-nut
No children to mock-march alongside us
Pointing at our ******* boots, and laughing
At us, for wearing shoes in the summer

In the cold white mist

They are dead and rotting in the white mist
On the edge of the jungle on the edge
Of the world, here along the Vam Co Tay
And the people pour out of their houses
To greet us on the fine summer morning
A corpse across a doorway, another
******-doubled across a window sill
Still another strewn down the garden path

In the cold white mist

The other patrol doubles back to us
And they tell us that the Ruff-Puff outpost
Must have been overrun the night before
He had heard their radioed pleas, and had
Run the river at night to get to them
And the ARVNs had fled through the village
And the VC had stormed in behind them
And it was knife-and-gun-club night in town

In the cold white mist

A little girl is the lone survivor
She looks may six.  Cute, except for the
Bubbling, *******, bayoneted chest wound
We patch her, and tube her, and use suction
Sort of like fixing a bicycle tire
And in the wet, gasping heat take her back
With us downriver, where a charity
Hospital leaves her on the steps to die

In the cold white mist

It will be our turn again tomorrow
Not a one of us died today.  Today.
But a village is gone, burnt and rotting,
Soon to disappear into the jungle
Along the green Cambodian border
Up some obscure river.  Up there.  Somewhere.
A few hundred people.  Their ancestors’ graves
Will fade with them untended, forgotten

In the cold white mist

Radio Hanoi might blame it on us.
But maybe not.  We made our report and
Nobody really noticed; no one cared
The talk is of the VC battalion
And where it has gone, and where it might go –
Maybe into death under an air strike
“And you guys better get in some sack time,”
Says the C.O. as he turns to his maps.

In the cold white mist

HOMILY

I’m scared, and I want to go home.  I don’t care any more about justice or fighting Communism or winning the hearts and minds of the people.  I can’t think about all that right now, because I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I don’t care about truth or loyalty or bravery or honor.  If Miss March were here she wouldn’t get cold, but she sure would get sunburnt.  And in a few days her skin would start rotting.  Then nobody would want to see her in the **** anymore.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
Up the Vam Co Tay, everyone is scared, everyone is tired, everyone is sick, everyone could die: sailor, soldier, officer, priest, farmer, fisherman.  Everyone rots in the wet heat.  The skin bubbles and flakes and peels, and is pink again, to bubble and flake and peel again.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I’m Doc.  I’m a scared, stupid kid with an aid bag and a few months’ training.  But I’m Doc.  I’ve got to fake it.  I’ve got to be cool and calm because this other kid with his guts hanging out will probably make it if I don’t ***** up and if the dust-off from Saigon can get out here now.
I have an old dog at home, and my folks write and tell me she sleeps outside my window at night, waiting for me to come home.  Someday we’re going to run and play in the woods and fields again.  She’ll bark and run wide circles, and dare me to catch her.  I will laugh under the autumn leaves.  But now my nights are glaring darkness, fits of sweat-soaked half-sleep, then sirens and falling glares and falling mortars, and then the Godawful racket of all our engines of destruction.  There isn’t any use in all this.
I’m scared, and I want to go home.

And I don’t want any ham and lima beans.

CREED

We believe in the Land of the Big PX
In presidents in suits, and generals,
In makers of economic strategies
We believe in flak jackets and .45s and peace

We believe in swing ships and dust-offs, yes
In the dark, green omnipresent Huey
Eternally begotten of technology
Blades to rotor, windscreen to machine guns
Made, not begotten, one in being with us
Through it all things are transported to us
For us men and our hunger and our hope
It comes down from the skies
By the high power of technology
It was born of the long assembly line

For whose sake are we crucified today?
Who suffers, and who dies and is baggied?
And on the third will arrive back home
To be neatly packaged in stainless steel

But not in ham and lima beans

LITURGY OF THE EUCHARIST

Preparation of the Gifts

Celebrant:

Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.
Through your goodness we have this cheap Algerian wine to offer,
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands.
It will become anaesthesia for our souls.

People:

Blessed be…we just don’t know

Celebrant:

Pray, brothers, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father, to somebody.  Maybe.

People:

May the Lord, or the baggies, accept the sacrifice we offer with
our own burnt hands
For the praise and glory of…of what?
For our good, and the good of all His Church.

PRAYER OVER THE GITS

Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Air cover’s gone away.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

Preface for the Monsoon Season:

Father, all-powerful
And ever-living God,
We do well always and everywhere
To give You thanks
Through Jesus God our Lord
Even with diarrhea
thanks
When the mail doesn’t come
thanks
When we rot
thanks
When the heat ***** at our brains
thanks
When the mud ***** at our boots
thanks
When the horror ***** at our souls
thanks
We’re alive
thanks

SANCTUS

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might
The bunkers are full of blood and death.
Hosanna in the mud.  Blessed is he who comes with the mail.  Hosanna in the mud.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

The Kien Tuong Province Canon:

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
Along a steamy river
Mostly helmet and flak jacket
Above dark plastic gunwales

The sailor has lost his New Testament
But there’s a ******* around somewhere
Naked, willing women –
Miss March wants to be an actress

He also carries an old plastic Rosary
To touch occasionally
While whispering a hurried Hail Mary
He hopes She understands

Those who in bell-bottoms and head-bands
Fight Fascism
In Sociology 201
Will never forgive him

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
This day he is to be elevated
His body broken and his blood shed
For you and for all men

OUR FATHER

Our Father, who art in Heaven
this ain’t it
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
this ain’t it
On earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day…
not ham and lima beans
And forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot them that trespass against us
And lead us not into ambush
But deliver us from evil

SIGN OF PEACE

Peace on you.

AGNUS DEI

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy….

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.

Priest:

(But there is no priest)

People:  

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word and I shall be killed.

COMMUNION ANTIPHON

They ate, and were not satisfied
They killed, and were not without fear.

PRAYER AFTER COMMUNION

Lord,
If we do not get out of this
Make some sense of it to those who remain
May we go home.  Home.  Or if not,
Take us unto you, in mercy.
Home.  Where you reign, for you are Lord
Forever and ever.  Amen

BLESSING

May you walk on grass that does not explode
May you sleep without rot
Without fear
May you never see or smell ham and lima beans again.
May you live
May you play with puppies
May you find forgetfulness
May you find peace
In the Name of Him who took your death for you

DISMISSAL

This is to certify that____is Honorably Discharged from the____on theday of____.  This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful Service.

CLOSING HYMN

Old men, smoking in the sunshine
Exiled outside the doors of life
Old uniforms, old pajamas
The chrome of wheelchairs, shiny, bright

Inside, polished wooden handrails
Line the hot, polished passages
Something to cling to on the way
To the lab, to x-ray, to death

And more old men, shuffling along
In a querulous route-step march
From Normandy, from The Cho-sen,
From the Vam Co Tay, from the deserts,
Past the A.I.D.S. ward and the union signs
On waxed floors to eternity

Portions previous published:

“Closing Hymn” is from “Outpatient Surgery – Veterans’ Hospital,” Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1993

“In the Cold White Mist” is a Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1991

“Old Man, Viet-Nam,” was published in Pulse, Lamar University, 1982
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
my Flock... I have sinned
led one of you astray
thrown consideration to the wind
into the depths of dismay

my intentions were always true,
but they weren't good enough
i always tried to think of you--
this may be sacrilege, but it is no bluff

the heart wants what it wants;
mine wanted another
this is not the sin, but what does haunt
is how my actions now smother

smother you beneath brimstone
under hot, callous coals
and I cannot atone,
nor purge the guilt from my soul

in wandering towards other pastures
i left you behind in the valley of shadows
forgive my godawful gestures--
for this guilt calls me to gallows
i didn't mean to hurt you. I... just found another
Pug Rollins Sep 2014
Such an easy feat it must be, no?
I'm talking about my little brother's show.
More or less, he keeps bragging.
Take it or leave it, won't stop nagging.

But I ain't got nobody next to my seed
That's going to be leeching on me in greed
There still feels like a brother's near
And if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have fear

It's a godawful show, too
Props made from parts of the loo
Actors made of cardboard
Falling onto the hardwood

The denouement was a bore
The ****** made me snore
But I had to give him credit
At least it wasn't his script, he read it

As I sat in an uncomfy chair
Watching him talk about current affairs
I got called up by myself to dinner
And declared myself a winner

I got no siblings, I got no brother
I got no father and I got no mother
I got no grandma and pops
'Cause that's where my tree stops

The show goes on, I stay on stage
Make a few jokes about minimum wage
I sit in a chair in the audience, too
Watching cardboard actors and parts from the loo.
Mind Matterer Mar 2019
Standing there,
on the cold, damp sand
in the open air.

Hearing the gush of the waves
Crash against the rocks
and roll onto the shore
-Gently kissing your feet.
The Coldness is overpowered
by the emotions and relief within.

The light finally begins to rise,
The skies grow a blissful blue-
in contrast to the regular, deeply darkened grey;
mirroring the colour within your mind.

Feeling your hair ****** forward
along with the black crow-
The long residing and awaiting crow.

The final release,
Resulting in the return of
light, tranquility, and peace.

The final release
of this Dead Weight
-constantly on your shoulder,
Weighing down on your chest,
and fluttering throughout your mind.

---

The final release
freeing you from this
Godawful, hell of a disease.
Kelly Sims Apr 2019
My wife is gone and our baby is crying
Oh,lord, what shall I do ?
The fields lay fallow and
the hounds they  lay dying

All my sorrows split open anew
Sweet Angeline, I never seen a vision the likes of you
But now you are gone and I must carry on
To avenge you with plots on the brew
She was taken away by old  Simon Legree

Now my Angie is buried and the child that she carried
Remains with,shining with vigor
Why were you left behind when  her body was consigned to a ditch drain
is more  than I can figure

Now I've wailed my woes up and down the town
Not one good man will take him down
Though I sing his name nine times inside this song
I seen no reparations for his wrongs

So I studied up a plan to see him suffer
For the worst he done to me, I'd  show him rougher
I hoped with him to parlay
I crept down to Legrees place
The moon looked wicked full and livid
The frost lay on the barley
The wind made 'me away so the stalks bid play a tune both bright and vivid

The wind slashed me cruel with claws like a ghoul
Till my cheeks burned hot and red
To the servants door I knew well from before
I prowled like a thief and slipped in
My jaw tight-clenched
My guts were soon wrenched
By the stench of his black den of sin

I pressed firm to the wall and soon found the hall had opened up to Legrees great  chamber
The hearth lowly burned and  my heart made a great turn
See,ol' Simon had come there to slumber

Then I  trod without noise
Though I'd fumbled my poise
To a hatch in the floor of the room
I left the wrench to snore,in his chair
In his  lair, and sank deeper into the gloom
I closed the trap above my head
And,being a good Christian, said a prayer to quell my fear
The match I held between my teeth
I struck against my stubbled cheek
The spark shot up and gradually
I saw where I had fell
The hole was like a charnel hell house
Except that some were living among those poor unhappy girls
Those seven desperate, starving women
Four of them were breathing still
One was pregnant, one was deaf
The other two so near to death
They hardly held the strength to move clear


A sickening smell right out of hell
Exploded In my skull
It was human filth, and tears and guilt
I saw that death was so close
I realized that hell ain't a place
but a mindless, gnawing fear
I knew then that hell's where Simon
Legree ought to dwell
So I said, right then and there

Sisters, there will be deliverance
Tonight, there will be retribution
The man who has done you violence
Will here taste christ's  absolution
Now gather round, here's my solution :

I loosened their  bonds and their gags
And till dawn gathered the things for a purpose

I was terribly pleased once the steps had been greased and found we had rope to surplus

Next ,I Tommy flask of roosters blood and my mask
For I knew my turn at last, with my turn to unmask the devil atlas
Then I asked my friends to paint my skin with a ruby taint
Then bark and bray like demons at their revels
Our howl's were like a breeze bourne plague
An ungodly din,to make the ceiling sag
Like someone cooking crickets in a funnel

I can proudly tell you,sir
It weren't long before something stirred
And the door flew up,and a head peered in the tunnel

"LISTEN  up ,you bitchs!"
he roared " I need your yowling like grit in my eye!"

I noticed then he had eyes like mud
He went still for a spell and my heart gave an echoing thud

Then he hooted loud and slapped his thigh
"Master ",he said,
I said "yeah  "?
He said, "mister devil "
I said ,"I like your style "
He grinned "I ain't seen you in quite a while
He shouted to his slaves for a barrel of wine
Then stepped on the gangway and chattered on  in his head
For a long godawful minute I thought the ******* was dead
But before long he sat up and shook his porcine head

" I have a taste for mortal wine ",said I " My drink is for fine blood and burning turpentine "

"Now drop on your  knees and prove that you are loyal
There's no rest for the wicked, and the slacker reaps no spoils"

I had him fetch a drum pitch instead
"Tie this rope around your ankle
Make sure it's your left" I instructed
"Can't say I understand", he  instructed  " It ain't yours to ponder.
Now rest your worry wits and do as I  command you"!

And he did

" Now, will you kindly dangle from that aforesaid left ankle?"
And I saw his skin, and it was pale as a  lady's powder
I strung him up like a side of pork
Then I approached the young lady with a brush dripping pitch
I'm real glad she me here
For the first time in so many years Simon Legree felt the clutch of fear

When I saw to it that his skin was as dark as his heart,I lit another match a d he reared up with a start

"Do you ever recall speaking these words: (I asked him)
"******* never bruise . They're skin already black  enough. Their backs are lazy and their skin is tough. You can beat 'em all you want and they'd never show it"?

Simon Legree let out a low,ugly  growl. He wriggled, and he whimpered and he shook. " Thats right?you can beat 'em all you want and they'd never show it"?
"Some fool said the meek'll inherit. Though you wouldn't know it."
Then I set him ablaze. And sent the sucker down to hell. His screams were like a symphony, if art could aspire to torture. The women licked their lips and flashed their eyes and the swelter of the beat down on me tell I felt just like a forger.

An ear- rending, soul-bending shriek went up and he  went slack and still I bowed like a good blacksmith and tears wet my face. The spectacle was better than I'd hoped

And Simon Legree went down to the devil.
Down,Down, Down, Down.
With Simon Legree.
Did you ever hear about the bounds in the well of hell
Down to the devil.

You could say that Legrees is my life's great bane. But you know, it just wouldn't tear it. So pick yourself off that cold hard ground ,'cause some of us weren't made to grit and bear it!'

I hate him every bit you do.That back-breaking buzzard with eyes like a ferret!. If love will lead us blind and such. Known that I hate him yet as much. itch.My servants of help,will blacked  you, she's a good  faithful witch
Sherry Asbury Jul 2015
I wrote poetry tonight of sunsets and ponds,
worthless topics in light of the state of the world.
Just ended a hospital stay...needed to be mellow.
But this godawful earth gives me the heebie jeebies.
Forced confinement that came with cable t.v.
I wallowed in insanity and stupidity that seemed
                  to have no freakin end
We are teetering on so many brinks, but what was on?
A series about a guy makes a chain of hamburgers
on the family name...
Watched them play on a lawn big enough to choke a goat,
swim in their waterfall pool and frolic in designer clothes.
A series about mansions that cost millions of dollars
and could each house the homeless population of this town.
     Freaking carbon combat boot prints.
Worked all my life.
Me and my three cats struggle - disability does not

               buy mansions!

The world in on a precipice so **** scary
God himself can’t tip it back.

Korea, Iran and all those Isis ******* that put
bullets in the heads of six year-old boys.

And they show wanton consumption - reckless regard
for the land - don’t tell me they earned their money
and deserve to have obscene disregard for others.

When the rich have to  pay their fair share...
when life is equitable and no one goes hungry
or sick
or without education...

Then maybe it won’t be so sickening.
The Mahatma said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."
John F McCullagh Jul 2012
From the time the boy could stand
his Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.

All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.

So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow and Time flies they say-
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.

Opening day is a magical land
That once more found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.

After the excitement of the game
waiting on the platform for their trains
The two men hugged with obvious affection,
then entrained in opposite directions.
The number 7 train runs from Flushing in Queens past Citifield and the national Tennis center to Times Square in Manhattan.
Penmann Jun 2019
My brand new life and social game
forfeited in godawful shame
forgotten by default foreshadowed and defeated.
arise again.

Move mountains,
Move seas,
Spread peace,
Remain a friend.

Risen again i will fall
I will never stand tall
But i can rise up again.
.and so you open your mouth
and let a stream of
hot acid invective
out
because heartburn is not good for
the digestion.

..and then you look to make sure
that
no one's around
no one to listen to that godawful
sound.

In the clear and you can pretend
that like J C himself
you make miracles happen and
happen God did send you here
to turn the air blue knowing no one in
their right mind would listen to you.

I wear my wars on my anorak,
badges of honour
until they attack
then I hide.

If I do swear or curse
or ****** a verse or two
I don't care,
I know that
you
only execute spies.
wear
Maxine Oct 2016
You are like the sun.

Sometimes spots and rays I get glimpses of under the shade of trees; calming.
You always held my hand. Sleeping, walking, do or die situations. No matter what, when and where, the spaces between mine were always filled with your fingers. You always gave it a little squeeze, an assurance that you would always be there.

Sometimes warming heat against my skin; weirdly pleasing.
You always made those extremely goofy faces and told those godawful jokes. Anything and everything just to make me laugh. You always put my happiness above your own.

Sometimes full on heat burning me at every touch; afflictive.
Like every other couple, we had our bad days. You were always painfully honest, could never tell a lie. You couldn't help being mean but I knew you were telling the truth. You always did.

But days don't last forever on Earth and stars have long yet inevitably doomed lives in the universe.
You loved me deeply. You loved me so much, too much and that was exactly the problem. You loved me so much, your love was an outcry, outflow, an explosion of affection. You loved me so much that one day you just stopped. Neither you nor I knew the reason. Was there even one?

The sun will set and die, gone temporarily and forever.
I never thought we would come to an end but no one ever sees something like this coming. No one is ever prepared for heartbreak, loss, grief. No one is ever prepared to say goodbye but you deserve one. Goodbye, my love. Today, tomorrow and beyond.
―m

— The End —