"grenade" poems
I am a miserable ****
Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
at grocery stores,
at parties.
I have no identity.
Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
to be loving,
to be trusting,
to be active,
to have no spine.
All I want is a bit of my own time.
A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
I was going somewhere?
I was unique?
I am the same miserable ****
As every other miserable ****
The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,
The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,
The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,
The girl sexting your boyfriend,
The boy sexing your girlfriend,
The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with
itself.
All different,
in exactly the same way.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable **** Traffic jam.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 9:28 AM UTC
My words became
knives.
A paragraph,
a sword.
And when I
made
my first speech,
the room
was
hit
with
a
grenade.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 12:17 AM UTC
the burning,
blinding sun is
slowly hiding
behind the
green mountains,
with a touch of
white snow,
and I admire the
monotony of the sun,
its energy to repeat
everything, day after day,
until it completely burns
and all its energy it's gone,
and has no more to continue,
so it does what's best for it -
it kills everybody, by
being a grenade and
exploding.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
II feels like I have to gave my 100% to have the 50% of everybody.
God was trying to make me realize something.
It actually hit me like a train,
I broke down in a puddle of tears.
I'm not good enough.
That's it.
That's all.
And now I have to live with it.
How?
I don't know.
Like Hazel said it: I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties.
That's what i'm gonna do.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
red as blood,
red as the sky when
the sunset sets it on fire.
shining like diamonds,
little seeds of hope in the
large, large, world.
they give you pleasure
as you savor them one by one.
the sweetness,
the tangy scent.
when Persephone ate those
innocent, glimmering seeds.
she had no idea of the fate
that lay ahead of her.
French for pomegranate
is grenade
a little bomb that goes off
a burst of flavor in your mouth
a splash of hope in your soul
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
my body, the hand grenade
ugly crawls inside, makes a nest.
an animal chained in a cage,
my insect in a jar.
i spit out my ugly. it wasn't supposed to be this way.
life is a simple arrangement
of numbers and measures.
the bathroom mirror under florescent lights
is my sacred altar.
never mind that nothing else is sacred.
my broken body, the hungry child
i give her food, i take it away. i make her cry.
i bleed for her.
she swallows my ache and comes back for more.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
For every single barracuda smile.
Every apple that we didn't bite. All the dull exotic things I never had the chance to say. The way the ocean is louder at night, the glittering bones of the city, the taste of black cherries. For every paper star, and liquid street, suburban summer mattress like a shrine.
For hands like deep-sea divers through your hair.
The unknown red interior of you, the foreign countries of your thoughts. For every back of matchbook message, every finger tracing up my thighs, and for our reckless lips rubbed raw and red. For all the casual knives of conversation, the snow like stained glass underneath the sky.
For illuminated cities half-submerged.
Every exquisite impulse and grass-scented infidelity. For my heart like glass, like coal, like diamond. The salt and starless seas that crave a sailor. For the hand-grenade of lust and the ugly gardens of regret. For your eyes like earthquakes, like cigarettes, like disaster.
For every dark-haired, blue eyed boy.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
The windows down
Warm sticky air
Salty sweat
Kody’s beside me in the truck
She has a hatchet and I have a hand grenade
We’ve just been driving around town
Screaming **** the earth
Screaming it at all the pretty churchgoers
The school board members
Her old softball coach
I didn’t pay the rent this month
Kody didn’t eat a single vegetable
We ****** about 76 times
She’s been painting really beautiful
Its true talent
Mom sent some mail that said she missed me
I look pathetic trying to react like a son should
I’m almost as free as you would want to be
But what a God **** shame
I have to wake up in a few hours
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
There once was a time
Gone by, gone by,
Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.
Pricked finger and the blood of kings
washed the riverbed clean again
paving path for new bled love.
Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade.
Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers
Red wire arteries
clipped and clipped and clipped
and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds
and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk.
More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust.
Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight.
Through glass.
Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home.
Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone.
We all walk on our own
Striving for independence
Together.
Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields.
I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share
The bigness of what's out there.
I still hear myself singing your song of longing.
Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance
when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket.
Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel.
Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever.
Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream.
Interstitch the seams.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green,
And an off-white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams,
Like leather, like elderly skin, like a crossword puzzle with half the letters filled in,
She sat by me and spilt her sentences and her tea:
She claimed her husband had been killed by a cabal of spiritualists,
Killed by a bull elephant in the streets of Nepal,
Killed by the seven plagues,
And never killed at all,
That he was once a number
Somehow both perfect and prime,
That he was Prime minister of the sea,
And independent of time,
That his bones were cracked marbles
Bought from a widow in Tennessee,
That his name continued to escape her,
But that he looked something like me,
Leaving I saw her wings drag her heavenward,
I saw her terrible wings,
As I stumbled and veered from concrete to tarmac
I heard the pavements start to sing:
“I was once a flowerbed,
My father was a field,
My mother was a source of light,
Before which all the people kneeled.”
Then lost in the eye of daytime and night,
Drawn to the moustache of a Spanish racketeer,
He was once abandoned by his books and his babies
In the boot of a broke-down cavalier,
His pasts and ideas caught up to him,
And gripped him by his belt and his teeth,
His pasts gripped him in quiet of his nightmares,
And slashed his arms in the street,
Visions shook me by the bleeding palm,
Her terrible wings now pinpricks for the moon,
Visions shook me as deities died,
With eyes like a card-trick and fingers like doom,
Then stuck in the endless space between words;
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green;
Stuck in the endless space between words;
And an off white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams...
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a **** carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a ****
5k
Thump.
Skip.
Thump.
Skip.
Skip.
Thump.
Pain flows through my chest.
Washing away the seconds and minutes.
Time Stops.
And the clock no longer ticks.
One more moment.
One last breath.
Lungs shrivel.
And blood freezes.
I sense her
Death.
Awaiting, Assuring, Strong.
Then the moment bursts.
A hand grenade.
A home-made bomb.
Life flashes back
And time ticks on.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
A man must be knowledgeable, says God
For him to come in the presence of God,
He who has his male members dismembered
Or his testicles crushed whatsoever,
He shall not be permitted to enter in to the synagogue,
To worship Jehovah God of Israel,
says the deutronomical god of Jews
And today I am ill fated,
my testicles are crushed,
By the grenade thrown by a terrorist,
Here in Nairobi, an Islamic terrorist
Has crushed my testicles, in his guest
For the land of Palestine usurped by Israelis,
How do I worship you God of Israel?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
let’s split the seconds in two
break apart the bark of dead trees
and sail away like summer
like echoes
echoes
we’re back here again, no winebottles to hold us
the waves break on our skin
whispering about echoes of
the wind drops like grenade pins
paid for by palestinians
profits into our superpowers pocket
we’re echoes of endless
take one of those moments in a second
crush it up and breathe it in
just how rolled up notes showed you
hold this moment longer than you’re meant to
steal time from the gods
cos i want to look into your eyes one last time til tomorrow
i am a series of echoes of endless meaningless patterns
like pythagoras put a purpose on me
like a madman i’ll scream to anything that’ll hear me
the whole room sways to the beat of your breathes
the knowledge you cradle like life inside will never leave
it’ll warm you in moments of distress
you’ll feed it in moments of perfectness
sometimes the symbols aren’t right,
but you blurred the borders between me and love
letters and poems
dreams and stories
our thought patterns in sync like mushroom trips
i love you.
-
words
are infinite
like
the journey to here
the random chemical concotions
or just
preselected stories.
and pi to seven decimal places sounded with syllables sparks superstitious symbols
electrical impulses brief bits of data
it’s all down to disbelief in coincidence.
believing in confidence
patterns need a purpose
lose yourself in them
easier to avoid the pain that your brain knows to be true
that you’re part to blame
for the begging bin bags
the bombs and the poverty
the lifestyle of monotony
so i’ll keep saying it til i work out how to say it properly...
0.000001/=0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
I'm One Off 7 Billion Crying,
I'm One Off 7 Billion Slowly Dying,
Half The World Trying,
The Other Half Lying,
Starvation And Disease,
Criminals And Thieves,
An Empire Grows,
Then One Is Diseased,
The World Is Cruel To Say The Least,
A Look At The Past,
Brings A Good Laugh,
But In The End,
Two Wrists Are Slashed,
Erie Flashbacks Crowd Millions Of Minds,
Snipers, Terriorists, And Grenade Mines,
Litter The Worlds Beautiful Face,
All This Human Violence Is Such A Disgrace,
Diwali Everyday In Cities Around The World,
But Not The Festival Of Light,
Just The Light Pollution Smuthering The Stars,
I'm One Of 7 Billion Being Lied To,
One Of 7 Billion Inclined To,
Believe In Humanity,
To Believe There Is No Insanity,
I'm One Of Just 7 Billion Wandering This Lonely,
Yet Crowded World
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
Every time I touch a controller
I set a new highscore
I said a new highscore.
Look out behind you, mother ******
I capped that ***
You should've watched your back.
Now I got an L-shaped block
Watch as I drop it in that L-shaped slot.
Haters gotta throw the blue turtle shell,
Because they can't keep their kart on Rainbow Road.
Donkey's going to throw some barrels at me;
Don't worry princess, watch me jump.
I promise I won't get hit, not even once.
Hey there champ look right here;
I just stuck a plas grenade
On you right ear.
Lucky shot? So you say.
Still watching me tea-bag you
From the grave.
Pilot Wings, Punch-Out, Mario
Madden, Sonic or GTA
It doesn't really matter
The number of pixels we play.
D-Pad or joystick,
Night or day,
It doesn't really matter how you play,
Put me on tron I'll blow you away.
Turtles in Time:
You take that next slice.
Even blindfolded your no match
For my SuperScope.
Tony Hawk, what a joke!
In Pacman or Galaga in space
Even with the Kunami Code
You've got no hope.
So the next time you hear
Scorpion yell "Get over here!"
Have no fear
A Sonic Boom will soon be there.
Busting out Atari's Pong?
Noob, I'll pwn you
One-thousand to none.
Hell, not even Parapa the Rappa
Can touch my rhymes.
Read those initials
That score is mine.
I said read those initials;
That score is mine.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
Just one word from you
and I'd die
and die gladly.
For you I'd gladly taste the blade
the hand grenade
the bullet and the noose...
Just so long
as you stand strong
and never cut me loose.
Hang me high or drowned me deep
just take me to the edge,
for I would die a thousand deaths
if just once your love you'd pledge.
For dying would be easy
it happens once for sure,
but living without you baby
would **** me for ever more.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 8:32 AM UTC
Certainly not the intention
Nobody wants this rodeo
Sudden crisis intervention
Apologies to Tokyo
Like most things it started out small
I now feel like Pinocchio
Seems like things ran into a wall
Apologies to Tokyo
Now perhaps we did overfeed
Seems to enjoy finocchio
That doesn't explain the stampede
Apologies to Tokyo
Next time we will take it slower
try use less braggadocio
keep close by a grenade thrower
Apologies to Tokyo
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Tropical blue
Cool night breeze
Ocean tides and Red Lobster life
Tropical blood
Swimming with crocodiles
Chomping on left over Cubans
Tropical view
Wind chime serenade
Second hand smoke grenade
Tropical blue blood
Ocean wave recedes
Water and volcanic sludge
Tropical blue blood view
Nightlife in all its brilliance
Late night moonlit romance
Jun 11, 2011
Jun 11, 2011 at 8:46 PM UTC
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about
Speeding from Somali’s shore,
A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men
With grenade launchers, cannon and more.
They’re coming to capture the tankers
They’re coming to capture the crew
They’re coming to take you hostage
Because fat cats will pay cash for you.
It’s happening more every day now
Ships are held to ransom for gold,
This contagion is out of hand now
The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold.
Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns
Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak,
With instructions to shoot to **** now
And make eradication of pirates complete!
But you ask, why is this happening?
Why does a man, a pirate become?
What instigates this crazy morphosis
From fisherman to pirate with gun?
Somalia has no Government to speak of,
It collapsed and went long ago.
No law or army in place here,
Life is dangerous, chaotic and low.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They ditched toxic waste in the sea
They irradiated the coastline region
Making this a poisoned place to be.
The coast folk were dying in thousands
Sick mothers lost babies and kids
Black illness spread madly in villages
Then blind panic and pain hit the skids.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They trawled the coastline clean
Somalia’s fishermen were destitute
The catch went from vast to lean.
The villagers were starving and hopeless
And what was pain became death.
The leaders appealed for salvation
But those with the means, had turned deaf.
Who would take this problem on now?
Who would make these ******** pay?
Most turned around and shunned them,
The world had turned and looked away.
So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable.
Strike in sea lanes where it’s free.
Hit them near the Horn of Africa.
Attack with blades of piracy.
Hooray for the small man’s justice.
Hooray for his skinny, black shanks,
Please God help their quest for deliverance
For the West has arrived with their tanks.
Now I ask you, in all fairness
To stand back and view the scene,
Where the richest and most powerful
are doing something that's obscene
For not only are they poisoning
The most vulnerable race on earth
But compounding it with genocide,
And I add, for what it's worth,
The West, in righteous arrogance,
are crushing poorest fellow man
In his struggle for survival
Against their mammoth, global hand.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
25 April 2009
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I was your Hazel Grace
Because I thought I was a grenade
I was in my final year in high school when I started liking you
And soon I would leave the same school we were into
I, and the people around us
We became dependent of your actions
And you made us believe that you liked me, too
So much depends upon this boy I really liked
behind his eye glasses were his eyes that had
always been sending me love letters
that I always wanted to reciprocate
his stunning smile made him look grand every time
So much depends upon this rebel heart
that I was ironically obedient to
Because not granting what this heart wanted
would **** me a hundred times
Until the day came that I needed to leave you
I thought leaving would hurt harder than a heart break
But you were the one who left
And that was when I started believing
that I was not the grenade I once thought I would be
but it was you
You left me wounded
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Sterling eyes close the falling red ward
Big Brother has seen it all
He tells me: *there is danger
Terror past the massive, all-protecting Atlantic*
Don’t stray there, the mouth
of stumbling heads say,
They want to take away
Our safety, our ways, our Freedom
Mr. Elected reassures
*Nothing will harm you
Not with me going there
I don’t want you going there*
He speaks like my mom
Warning me of the illicits
I am too vulnerable to experience
It’s death I’ll go to- I’ve been told
Sleepless red monocular
Enlightening the air to a passive blue
It’s opacity beneath and above
Ascending again
Mama and Baba say it’s time to go home
I confront the arid peninsula of Qatar
Lungs accustomed, vitality not frozen
Precariously perceiving the harmful
Sentiments of years past in Jordan,
I wonder why
my kin would ban this place
Rumor on dirt pavement in a draft, ears picking up
*The Atlantic is not to be crossed,
A lack of morals, malintentions
lay beyond the scape.*
Extravagant grenade above,
Falling to the horizon
And no detonation, collapsing behind a curved veil
Skyward lay the remnants
Of heat, frozen in time
The lips in a box on this shoreside
Warn *the zephyrs from the ornery
Reaches towards our home
Be on guard of the deceitful
star at night that rains red*
Tomorrow may not be there
My blood brothers of Lebanon say,
But I wait, field of vision
aligned to the east
Aural stumbles translate, articulating
My brethren begin their search of food
And in too many moments unnoticed,
Black on bottom, red on the low, blue slowly suffocating the obscurity above
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
This day, it feels like I am going traditional
All this while I've always done the magical
Its feels, it kills , and thrills me
Even when my body is in pain, your soul , drills me
And it always soothe when I say '' KE A GO RATA ''
My heartbeat goes faster
And if feel locks on my head like a rasta
When the skies are built in lies
When the evening is green in styles
It feels so good to say '' KE A GO RATA ''
Even when your mind is set in doubt it doesn't matter
When the earth is dark in gloom
When a grenade rocks like boom
Its fine, if I whisper KE A GO RATA
Written by
Joey Percival Ikechukwu
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC