"godlessness" poems
i want to do right
but its so hard to find
another boot party tonight
im still just fine
franky on the mop
billys on the floor
only from the top
i sit laughing and drinking
refusing to clean these boots
cleanliness is godliness
twisted and stunted roots
praying in godlessness
as they all line up at the ticket booth
take this knife
give the slow slice
through my jugular and wind pipe
stare
into the
sun
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
I miss the drunks. The y3lling.
The inhalation of beer and cigarettes
Chased down by ego and godlessness.
How many times
hqve I written to this song,
and never heard beauty once?
Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit,
before the sunset of sweat,
the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys.
I loved you so much once,
I still do, but you are like mist,
and I am blind.
I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish,
vampires, crows,
an angel.
When I was young I would screech down the hill
in my toy truck,
plastic chassis a powerhouse,
canary and howling,
I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times.
Call me Avalanche.
Call me Indisputable.
Call me the Powerhouse.
Call me,
I missed you.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!
We hate democracy
We spit in our hats.
We hate all poor people
Especially Democrats.
We think equality
Is a crime.
Back to the nineteenth century
Doubletime.
There is no place here
In our fine land
Where we give the votes
To our field hands
And women who should all
Be in the kitchen
Instead of out carrying signs
And publically ********
We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!
We believe in the Bible which
We mostly never read.
We think all non-Christians
Should be dead.
At least they should not be
Allowed to vote.
That kind of godlessness
Gets our goat.
The only kind of righteous men
Are our own kind.
Not gays, blacks and Mexicans!
What are you, blind?
We ran the show right all along
White power!
The day the other kinds acted up
Was an evil hour.
We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
I tell her that tomorrow
Slides slowly to meet my
Familiar night.
That the changes are few
And subtle. I am OK, I say,
Face still cold from last night's
Pavement.
Truth is I'm terrified.
Heartbroken and soaked in
Myself, clinging to the past with
One hand, fighting its demons
With the other. Terrified.
Embracing my inner
Earthling. Loathing it.
Terrified. Loving it.
I used to think I was only human.
Now I
Know.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
In the quantum realm of my reality
I designed a mathematically beautiful fantasy
An illusiory of science and dark alliances
A mystical act of a forgotten godlessness
I was deprived from my own health
I genusly fabricated my own death
But before i enter the hole
I have two wishes, in it you will take a role
A candle for me when i go
A requiem for my dreams and my soul
Words Of Harfouchism
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
The threshold, a kink in the continuum. A static line, 7" thick. An inch a mile, a million high-ways through low-days. Between freezing underpasses, mirrored in ice. Stray dogs passing, paying no mind, for there is none. Dying mice; too white for the whiteness.
Give me a road and I'll follow
across our fallow fields.
At either end, a somewhere an anywhere;
yielding, if anything, a brief love of the vastness of our expanses.
In such terms, humans and roads
are inseparable.
Give me legs and itchy feet, and I will carry this filthy deed.
"To go," for nothing
but the words alone
Like a redneck with his whiskey and his 12-gauge
we rage
full on.
Give me recklessness, give me godlessness, give me symbolitude & contemplacency. Give me thoughtlessness, or better yet, leave me with instinct, and I will carry the rifle for the enigma-insignia
of the Great Nation of Motion.
And I endure
to procure
myself
in two places
at once.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
I still get my news from my hometown.
And I do not respond to my new friends.
And I cursed November when he came.
And I told myself my existence was feeble.
And I got all the movie quotes wrong.
And I was coughing all the **** time, craggy inhales and spittle in my tea.
They were all phonies then.
Except the boy
I met who
ended every sentence with
"I don't really know,"
so
everything he said could be true.
And I was running all the time in my sleep, then.
And ******* too.
And the same boy was always in my dreams - but not the right boy - the boy who was important to me only ever in sleep.
But dreams seemed important then, too.
Oh, I remember!
5 a.m.
when I yanked you out of bed, come, I am going
MAD!
(you were going mad, too,
just last week.)
The fog was not rising at all
chain smoking in respect to my lungs
and their strike on air
my strike on a way of living whose sole purpose was
to stay alive longer
what's all the yap about?
I was not sure I wanted to live
you kept on talking about dogs.
I do not want to live
you started talking about cars!
I have death in my fingertips, you fool!
You supposed heaven was real
and I thought over what I had heard:
heaven is all around us
(yes, we were in a cloud.)
And I supposed you were right
but I kept silent,
I could not put my world on you
and its godlessness.
There was a green flashing light
on the other side of Cincinnati
but you did not understand that reference yet.
But we counted all the
churches and rainy cars
They couldn't grasp at God either.
Godlessness!
it will make us all mad, then.
but it was science who spelt of protons and electrons;
and when I am GOOD
he shows me his twisted, gnarled little black heart.
and when he, angelic, comes--
I am the Darkness.
We supposed this was how God talks, anyways.
And the sun curled up again
we drank coffee
in bad lighting
over silence
the insanity
soggy waffles
night shakes leaving me and...
It took you hours to respond!
Grappling with insanity for hours!
the kinds in wavelengths
static
feeble
hours
glowering hunched electric clock in the corner
cracked windows
pane
I could not stop thinking over forgiveness
and if I forgave my father for forgetting my birthday
nine years ago
so mundane.
And if it mattered anymore
And if I forgave God
And if I would ever apologize to Him
there was a green flashing light in my baptismal basin, too.
I do not call myself Gatsby anymore.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
()
<><><>
()
()
Come
The ancient symbolism
The death and re-birth songs !
These are true
••
Yet you want your old dead lovers to return !
••
You want to grovel in agony
Before your strangely
self-righteous godlessness !
••
You hold your pictures of Jesus
Yet you cry
For your lover who walks on by
You write poems that are but hymns
Of fraudulent hypocrisy
At Calvary
You are the ones with the hammers
Held so defiantly
In your hands
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
awake?
asleep?
dreams?
reality?
we wander the cold night looking for what is "here"
but we dont know how to really "see"
images!
blending with "the storm" of true birth
and the revolutionary necessity
that is here
right
now
bodies!
we pretend we "love!"
souls!
we pretend we "touch'
BOREDOM GETS SO BORING!!!
we fornicate!
we marry!
AND THEN OF COURSE WE SEPERATE!
we wander the cold night looking for what is "here"
but we dont know how to really "see"
standing before our "godlessness"
(whom we worship so placatingly)
so still!
stillness and pain
mingle together
til
we've "HAD ENOUGH"
and figure out
how to change
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC
How I spell
"Love"?
I hide my every alphabet
Within you.
We learn to burn our old
Preferences.
Enough gentle winds turn
Puddles into
Cavities.
I thank the grounds for not
Being levelled out
For once.
Not scared of hights any
More; I grunt when your feathers
Tickle my nose.
Godlessness.
Church is my mouth upon
You.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
( )
)( ^ )(
< ^ >
^
///// • |||
<>
/ ( • ) ( • ) \
v
/ \
• Sainted Goddess
• •
& after all the games are played
// •
•
& after death
|||
We are so very ugly when dead
••
• •
Our poetry suffers greatly when we are dead
||
( well
For SOME of us )
••
We die when we become indifferent
We die when we just get INTO IT !
( you know )
••
We die when we allow ourselves
To lose our moral restraint
//
//
•
The rain // hard rain
The reign of kings
The reign of death
The reign of terror
Of drone airplanes
The reign of wealth
And godlessness
//
The reign of ego / pride / and shame
••
The reign of lovelessness
//://
//://
//://
Do I still love you
YES I DO
But this means nothing anymore
No one knocks upon the door
No one walks the beach at dawn
No one guards each child new born
Or vows to keep them free from harm
// • //
( • )
// • //
Here we are !
Walking corpses
See us fade
Into the realm of shame
Soon the pain
Of insatiable remorse
We could of done things differently
We could of done so many things
And loved each other all the while
And lived our lives with pride and grace
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Thick-fingered hand clasped around the nape of my neck—
—the hand of god. Of fate. Of whatever held that previous speck
of universe in his freckle-speckled hand.
Clasping a prayer between my narrow fingers and searching—
—may I please have an answer? A father in the sky? Somebody
to yell me back down from this high branch?
The oak tree me and Sophia climbed when we were nine—
—the godlessness of it all. We were Pagans then. God was
my mother’s perfume lingering on her scarf.
God was my best friend at thirteen in the aisle of Salvos—
—a piercing in a carpark. Half a gram rolled up in ripped-up
and still-flimsy bible page.
Cherry chapstick ******* smoke from Corinthians 16:14—
—the sun falling down behind us. Wax melting. The crinkle of
foil between your freckle-speckled hand.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 10:54 AM UTC
blessed are they who are left behind, for theirs is the kingdom of sorrow
the only omniscient thing in this world is my sad, drunken state
God cannot possibly be real, because why would he desert me? i turned my life into a song of prayer to Him
but my song has become a wilted requiem and i see no proof of heaven
i cry out in the chapel abandoned and scream into the confessional, all the names of my sins and i beg for forgiveness
my priest is afraid of me. when i cried onto his white sleeves-- too pure for me-- when i cried out he whispered that God had yet to create a prayer that would absolve me, that there weren't enough Hail Mary's in the world to reconcile my broken bits
so i sit in the pew and i let my tears fall to the stone floor in hopes that the salt will burn a hole that'll lead me to hell
because clearly i don't belong here, not where a man on a wooden cross is staring down blankly and not helping
deep down, deeper down than hell, i know in my battered heart and fickle soul that no matter what, i believe
faith is what has kept me alive through thick and thin, through threadbare afternoons and thorny thoughts and were i to give up now, to give in to an assault of cynicism and disbelief, i would fall (and faith is the only thing that kept me on my feet anyway)
so i walk a hypocritical tightrope: how do i question everything and remain devoted? is my trust in my faith really my own, or do i have generations of guilt-dishing irish catholics to credit? am i religious or just spiritual?
and i teeter, and the tempestuous winds blow at me, and i lose my footing
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC