"gores" poems
Cinta bukan melulu soal siapa yang lebih dulu. Yang telah lama singgah bisa jadi sama rapuhnya dengan yang sekedar lalu-lalang.
Cinta bukan melulu soal detak jantung yang berdegup kencang, bukan melulu soal pupil yang melebar. Yang telah kehilangan nafasnya bisa jadi yang semenjak dahulu telah menyimpan asa.
Cinta bukan melulu soal hukum tawar-menawar. Saat sudah kehabisan apa yang ditawarkan, terkadang cinta dengan naifnya tetap menyambut dengan tangan terbuka. Persetan dengan hukum ekonomi, yang memberi kurang bisa jadi telah memberi seluruh yang mereka miliki.
Cinta bukan melulu soal mengabaikan ketidaksempurnaan. Justru cinta menerima seutuhnya, segala kesempurnaan maupun ketidaksempurnaan. Setiap gores dan luka, bukalah mata dan terimalah mereka dengan utuh. Yang terlihat baik bisa jadi membuatmu menutup mata atas keburukan mereka.
Cinta bukan melulu soal apa yang terlihat, karena bisa jadi indera kita dibuatnya luluh lantak di hadapannya.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
With frenetic horns he gores
The limp woman
Nipple-aired
Draped on his bulging forearms
Undoubtedly bronzed
By Mediterranean suns
Or paled
By subterranean shadows
She is either praying or panting
Fainting or fawning
Framed
In an unimagined tense
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity
maiming
black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
and everyday geezers
--drinking wine made for mad housewives.
We are seduced and strangled by this.
Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that levitates through
planet Earth's oceans
--how can we not pull a ****
from our sweaty palms?
Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
Cultural amoeba--
the dimensional of minds
--made up of blank smoke
and film negatives.
And oh!
How the gasoline pours rainbows
on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
where we danced...
seduced and strangled by this.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Monotony broken.
My patience is tested.
The machinations of your mind
play an ugly quartet on my nerves.
My Organs begin to orchestrate a violent symphony
you dare not hear - the gallop of the army
which tears out its path through
my wretched lips
and gores
your
very
soul.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
“YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!”
screams the judge,
wielding a whiskey and a weaponised Women’s Weekly,
as I flare inside but choose instead to smile meekly.
Was my Dad the spawn of Jeffrey Dahmer?
Or the bloke who used to watch Kojak, on a Sunday, in pyjamas?
In fairness though, the absence of the villain of this piece,
last seen clubbing in Ibiza with a girl who’s not his niece,
does nothing to lighten this affair.
Especially with his crimes bequeathed to me, his heir.
The charges apparently too ignoble for repentance,
I brace to bear the brunt and bile of sentence.
Her glib-gab gores each guilty glance.
Each chapter claimed by circumstance.
Her words a whip, envenomed lace,
lashed out anew upon my face.
It matters not that he’s elsewhere,
I stand accused for the genes I wear.
I’d serve notice now, demand redress,
if he hadn’t eloped to a vague address.
The urge to silent scream? Repressed.
Repeal rejected, defence disbarred.
Appeal affected, mis-trial marred.
A deafeningly dead deal is on the cards.
I pause perpetually and play the clock,
Until “New Witness!!” echoes around the dock.
Youngest courtroom entrant in our history,
identity unknown and gender still a mystery.
“Oh, look how wonderful this is!” coos the judge.
Now as sticky sweet and seasonal as fudge.
“Of course this cherub must approach the bench,
with the defendant as mouthpiece to represent”.
“Pray tell, sinner, its testimony loud and clear"
*Cue a minor mandate that only I can hear *
A pause. A private parley.
The pup's prose presented without palaver:
“I will grow, just like my father”.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
Mumpity, flumpity, flickety flo,
Skippedy, whippedy, whatate is so.
Nannity, sanity, banality more,
Appity, slappity, slippery ore.
This it the language of garrilous gores,
Plumpity, uppity, nackity nor,
Willowby, silloby, mackity, lore,
Sit by the window you hippety ***
Africaty, molassesity, whoppity wo,
Laughity, screetchity, eachity sore,
Walk in a willow and trees are abore,
Sit by the window you willowby store.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
The poor innocent civilians of Gaza are dying
I can hear the screams of their crying
I moan with the people of Gaza
This is a horrid monstrosity way of a massacre
I cannot just sit back and be a passenger
Their human rights are being snatched away from them
I thought we were against violence mayhem?
In Gaza peoples guts and gores are all around
doesn't it make you just want to shut down?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
poison trembles above,
looming,
dripping rancid memories that
rip into my bones and
claw out the life
even with the gun in my hand,
i can tell there is blood in the water
the souls of fireflies flutter and wander
toward them i find release
following them to the fields of chernobyl,
walking barefoot in a minefield,
crushing diamonds with my hands
darkness cannot pry open my
gores of gold
i will not die tamely
he will come in a dance of
letting go
and holding on
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
I even have to remember to breathe!
In my house by the sea.
I only drink the saltwater from the sea.
Somehow I continue to breathe.
In my house of elegant gores,
in my house by the shore,
in my house that has a creed,
with the deeds of the sea,
which are signed by me.
This water has infected me.
This lonely water from the sea.
I've let my heart sink so far into the sea.
That not even the ghost of me.
Could recover my heart and flee.
I've spent my entire brief life by the sea.
And the deeds of the sea, are my deeds indeed.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
that big ugly thing stomps its feet
rears its head and shows bared teeth
that big ugly thing roars an echo
flares it nose and gores me beneath
the cracking sky of a barebone youth
the laughing demons of jeers uncouth
that big ugly thing won’t leave me alone
that big ugly thing is at hand, and here, i stand
i’ve got a stick, and they’ve got ivory tusks
and fangs and venom and a rage inside that poisons my kindness, my patience, my virtue
and still i hold my stick high, open my eyes, and keep getting up
no matter the horn that pierces nor the bones that shatter
no matter the claws that catch nor the ribs that scatter
no matter the teeth that tear nor the blood that spatters
i mean, it’s not like i’m going to let them win
i’m a pretty sore loser
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 4:37 PM UTC
My back hurts whenever I bring myself to the loom
of this endless dramady.
Oh, the worrisome land of the finger-less sensations,
why do you not surrender to the fantasy.
"I will tell you nothing, my boy."
You will need to guess this out by yourself,
it is time for you to bring your thorns
and get out of this fall, full of exciting gores
that one day will hunt your future.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Peace runs through miles of uncharted hell
My feet swell, on burning stone
The heat is seeping through my muscles to my bones
My heart, well it's fighting to beat
Oh how I would love to give up, I envy the weak,
how I would love to be the Devils sweet meat
But I keep on
When I find peace this will all be gone
* * *
Peace runs through a single mile of uncharted hell
My feet, they soak in the heat
My heart, well, ha, people say they can still hear it beat
Oh and how easy it was to find peace, just let the heat increase
Let it overflow your bones, eat the burning stones
They envy me, the weak
The Devil is MY sweet meat!
MY treat!
Yes, keep on, but not for too long
Like I said, when you find peace, all these elegant gores, will all be yours
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC