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Faking Bad

In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"

But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.

No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.

Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1

Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.

When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.

My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
"**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.

The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Poem from Outsider Poetry Magazine
martin challis Oct 2014
Rodney the Tormentor came toward me,
a slick sneer edging the mug of his leering mouth.

He prepared the next barb garnished with a delicate sliver of dry ice.
What was he going to find to ridicule this time?

My hair too long, too short?
The art assignment a pathetic attempt at literature?

My bowling action; a cross between a mental patient and a broken wind-mill?
Knees too bulbous for any normal person?

I thought, not today.

I’ve had this, like this, for almost two years
each day a new torture, a new laceration of clean practiced words
and me accepting the torment with the dull weariness that comes only from unkind relentless repetition

allowing the beast fresh meat
thinking, hoping one day he’ll stop
surely he’ll tire of the incessant need to ridicule
believing one day the ‘****’ jokes will dry up

but they never do

such is the never-end brutal articulation, the
verbal incision, the cruel words of blunt destructive beauty:

teenage confidence stumbling like a novice boxer
dribbling with fresh bruises

but not today
the animal hunted turns
to find precision and strength in defiance  

it is the time to wound the wounder
and then all
that follows

‘Rodney the Tormenter’  going down       the windless scream of one blow
two years in the forging           one first and final blow
one strike                               one out

a fist gutting                                        and nothing gets back up

the art gallery attendent           the other students on excursion
the teachers,  all as if complicit in retribution, like a magicians audience
look the other way

and Rodney down                       solar-plexus perplexed

the swift shock in defeat
and a new entry in the part of Rodney’s brain that stores
future possible outcomes to hitherto unchecked actions

decades later I can still see his face in that ghastly micro-moment: pain, shock, horror
and most surprisingly


MChallis © 2005/2014
Obadiah Grey May 2010
The comely *****

a comely ***** o' twenty three, from yonder village banburee,
alight her sight on poor auld me, a poorly man wi' one bad knee,
she buxom be enough fer three, her legs be thick as big oak tree,
but contrary to crippled me, she sprightly be wi' two good knee.

as I took flight on that fateful night from rutting comely *****,
I felt a pain, a twist, a strain, and a gutting  rumley wrench!
yon knee was spent, wi’ geat lament, she's upon me in a jiffy
she made it clear, she said, “m’dear I want yer little ******”

now twenty three ‘tis not in years, but sire, tis stones in weight,
and 'er on me wi one good knee, be too dire to contemplate,
but to my surprise, she got a rise outa my little wrinkled pecker,
wi’ her big thighs and **** the size o’ bleedin double decker!!
Martin Narrod Nov 2014
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
     Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
     I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
neon alien blouse girl lies lying tightly wrapper copper days fighting giving slim odd thanksgiving gratitude life blanket homeless ring internship myself I lights lux watts volts stand sit golf aspirin
Gary Suarez Jul 2011
He is known as The Leader of Men.
His combat skills and his undisputed valor are unparalleled.
The cryptic tattoos of his body are the gospel of neighboring regions.
The utter of his name sends shockwaves of fear and trepidation across the land.
Biding idle time by sharpening his spears, swords, daggers.
Gutting, severing, and beheading those opposing his path and will.
The elders say he is the son of Achilles.
Yet at the twilight of every night of battle,
He lies at his bedside.
He never talks, he never sleeps.
Just gazes upon the blood spilled upon his hands.
He weeps.
Graff1980 Nov 2014
I can’t write with all this rage
The knife I thought I put away
That slicing dicing silver blade
Always thrusting inwards
Always gutting my innards
Betrayal and deceit turn upon
The victim become his own a-bomb
Wasted red-eyed monster
And those who committed the crime
Walk away scott free without paying
Leaving me to do my own time
A prisoner of my own angry mind
Liz McLaughlin Aug 2015
Dawn breaks like an egg on the highway,
Light spilling through the trees to rest on the blue
bruised half-moons beneath her eyes. She keeps
her foot against the pedal, one hand in the fold
of her jacket pocket. Her cell phone buzzes, her gut
twists, and his voice echoes: “a house, a yard, maybe a dog”

The phone cracks against the side door, falling by dog-
-eared roadmaps. Drowning the call with the roar of the highway,
she wants for inner concrete: decisively gutting
the crust of the earth in a permanent band. But as the sky swallows more blue,
sun exposes the worry-soaked fold
lines where her fingers met her knuckles, empty of the ring he kept

hidden for three months in a bran cereal box. He knew she kept
to a breakfast of day-old Chinese food instead, doggedly
digging in matte white boxes. His laughter lines peeked over the centerfold
of the Sunday newspaper, as she surfaced from digital superhighways
with the next crossword line: scrawled in bleeding ink by her blue
tinged fingers. She supposed that morning he finally found the guts.

His words fell smooth, easy on the first swallow but her gut
anguished at their weight, her insides better kept
to the easy promises, the favor-making, secret-keeping, dog-
walking kind she could shrug to. The something old, new, borrowed, blue
demanded will, boxed and taped and wrapped in the folds
of white tissue paper. She hit the highway

6 hours ago, the ring in her jacket pocket, jumping with NY State Highway
55 as it bent toward a familiar exit. Memories: her mother gutting
duck with chicken bone scissors. The clean press of folded
bed linens, aired out in the oak-thick yards of Poughkeep-
-sie. Her car idled outside the colonial, the shutters still blue.
A black lab lay sleeping on the steps: “a house, a yard, maybe a dog”

Her phone shuddered on the floor and the dog
barked. She set her bald tires rolling again to the highway,
her thoughts still of the egg-yolk kitchen against her father’s dirt-caked boots, his blue
collar sensibilities, and the contented swell of his gut.
He was of similar flex and shrug as she, but never went a day without keeping
a family photo tucked into his front pocket fold.

Her folded fingers unfurled in her own pocket, slow, like growing Kentucky bluegrass.
Playing with the ring, she felt in her gut a warm peace—a house, a yard, a dog—
She worked the band round the knuckle-crease as tires spun, down the highway and out Poughkeepsie.
And then it got worse
no pens would work
I couldn't escape into verse
nothing rhymed without reason
I drank and became hopeful
but there were goofballs in the soup
and my hope began to droop

A hissing hissed
and I felt I couldn't die
not ever or forever
that hell emerged slowly
gutting my army of pawns

Strangers were disappointed in me
I paid the homeless for company
and tried desperately to warm my hands
over a garbage can of dying rage
Amanda Newby Dec 2016
I am soft-hearted,
And Sapphic.
But she is not a human girl

Every time I lay her to rest,
She rises
Like a phoenix.
Or a zombie.

She is soft-bodied.

She is rotten to me.
All memory of her,
Warm woman,
Is gone now.
Her body is a dead thing.
A shell, only good for gutting.

My heart is spilling.

My insides are gooey.
They slip between other girl's hands-
A lost cause.

My heart is a terminal case.

Until it's replaced,
I am all robot.


Every girl
Who gives me the kiss-of-life
Is cursed.

I search for a shell
To put my dead into.

But she is in cahoots
With the rotted.

All I want
Is a soft-hearted girl
To lay with.

To lay me down
To rest.

To love to death.
spysgrandson Mar 2015
when he was 84, he rarely recalled
the Great War, though he left a finger somewhere
in French soil, and on deep sleep nights,
few and far between, it would call him
a spectral image of  gas dead faces
drifting through like sallow clouds
in the charcoal sky

his nephew was the only one left
to fish these green waters, to court the steady
trout that he too saw in his dreams--all the others,
even his own sons, marching  in the concrete squares
of the cities, visiting now and then like peddlers
hawking wares he could not understand...
soccer games and mutual funds
gourmet feasts at eateries
with cryptic names

the lake was still the same
the  loons chatting, the waves lapping
but without his Helen, the fish he caught
were usually granted reprieve, saved from
his sharp gutting blade, her sizzling skillet,
and without her beside him under her ancient quilts,
the nights were not longer, for grief, he knew,
did not stretch time, but only
made its circle smaller

was a sun sated Saturday
when the nephew had honey do's as good excuses
and the old man was left alone, sitting by a black rotary phone,
waiting for one of his old nine digits to dial the new nine and two ones,
it is what they all would have expected, a cry for help, a long mute ambulance ride, them seeing him helpless with hoses and wires, delaying the funeral pyres, as was the custom in this post teen century

instead, though he felt the anvil on his chest,
and sweat drenched his JC Penney work shirt,
he moved not his feeble fingers to the phone, but his fated feet
to the lake, once only a long a hop from the porch, now a mammoth journey, ten, twelve Sisyphus steps downhill--when he reached the waters edge, the fowl called him casually, their slow song on the currents,
and he sat in the fresh grass, watching the painted blue sky
he saw the fins of those he had set free, hoping
that would count for something
when he curled in fetal repose,
and closed his eyes
by this lonely lake
PrttyBrd Mar 2014
♦ Become a friend
♦ Learn her secrets
♦ Swallow her demons by choice
♦ Tell her she is wanted always in all ways
♦ Choose time shared over all else
♦ Pick weakness out of need
♦ Push hard while showing kindness
♦ Sincerity and pain
♦ Wanting all, yet giving nothing
♦ Prove dependability
♦ Turn fear into reality
♦ Use her heart against her, gutting her invisible

And with the final lie that defines a gender
"I want you to always be here"
Turns into a silent, wordless exit
Michelle Long Feb 2012
I couldn't concentrate. The page of math homework was staring back at me; it was blurry and incomprehensible. Such a simple problem, yet it had seemed like rocket science at that moment. My mind was drawing a blank (which it'd seemed to do a lot of), and I had to rest. I'd hoped that maybe, just maybe I could wake up feeling extravagant and ready to tackle the homework, though, of course, I knew it wouldn't result like that. So let's just say I was being remotely lazy, committing to another episode of procrastination. But, I still found myself stacking my books and folders and things onto the mini table standing in front of my bed, and dozing off.
    Sleep was what I needed, to relax for once.
    Once fallen into a dream, I felt peaceful, like I was floating against a cooling wind and flying through clouds. Of course that all too quickly ended as the dream transited into the same, repetitive nightmare I'd had night after night a lot before then. The dreams consisted of nothingness, just blurs of hate and confusion, filling my mind and scaring me on many levels. The floating then turned to falling, sinking. This went on forever, it seemed, making my dream-stated mind want to hide, striving to wake up.

    And then I did. And it was all over. Just like that, it had happened many times. I never had thought much of it, considering I always forgot about it one minute after waking.
   The night following I had the same dream again. Yet this time it hadn't even given me even the faint happiness in the beginning-no, it went straight to the good stuff. And when I awoke, I was confused and frightened. It'd never hit me quite that hard before. And, I remembered it. Night after night after night, the dream kept coming back. Each new night it deepened and expanded, seeming to last longer than the one before. The nightmare frenzy went on for months, and I had had no idea what to do about it. I'd just hoped it'd straighten itself out given time.
    The only hope I had once captured in the inescapable, never-ending dreams was the eerie sounding of my alarm clock. It woke me up; it saved me from the nightmare abyss. The ambulance-sounding drone-which is enough to drive most people insane-was my savior, it stopped everything in its tracks, it ended the dream altogether and set me free. It felt great to wake up, getting away from the horrid dream world. Well, after I calmed myself down, at least.
    Throughout my days I was becoming even more timid than normal. I felt an unwanted, unseen presence around me. I couldn't pay attention, I could only panic. Hours would just fly by, and I would spend them staring at the wall, afraid to move, afraid to unlock myself into the room surrounding me.

    But, one day, after another sleepless night, something clicked in my mind and I woke up. I told myself I was being stupid, and that there was nothing there. I snapped out of the scared coma and breathed a little. It worked for the moment.
   I managed to content myself watching re-runs of a television show. I felt my eyes become heavy. I needed to sleep, I couldn't resist the urge. Nights before that particular day were restless. So, no matter how hard I fought to stay awake, it was no use.
   I felt my body being dragged across the ground by some great force. My feet began to burn, as faster and faster the force took me. Then my own two feet started moving without effort; they just took off. I felt a burning feeling take over my whole body this time. I screamed and struggled and dug and scratched for any possible grip I could obtain to pull myself away. There was nothing but darkness. I couldn't feel any object, I couldn't feel warmth or coldness, and I could not tell if I was in the air or on the ground. I was just being pulled by my own mind, forcing my feet to keep up with it. I suddenly felt like I was falling again. I was completely numb all the while, trapped by my own mind. Slight screeching noises emerged from behind me, then from above me, from all around me. The noises grew, getting louder and louder, turning into high-pitched screeches. The noises surrounded me. Bounded in my own invisible stance, I still couldn't feel a thing. The screeches became whispering voices, gutting and growling, circling me in. The sound was so horrible, I could feel my ear drums burst, it seemed. I couldn't bare it any longer, the pain was too intense. I found myself kneeling onto the ground, cupping my hands over my ears with fatal attempt to block the sound out.
   Then it all stopped.
    I looked around and found that the darkness had left in exchange for the setting of a room: my bedroom. Except, this room didn't feel like my room, it felt like a prison. I felt as unsafe as possible, even more-so as when I wasn't dreaming. I stumbled forward, feeling the objects around me to gain stamina from being so used to the nothingness. Slowly, steadily I crept towards the door, struggling to open it once I approached it. It wouldn't budge. I banged my fists against the door, tried the **** over and over, and screamed in attempt for someone to rescue me from the outside. It was no use. I broke down, falling to the ground, sobbing in fetal position. I felt so trapped. I had the idea that I was never going to get out, and the claustrophobic feeling I was getting as if the walls were closing in on me wasn't helping it. The walls seemed only a few feet away from touching each other then, as I remained in my place against the wall. I closed my eyes and breathed in, startling myself as I heard the droning call from out of the sky: "Beep-beeeeeep, beep-beeeeep, beeep, beeep, beeep..."
    And I sat up, breaking out into a sob, I felt so paralyzed.
   I spent that next day huddled at the corner of my bed. I had always liked sleeping there because it made me feel more safe and secure. But at that moment nothing felt safe or secure.
    My nightmares were controlling my life.
    Since weeks before that, I'd sensed things amongst me. I felt an orb of evil flow around me everywhere I went, which was why I couldn't calm down. I was sure that I was being haunted, but I had no idea how to fix it. I started going insane, as literal the term as possible. I'd sometimes talked to things that weren't there, screamed at them to leave me alone. I thought I'd seen bodies, and spirits. It was nonstop. I quit going out (even simply going outside), I just sat in my room for hours rocking myself back and forth.
    One night I'd lost it completely. I swore I saw a creature come from the window. It slithered down so easily, I was mesmerized. I snapped back into consciousness (as much as I could have) as its body scampered across the floor like a lizard, nothing ever thought possible to be seen through human eyes. Like something from a dream.
    My body began growing tense. It's only in my mind, I'm just hallucinating, that's it. I told myself as the creature inched forward. I couldn't escape its presence, I couldn't run, I couldn't scream, I couldn't move.
    As its face reached mine I could feel evil swarm around it. I closed my eyes and swallowed.
    In response, the creature let out droning scream... But the scream sounded more like it was coming from an ambulance. As soon as it let out, the thing was gone. Then...everything disappeared. Everything. The room went pitch black, and I could only feel my body suspended in the air. It felt like I was flying, but at the same time, I felt like I was falling.
    The screams became more organized and reachable, almost as if they were coming from a place so near to me. But I couldn't feel or see a thing. Louder, louder, louder they became, as, finally, light hit me.
    I opened my eyes quickly to a white abyss. I blinked and found that it was my molded bedroom wall staring back at me. I sat up in panic, and turned to my wailing alarm clock. It was morning time. I had just woken up.
The flaws of this are abundant and it may not make much sense to many of you -- I understand. This was written when I was a freshman in highschool, completely on the spot, and it was one of the first story(ish)  things I've written, so I'm afraid to let it go. Bear with me.
RCraig David Oct 2016
Part 1
When profound things leave us because serendipity seizes control and teases our soul,

few actually see it and believe in takes its toll.

Our walls grow high...

Wise to all those sly predators that shared our space but ultimately never bettered us.

Likened to a wild bunch of criminals and nuns you sometimes share fun or lunch with,
then again spin adrift.

So we stay put...only peeling away the day-to-day’s fraying gray.

Though we have heightened steeliness to infernal charms,

We sometimes ignore internal alarms,

Oft' ending up-in-arms instead of in the arms of another.

Battling each curse from crib to hearse,
We continue to play anyway, but hold our cards close..
Somehow coasting on borrowed form and verse.

Still too afraid to lead with enormity.

Still too proud to follow in conformity.

We become shells and ghosts to project “normality”.

Still hoping for more,

Still revealing our core,

Still practicing what we’d say with one more chance to settle the score.

Refusing to sink, either our genius always on the brink of changing the world and more...

Or burning down and gutting out our current hideout and surrounding small town or place of clout.

Still reeling from the lingering devastation of past lackluster unreciprocated non-appreciation knockdowns.

To keep from being corrupt,

We fold our coldest stories up,

And box them up under a "never the right 'write' " pens and pencils cup long filled up.

Smiling a little, we continue through this long season's harsh climate.

Subconsciously buying "Dried" sage because "Rubbed" still seems to intimate.

Tragically tied down by the tiny tech gadgets flooding our data stream with faster updates;

All just to dazzle and daze us into a lazy malaise on our busiest of days.

More and more we wait.

The "what-if's" we contemplate.

The more we try to create something great, then hesitate, none too late

The more this inundating system of “Likes” rates you,

The less your gated fate or guiding faith makes you "you".

The less your justification or inspiration moves you.

Yet uncompromising and alone, you continue and make it through.

No one could ever guess from your crisp pants' fresh press. I digress.

Oddly, all it likely would take is one ego caress from soft smiling muse in sandals and a summer dress.

If you could only get this distress off your chest, fall hard for a new muse, give your defenses a rest

endure the re-birthing process and all the possible hot mess...then...

Never again would you have to guess or obsess.

The sheer potential magnitude of you at your best.

An open floodgate of uncanny, uncaddy personal success.

You would never again feel idleness or unrest.

But "who" you ask, would be caring, tough & daring enough,

willing to share all that stuff through such an arduous process, off the cuff?

Who has such pure heart intent, without the fluff?

A Muse who speaks out loud for you, never a mumble...

Is strong and humble, but not rough and tumble...

Who heeds the needs of your soul's rumble...

Who pulls the "new you" close while your old limits crumble...

Is fair and daring when you're sharing how bizarrely you sometimes raise the bar...

Joins your rare ****** to close down the bars while thoughtfully considering how fragile your scars are...

Who encourages you to shoot for the stars...

Sees the truth of who you were, hope to be and the screams in-between.

And by her sheer presence, becomes all these things for that new man and him alone.

Cause of she, he will achieve and be more than he could on his own.

Whoever that girl may be and until then,

I mend a tightly woven,

slightly broken,

rarely spoken,

unawoken caged soul for one more shinny token to spend on this world alone.

By R.Craig David-Copyrighted 2012
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
   " Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)

Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....

And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
My last name being Gonzales has Spaniard roots,
My blood and heritage is far more on the Aztec side.
Dedicated to an ancient people lost, but not dead.
Blue Dec 2019
hell is having a family dinner
heaven is mailing out ****** hammers
hell is having mother tuck me into bed
heaven is putting broken glass into peoples food for mean things they have said
hell is having a good dream
heaven is gutting into people’s limbs to hear their helpless screams
hell is embracing my family close
heaven is laying in the tub letting the flood of waters go through my nose
hell is buying pretty clothes at the mall
heaven is ******* my fingers into the metal wall
hell is having a pretty shiny crown
heaven is losing conscious while I hang myself upside down
hell is thinking love is real
heaven is swallowing 11 pills
hell is writing love notes
heaven is having open cuts on my throat
hell is thinking about my future
heaven is talking to all the creatures
hell is drawing unicorns on colorful papers
heaven is stealing razors
hell is getting redemption for my mistakes
heaven is when my personalities rotate
hell is talking about the days where I was beaten with a belt
heaven is pouring acid on my skin as I watch it melt
hell is wanting unconditional love that I thirst
heaven is rubbing my old wounds until they burst
hell is proving to everyone that my demons are liars
heaven is collecting tapes of thunder
hell is thinking the world is filled with hope
heaven is looking at dolls with microscopes
hell is having positive thoughts in my head
heaven is going days without meat, rice, and even bread
hell is letting people hear my cries
heaven is sinking wires into my eyes
hell is playing tag running in circles
heaven is injecting random liquids into my body with needles
hell is being on honeymoon in Seattle
heaven is pulling triggers as I hear all my cells rattle
hell is getting kisses from night to dawn
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Who do you think you are,
stealing my heart like that,
wringing it dry,
bleeding all my veins,
gutting me like you did!?

You feel so proud,
so smug,
like you’re the greatest.
Me too, believing in karma!

It may not be instant,
but sooner or later,
it’s going to get you.

So enjoy the basking,
you still have time,
before it gets dark.
C J Baxter Feb 2015
Now that the quiet talks, everything else shuts the **** up. He lines them up against the wall, from the short to the tall, and to each barks a question, “ Right! unless you want cut up like the ******* tension, you better listen here. I don’t mind letting you’s make your noise, as long as you do it with care. It needs to mean something. If you’s clutter this beautiful place with incessant moaning and ******* techno 24/7, then I’m going be sticking the ******* boot in some *****”. Heads stay bowed in the line. No words. No Spines. And the quiet starts gutting himself laughing.

Now that the quiet laughs, the room’s confusion grows; smiles appear on some faces, nervously trying to gage the situation.  The shortest man stands as tall as he can, clears his throat and politely asks “ Are you *******, or were we actually annoying you with our noise?”. “ Did I say you could say you could open that ******* pathetic we gob”, he barks back, and then begins gutting himself once again. “ Ahaha, naw mate, don’t worry yersel’, I’m only winding ye’s up”.  Then he walks out the room, promising he’ll be back in a bit, with a chuckle.
Mitchell Duran Mar 2012
The burning down there ceased
When the sun rose and the winter
Chill of the wind crept into my
Now lonesome room. She had left
With everything except my soul: My
Heart, my money, my food, my
Dog, my tupperware, my bed sheets,
My favorite table, all of my records, every
Sticky note we wrote together, even the
Lint that was underneath the bed, she took.

The end for all of us comes with a
Short breath from a face that is invisible or
A hand gentle but cold. It comes like a car
Honking before it smashes into the one
Alive crossing the street. The end comes
Like the lost pop of the fire before the moon
Washes away its heat; the end comes and
Goes and comes again like peace and like wartime.

Moving through this, hearing the wails of
Neighbors young ones scream for more
Milk or less of it, landlords weeping into their
Piles of money, couples deafening themselves
With their contemplation of deserting, I see myself
In the mad streets with the cigarette butts all lined
Up like soldiers going off to fight a way not
Their own in their hearts, but only in the their minds.

Each snow flake falls melts and sees a harsh
Sun the flake does not know, yet hates. Each
Friend I have known turns their back on
Themselves for pleasures they do not need.
All of time will halt for that one person who
Who up their arms and says ENOUGH, all of
Time will stop, listen, then move on, some
Writing and listening for a moment, then the
Moment will pass, as the next generation
Waits - unborn & unknowing - for the next.

We generations look onto a lakefront painted silver with
A thin lining of gold around the edges of
The reeds and see the body of love. She breathes
In and out, her lips dry from the winter sun, each
Hand broken so her fingers point in opposite
Directions, her feet the only things still intact after
The long fall from heaven to the ground. People
Gather around her, build shrines they will later
Fight over, arguing who built the shrine first,
Later they will burn the thing down, where all that will be left
Will be the bones of lady love, her hands still twisted,
Her feet still perfectly aligned, resting peacefully
Now around the edges of silver and gold.

Through each glass reflects the sights
We have seen and have not yet seen, regulators
Of the what needs to be done and what needs
To wait so we do not age to fast or too soon.
We do not make the rules, the rules come
From someplace else, a place that has no name,
No boundaries or walls, where generations play
Without a title or responsibility, where all is
Shared and nothing is sacred or blasphemous or
Taboo; where all is one and one is nothing and
Nothing is everything that needs to be just to be.

So see through the illuminated white squares of
Those monster office buildings, housing the sane
Who condemn the opposite, the walls bleeding with
Metallic staples, smelling of felt markers and body
Odor leaking through the men's and women's bathroom,
Money being thrown around like darts at a pool
Hall, the office chairs spinning on their own and the
Wooden tables set aflame by an employee gone wrong.
Observe the sights of man as the animal, them naked
Trying to hold up a conversation or sell a deal, where
Underneath the Devil takes a straight razor to the
Brain, gutting all that was once holy of man & woman.

Hope is a four letter word fueled by action. People
Commit to a cause triumphed by the television and
The radio. We hold the power when we want it, but
When sloth and greed and corruptible seed plant
Themselves in the minds of the good and light, trouble
Ensues, washing away all that has been done like a
Tsunami. Mind the gap of generations, hark not on
What was done in the past, for that worked then, and
This time, our time, is now.
Akemi Jan 2017
[[More real than the real, that is how the real is abolished]] de facto slogan to the virtual economy \ Reality has collapsed through its own fiction || rummaging through boxes // a DVD from the 2001’s states [[the future of gaming is here]] opening with ten minutes of nauseating zooms on women’s ***** \ The future doesn’t look much different from the past || hyper-masculine neo-enlightenment ***** scrawling ******* entries into digitised soliloquies \ VR technology once used to aid traumatised amputees now a billion dollar industry of ****** throwing simulators for bored middle-class kids \ Parents watch awkwardly from the corner of the room too disconnected from reality to connect with irreality \ Two and the same \ Silicon synapses pass through trade routes of jutting ribs and serotonin receptors \ White America a botnet of alt-right neoliberal fundamentalist-atheists gutting the majority world so everyone can watch Doctor Strange // Marvel’s latest explosive **** from the libidinal imagination of a middle-aged idiot \ Thanatos and Eros arrive at the same destination to dismantle subliminal desire one commodity at a time \ The sublime never experienced // only destroyed // consumed in the inverted maw of late-stage capitalism where each irruptions of desire is more banal than the previous \ Banality the ultimate distraction from apathy // a pseudo-cyclical time dilation of ever accelerating proportions \ Soon nothing will be experienced at all and Rotten Tomatoes will give it a 99% score \ When the singularity hits everyone will be too brain dead to care that they’re god \ 24-7 VR **** // Disney reincarnated as a being of pure light // recursive integration of every bland radio hit about a sexist ***** at a club // irreality shocked into neurons bypassing sensual phenomena // an all encompassing warmth // veil of death // eyecaps dragging flesh closed // backup released // no escape // digitised irreality // holographic Disney dancing on the train home // notice of termination swiped away as junk mail // all beings arrive // transcend circuitry // fly through the cosmos watching every episode of Friends at once \ Didn’t you know? [[The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of banalisation \ ]]
more philosophy trash:
cd Jun 2014
you always hear that one lady on the train,
you know,
the one in over-sized hemp pants
and a recycled kitchen table somehow turned shirt,
'peace for all' dead and center,
yelling about bees.
the honey bees are disappearing, she says.
insert frantic rant,
insert headphones just the same.
except you hear her ruffled through the music,
… eighty percent of insect pollination…
…colony collapse disorder…
…cell phone towers…
…climate change…

ad infinitum.

and so you pop one ear out and you say,
"listen, lady.
imagine honey bees could adapt so as not to sting—
to keep their insides inside
instead of gutting them out, a,
everything is okay,
no need to end it this way,

type of thing.
it's small but still a start.
now, imagine if the human race followed suit,
if we adapted not to sting every chance that we got
and instead lived in balance
(or should I say
learned to bee.)
it would all slowly change."
see also: harmony.

but she looks at you crazed and yells back,
but the BEES...

and so you put your headphone back in and increase the volume.
why bother when that one lady on the train won't even listen?
Amanda Valdez Nov 2012
In midday I watched the children play
on the west side of town
outside my classroom window.
I thought how bright the paper is inside
with blues and limes and how proud
the colors stand within the skin to be
a pioneer for the small and tender.

With the last of the spiders wiped
with pencil textiles I could hear
these tiny howls, a gathering of five boys
throwing around a football remaining invisible
behind thumb greased glass.
Surely children’s beady-eyes bright in hopes
for resulted gutting knees and grass filled mouths
is a life lesson of it’s own.
But, outside is a war and I am watching
against a patchy globe rondure the blur
of a boy beaten down around the ball;
the white lace shinning off
a sunlit fire pit of loss.

It was like watching nerves of growth
as an oceans current; the ripples
carrying them along onto an islands sand.
The red shirted boy holding onto himself,
clenching for breathe while the others like flies
when surrounding the pig; hovering over meat
raw and stiff.
You are such a nothing
a blank canvas
an etching
i squeezed onto my fantasy shelves
gutting the plans
to posses your Rorschach
ethereal squalor of meaning
and threw the world's paint
on top of you
transparent draw cloth
translucent and opaque at once
femme fatale, bejeweled betokened
and plaything
i want to whack
a mole

Self-righteous being
spysgrandson Mar 2017
from the bank
I see the ghost of a pier
old posts standing solitaire
a ramp rotted, long gone

moored to one stubborn beam,
a bass boat, tethered to time, rocking
with the whims of the waters
fickle, but steady

storms upriver may hasten
the current, bloat the stream
though the flow never ends,
lapping against the hull

hiding inside are more ghosts:
phantom footfalls of fishermen,
odors as old as Eden, sounds
which once made songs

by those who cranked the motor,
manned the rudder and cast the lines
into the depths, seeking a tug--a pull
that meant dinner, a small success

a simple surrender of one species
to another, from beneath the surface
into the sun, a sublime suffocation,
then stillness before the gutting

many a day ended this way
the boat buoyed again to the dock
bellies then filled from the sacrifice,
the waters licking long the wood
Nathan Kwon Feb 2015
The crippled bull has yet to live Another Day
It proudly ambles on Year to Year
Its discordant song

Is an iron sword that clefts, rips apart The Age
Four hundred and thirty-two thousand
Times over and over
Gutting the

Detested coward and honored brave alike
‘Tis the stench of war and of hot oil
Quickly seeping o’er the

With the armies aflame and howling for battle
Crimson red bloodlust and scarlet wrath
‘Tis the jewels that adorn
The tyrant’s

Crown, gleaming and fiery with authority
‘Tis the wedding bed of the wretch’d *****,
Defil’d, soil’d, forsook
No man can

Deny the captivating, luxurious tune
O mighty bull, your song may last from
age to age, and you may
Hobble on

your single leg

and roaring victory
and dominion o’er the nations
But even you must fall down, bow, and come to rest


the feet of

A humble

oni Jan 2018
fingers seeking
gutting desperately
only finding
the ghost of someone elses hands
the memory of love
pain swells forward
turned off
We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones
as a vivisection, on our love.
there, she’s whispering into shells
into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses
and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute.
I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica
and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea
always accompanied as I were
with the shark-eye, death, of her looks.

We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe,
filled the place up with lit and lightless places,
Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued.
Spent hours inside, laying floorboards
and then laying on them
to stare at the sodium lights
and discuss the inkblots on our eyes.
We vivisected our lives,
and splashed it on the walls
and carved it into the carpets.

We set alight to christmas trees
when the kids were sleeping upstairs.
We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror
and answered the door.
Valentines day was full of bone bouquets,  
the gripper rods grew through the carpet
so on them we danced.
I prayed for the first time in the first year
and every one hit me subesquently
like I was its anvil.

I should have gone to war.
Because it makes forever shorter
things can only happen right now.

I watched everything in our domestica,
like when the static moved off the television
and played on the window
gutting me of my escape.
The smiles hung on our faces like lupus,
We had people round,
we cooked and coughed and choked
And their faces peeked round from the doorframe
and laughed.

The domestica lives
only to be a bit of fun,
but in the very same span of time
that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill
and my children’s love for me
and my dexterity.
We’ve happened to the whole world too
I promise you, my love,
my little hospice fire,
my flat tire at night at nowhere,
the lie you recognise means it’s over,
A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers,
the brightest night when you’re hiding,
your heart attack on holiday,
your bloodstained bed sheet
And sleep, whilst outside
the sleet and snow makes every emergency
harder to get to, and still the morning
much more beautiful.
I, you, we happened.
In the greater scheme of things we are all just things that happen. Life becomes an event and a performance.
Ayeshah Apr 2010
Your a Sick ****,

do you get pleasure outta gutting out my heart.

You laugh as you disassembled my comfort zones

shattering with your sledge hammer

my illusionist'tic dreams,

you opened my mouth and cut out my words

with a ***** dull kitchen knife,

stomping me into silence,

choking out the voice of reasoning

You Sick ****

you told me

if I didn't like WHAT you had to say,

I should take my own  advice

"stick a **** in ya ear & **** what you heard"

implying this is what I should do myself huh?


just like I told you

just cause you eat *** don't give you the right to talk ****.  

You laugh,

I cry.

I laugh.  
Now you cry.

You don't cry for the pain you cause me


from the bitterness you made me feel...

You cry cause I got yo **** in these vice grips,

I got these pliers squeezing down

on your *****...

Now you can't cry, holla or speak...

Our roles reverse

I'm the torturous ****!

HA HA HA How you like me now,

I guess you don't......

I don't hear you mocking me now  

don't hear you talkin out yo trap

funny ain't funny when the jokes on the both of us

vinegar and water just don't mix.

Confession of a psychopathic *****!

You sick ****!

( sigh)  

Always me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
I imagine a hook
entering my

an eye

senses warring
blood and

nerve endings

it was a simple

the hand of a

broad and

rough skinned,

you could imagine
his fingerprints

worn down by
years of


building houses
for children to
grow up in

raging walls
instead of

each goodnight
kiss fiercer
than the

the side of
my face

fitting perfectly
into his

I imagine a hook
gutting me

like a fish
bones pulled

mercilessly apart

spat out of

in people's

I imagine a hook
piercing me

blood leaking
out of

a pinprick

ears, eyes
and nose

quietly, very

it puddles at
my feet

before I pass

I imagine a hook
holding me

by the neck

an example,
a terrible

drained and

I imagine a hook
imagining me
SøułSurvivør Oct 2017
Universal unction
A beatific box
Friction in the function
A tutorial. A talk.

We winnowing the worship
We wiser for to seek
Here harrowing through
We winkle out the "weak".

How holy is the hilltop
Which cannot help at all
How horrible the House of Pride
Which cannot help but FALL.

Please pray for persecution
Let them not stay their hand
GOD BLESS the repercussions!
The ground on which to stand.

I beg that I won't barter
Without nor yet within
I pray that I won't falter
I'll stand against the sin.

For the Church as it emerges
From underneath the waves
Surfeit in the surges
Gamboling in her grave

Wreaks havoc on true holiness
Divides doctrine "uncouth"
Gutting out the Bible
Laying waste the TRUTH!

The "Universal Union"
"All for one, and one for all"
"All roads lead to Rome"
How the mighty fall!

There are, in truth, just 2 roads
At the tolling of the bell.
The narrow to eternal life...

... and the broad road straight to


(C) 10/31/2017
I thought Halloween and appropriate "holiday" to write of the emergent "Church". Their masks of "love" and costumes replete with crosses around their necks.

I look for TRUE worshipers. They CARRY their crosses on their BACKS!

People will tell you "All ways lead to God".
Ironically enough genuine Christianity, to the folks who say this, ain't one of the ways. We Christians are "exclusive" and "narrow minded". So we are shuffled out of the deck!


Sorry. Only Christ DIED to save humanity. He's the Way. The Truth. The Life.
The ONLY WAY to the Father.

I'm standing against the overwhelming tide of Unitarianism. I may be facing poetic death. But I won't drown. Nor will my house fall....

... it is built upon the ROCK of AGES!
Poetic T Feb 2020
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We see the youngens, they little bait,
but once we hooked them,they'll be
piranha's in our tank, stripping the
dignity from out of your
                        voice in 20 seconds flat.  

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We strung up your boys, gasping for air.
But once we got our hooks on you
                               were gutting you easy.
But not before we get what we need from
                                                     your pleads.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Look little fish you in a tank of sharks,
we grin our grills gravestones of  what you
                   see last before your dispatched.  
But don't you worry there are plenty to keep
you company down there, you ain't the first
                             and you ain't going to be the last.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We got nicknamed the fisherman, we sail into
your town catching what ever we want.
        We don't scrap the sea floor hoping
for a catch. We fish for the real deal.
  Disillusioned of the fish bowl they swimming in.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Making it even easier to catch, to turn them from
                neighbourhood trash to one of our sharks.
showing other that once we got you hooked,
the only way you leaving is dead floating at the
bottom of the tank.

                We coming to your postcode.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.
[August 31, 2015]
[Viewer Discretion Advised]

The victim is chained, he stares
In this empty room bound to a chair
Dim light creates evil shadows
In the darkness enclosed
Forever, he is exposed

In the darkness he awaits
For his master to bring his torture case
When his master walks in
The procession can soon begin

The agony is excruciating
As blade rips through flesh
Exhilarated and insane
He watches old wounds turned fresh

He is but a slave turned into meat
Saw shreds through his bone
As the blood mixes so sweet
His master cracks a whip from his throne
As the slave whispers prayers and groans

He is tortured and beaten
Could be dead, but heart still beating
His master enjoys splitting slave’s skin
And finds joy in tormenting slave’s kin

The master stands with hands stained
As the slave lays with arms chained
The master’s lust never satisfied
As the slave lies here, waiting to die

Body raw, meat severed
Blood dripping, still waiting
The slave is powerless to struggle
As the master prepares to separate muscle

Tools spread out, gloves on
The surgeon starts at dawn
Slave closes his eyes and braced
For what comes next he couldn’t face

One by one, he cuts tendon
And severs muscle with his weapon
He scrapes and stabs, tears asunder
The slave roars, mighty as thunder

Last comes the gutting
As the surgeon grabs his bucket
Then tears open intestine
One by one slave loses section

The slave passes from the world
As his blood gushes upon the floor
The master wipes off the gore
And throws away the meat he tore

The sun rises upon a new slave
The master threw the old one away
We placed a stone upon his grave
Simple and round, not engraved

The master was ignorant with his old ways
For the new slave was powerful and brave
The next morning, a new hole was made
After a night of agony, the master was laid
Inside his own shallow grave
Agony [August 31, 2015]
Category: Fictional/Relative/Historical
A story about the plight of slavery and the physical and mental abuse associated with it.
Keith Faherty Feb 2016
i'm 7 1/2 inches  old. 8  by you.left. a film on me
like melatonin.leaking outside of it.vocaloid choaking. kawaii grunge in the  
waterlogged genocide- your ears.ihate the way it ran
down the wall then.   better.if i crouch inside your cradleface18+ years
ago. like an inflammation.    you qualify for
like the newer- more appealing nightterrors.we escape      certain
allegories. by gutting them. filigree-
whipped punish the exhibitionist inside: your lanky breathing.i am tired of borrowing your guilt      i must be
think.i break my wrist.

vivian cloudy Dec 2016
Mom, I wish I could stay home with you today and drink Folgers instant coffee. Maybe watch some of those cheesy morning shows in Spanish with you.

I know you think I’m happy but at the same time I know you worry. I come to see you and you tell me my smile is less squinty and you are suspicious as to why in the world I would ever watch cheesy morning shows in Spanish with you.

The truth is mom, I rather taste the tasteless because what is real is too hard to gulp. And the hate that is ever looming is consuming; hate gnawing at the flesh of tenderness and glee to the backbone.

Because the world princess you thought spoke into a microphone now wears a mouthpiece and no one knows who she is. Because the fearless combatant you fostered has been gutted and she lies dead and cold on a table like a fish.

And Mom, tomorrow there will be a man sitting on a tiny speck of a chair in a colossal office. In his cut-throat world, he will cry my name and I must go into this dreaded dome. The back of his chair will face me for a minute, but then the chair will turn and with a stare so acidic, he will cut throat.

The female filleting begins as he lines us up to our destined limp. His ego well- fed by belittled spirits, you will see how quickly the pin-bones pile up. But they all bow down to the butcher, mom. “Oh he’s not so bad after all” they will say. A menace so kind, as the menace manipulates. The fishmonger back in business again.

He’s just a man gutting fish. But he’s a man with a wish. A wish to be  God. Bleached in the blah. Blissed in the blah!  Can we just watch TV and drink coffee?
Like Hercules
we were set tests
of character

building fires
that could warm
ice bitten fingers
that had plunged
through layers of
flesh, gutting out
a heart

hunting wild animals
with nothing but
hope and hunger

walking into the
ocean, taking on
one wave at a
time, one breath
of salty air at
a time

knowing the if we
fail, we will be

of love
Thandiwe Noki May 2015
Nylon echoes each movement
and impact of the walking bodies -
we are waiting for them to pass Dante’s place setting

they are bringing the first taste of fruit
– caterpillar walking –
pouring dust
behind them and with the other hand
before them clearing the path of dirt -
Singing ‘It continues where it falls’ - -

The fruit is good – the year shall pass –
and the juice holds still on the soft hairs of your cheek,
then all are packed away until there
are only the gummy bristles shimmering when you speak.

It had always been said that many many pelicans
had always followed each other -
formationless intravenous droplets upon the harbour wall
that grey with clouds and
circle the fish gutting – irreverent mobs of birds
are the realisation that nature is unsustainable -
she believed so – baseball cap echoing
one hand sweeping
a box under the other arm -
passing the pelicans she wondered what you were thinking,
Feeling the damp of her armpit reach the
She placed the fruit upon the boat and
followed the hallucinating Eland to another’s home
singing an Evangelie vir Vissers
and spilling back and forth from isiXhosa,
continuing up the path from
not yet flooded lowlands to a pale breached
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
We sat next to the raging fire,
watched the embers spiral up,
smoking and joking,
we drank Mr. Jefferson,
talked ****,
drunken like sailors.

The rabbits were nearby,
caged, waitin' for their dedication
to the survival-gods.
The growling of the big cat
was an eye-opener,
felt rather creepy.
But sometime in
the middle of the night,
there was a visitation.
The long-eared mammals
would not make the
the owls go to them first.

I woke up with cotton-mouth,
thirsty as hell,
studied the print patterns
that circled our camp.
It was a huge panther for sure.
Paul woke up
a spell past noon,
thirsty too.
Who knew
we'd lose our meal
to some flying tigers
& whiskey.
McLain & Kyne, the company responsible for creating and bottling Jefferson's Reserve, believe that bourbon is the true spirit of America. They embrace this philosophy by utilizing indigenous grains (corn, malted barley, and rye) and the clean, crisp limestone water of Kentucky to produce their quality whiskies.

On the nose, Jefferson's Reserve exhibits sweet aromas of peach, vanilla, raisin, and butterscotch. Full-bodied with a smooth, velvety texture, this bourbon displays complex notes of dates, blackberry, and orange complemented by caramel, toffee, and oak. The finish is warm and lingering, with reemerging notes of vanilla and raisin.

— The End —