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jeffrey conyers Jul 2016
We pass laws about things we don't like.
Or don't want in our community.
But when you look through the microscope you amazed by those you see within the lenses.

Oh, we protest the strip clubs and that environment.
But pay attention to the visitors or clientele.
Always seems to be someone we know so well.

The businessman.
The police officer.
The minister.
Hosts of others
You know, those important fellas
Especially , a few elected ones.

The same ones supporting the bans on things.

People, even protest Walmart cause of the small family's store facing competition.
Oh, forget about the jobs for those unemployed.
Forget about customers to get a slow economy back on the path of recovery.

We, don't want the street walker disturbing visitors going to the store too.
After all, they have secrets to create several havocs to a happy home.

Again, when you look through the microscope or witness the news.
You shocked by their clients too!

Same, with the dealers of drugs.
Who?
When arrested we amazed that his clients might be teachers/ministers/politicians/judges/famers and the hard earn worker.

Looking through the microscope reveals the sinners controlling us.
Em MacKenzie Aug 2021
I had a conversation with the devil
off the books; it wasn’t recorded,
the correspondence was something to revel
but it can never be reported.
We sat across from eachother at perfect level
but I still felt small and distorted.
In his presence I was disheveled
but I wasn’t the one who was sordid,
it appears he intended me as a vessel,
viewing it as I had been rewarded.

I had demons on each side
striking a bargain over my shoulder,
the heat in the room magnified;
I started to smoke and smolder.
Then they began to attack my pride
while reminding that I’m getting older.
I couldn’t run nor hide
as their weight began to feel like a boulder.
Their evil grins stretched wide
freezing me in place; my soul grew colder.

The third course had arrived
a pound of flesh disguised as an entree,
and I was very quickly advised 

to be mindful of what I say.
As though I found it deprived
it would be wise not to give that away.
I knew the victim hadn’t survived,
and my stomach turned at the hue of grey.
They asked if I had been baptized
and if I did, how frequently did I pray.

The devil licked his lips
and he whisked his wine,
more aggressive became his sips
as he frequently eyed mine.
Providing helpful quips
like the year, saying it was divine,
and dolling out some tips
one being that it was rude to decline.
He told me that he held all the chips
and that I only had a vine,
and he was determined to have me in his grips
regardless of the strength of my spine.

I finally came to the conclusion
that it was my turn to speak,
but amongst great confusion
I made no sound, not even a squeak.
It had to be part of his illusion,
I refused to feel so weak.
He implanted the delusion
but each word began to leak,
and with each pull and each extrusion
I voiced of the havocs he would wreak.

He asked if he could reply
as he was just misunderstood,
and though I knew it a lie
I told him that he could.
So he began to fake cry;
swore his potential to be good,
while pointing up to the sky
blaming his flaws on childhood.
A story I knew better than to buy
paired with an excuse that I never would.

Now dessert, finally at the brink,
anxiously waiting to get up, away I’ll slink.
He told me not every soul is equal no matter what I think,
and the apple is poison but I should try the drink.
Held up the worlds suffering and made sure I didn’t blink
and said “you can fall deeper even while you sink.”
But the conversation was done, I realized I’d been hoodwinked.
He just grew in size, I was never the one to shrink.

I got up and I rung the bell,
announcing we were done, no need to dwell.
Extending my hand out to meet his cold shell,
I was no longer under anyone’s spell.
He bought my false thanks, as far as I can tell,
and I informed him he should return to his cell.
Meeting his eyes I pushed to wish him well,
I may not believe in Heaven but I have seen Hell.
Freestyled this one unintentionally, no offense to religion or belief
Connor Apr 2015
A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!
Third Mate Third Jul 2014
for my friend, Betterdays, who has never written
a poem that did not seek, reach, or teach, even
when she thinks she knows not, the lesson plan below


wisdom arrives daily,
Even after you need all ten
fingers to count your
decades and generations

was it but last year
that a single gull cawing,
a solitary iris saluting the sundial,
a moment of watching her,
arms flung hither, encased in drowsy drops,
a mother and her child strolling,
she patrolling, and they, child world exploring,
only continents discovering,
a grandchild's freely given first kiss

would prompt a write as if a shotgun shell
had arrived not overnight, but instant implosion,
in a chest that could not contain emotion,
only seep, none to keep, skin to shed,
and of course,
tears of, what should I call them,
tears of more than life, tears of essence,
real tears come from invisibly indivisibly real places,
wiping me clean

and so I oathed, I swore,
the Supreme Court and the Village Clerk
jointly administered this vow,
my hand upon my heart,
where the words come from,

what ere you pro-prose,
what ere delights,
or havocs thy temperaments,
if to be,
duly noted, dispatched and possibly
shared,
let it be only thine best,
to the higher standard,
hold thyself close and closer still,
be happy to admit failure,
for that is excellence attained,
and when you are satisfied,
then we will be
but not mere satisfied too,
enthralled to you
for in they words,
you raise the sea level of this world's humanity,
higher and higher*

so, thank you
and thank yourself
this line drawn,
only at or above it,
the goods ones breathe...
the oxygen of poetry
July 20th 7:48am
for her, and all of you, who bequeath inspiration and pleasure when my
eyes bloodshot, lips cracked, mind disturbed, or the worst,
incapable of meeting the higher standard y'all deserve...
S Olson Feb 2018
a dimple of great sadness yawns wide,
a timid fawn, eyes and ears small pearls

and it exists only in my body, mourning
lethargy. morning becomes lethargy,
a heavy predator. without commander
or command, it commences. flowering
into living sleep, i obey, when it beckons

primordially. the sky’s cerulean fingers
all sag. backwardly, blossoming
into muteness, all color
is fed to the inescapable

darkness. hand-fed inwardly, it is a gaping
thirst in the sea of unquenchable
hunger. i do not love it; it mimics

moonlight. the limpid doe,
a crystalline annihilator,

havocs the flower
to furlough the meadow
into the silence,
and into the black.
Poetic T Apr 2016
Could I see in their eyes, as I clean up this momentary
lusting, for their inner demons to released this way.
I had visions of them shouting "4,

That was going to need a ladder and I hate heights.
Well up I went in slow motion, I saw the spaces between the
claret splashes in frozen moments of nothing. Now just a coat
cold and unwarming. From up here it looked like an
abstract painting I called it "echoes of relentless madness,

It was another call out this place off a million lights  
only a fraction were braking into havocs grasp. But when
their final instant came, till it was a single moment or an
eternity in seconds, the end result was the same.

I wore a fresh suit, each being deflowered within
moments. Others lives were centimetres from mine.
They were with me through out these moments, then I
threw them in the bin like a one night stand. I left them
behind , no reason to remember names.

This  one was different, the other one was just like a
water balloon of finest red had been tossed around the
room, this one...  Charred shadows of where like a wick
They had become a light in the darkness and consumed.

Not as much blood, just dry lumps of god knows what.
I breathed quickly, a hand print on the table slightly
scorched, but the hand print still visible reaching out.

This was more a scrap and polish like cleaning spilt
cheese now carbonized on the bottom of the grill.
A hot mind is not a good thing specially when a vent
of release givesthis pressure a release. I look at it and
think to myself? I called this one "charred thoughts ascending,

I once again leave them behind, this is beyond the
ordinary job. Knocking off for lunch i see the next
piece off where my work will take me. I see them
walking and in quietened haste I lunge and inflict a
flesh wound so some may think, but an artery I have nicked .

So gently I  grazed, wouldn't want then to bleed too quick
or to slowly for that matter. I abscond in my van, knowning
the call will not be long versed just another clean up
so many in this city of lights where I calmly change
each one. As to be repetitive there is no art form in that.

To be a cleaner and to see art where others only see death
or tears. I see a deeper visions the latest in the collection
I called them "Life running dry, this was an easy clean
up, but ill have to give it a rest i earned enough from the
clean ups to sit back and watch the world move by.

Till next my artistry is mused I will think of others that
have twerked my needing a suit hangs up, each with
the name of that creation. I can admire them anytime,
and just think of the anticipation that was needed for this
depiction of my thoughts and how they bled out.
serial
Sometimes when I'm faced
With a decision I freeze, great..
My Lifes taken to sticks it, and sit it,
At a fork In the road, to wait

For my choice, where's fate?
....cuz so far my choices to date
Is why I'm writing this, fighting it,
Knowing in my past I've made

Decisions causing collisions
Man made damnation,damaging
The way only a master of disaster
Can... With a strategy of calamity

A catastrophe, to make an *** of me
Like I compete VS. tragedy
To see who can cause more horror,. &destruction; but no match for me

Is he, as my demolition savagery
Similar to whenever havocs seen
And as it happens. I'm always like
"Yo..What the F$&@ is happening??!"

Clueless like Alicia silverstone
In the library with a wrench
As Cornel mustard calls her *****
And this is where ration ends

And wanders like it saunters off
topic hoping itll delay or help
Fantasies of **** woman come out
Now I'm a Plummer...hired to help

... But eventually, I'm back held
Forced to be an adult, oh why ..
..forced to pick a road or grow old
And hold stagnant, until I die

Which don't sound so bad, but a dad
Always has to consider
And factor in. to weigh the variable,
In the form of his lil diaper *******

Who really could use a baby sitter
Who is ****,so a ....baby sister
Can be made, but ...focus dont stray
This is no time to joke or play

Eeny-meeny miney moe
Catch a politician by its toe
So you can ask advice, then told:
"It's a gd time to relapse on blow"

Which is only said cuz my head
Controls the imagined figment
Which says nothing except that,my
Heads not where sane thoughts visit

So as I stare at the two paths
I feel debilitated and instead
Of perpetual fear, the thoughts fed
Says no matter which way I head

Ill be left to wonder where I'm lead
If I chose the path, which I did not
When I decide and divide I try the path I now continue so do not

think too much. and yet still
Frozen and paralyzed at a halt  
I stand a man, full of fear, a vault
holding a scared boy full of fault

But Self doubt amplifies as adults
At least for me, so immobile I'm left
Confused by why I'm still undecided
But already feel my choices regret ...

.....  I hope I don't fork myself .....
Marco Batista Nov 2013
I want to insert you in my veins, sniff you into my thoughts, drink you into my soul, overdose in your presence. Plagued in disasters, I need redemption. Free my bastered soul, it’s mischievous and deluded intents. Let me be your fear, set you still lay you down, sink my teeth into your throat and take whats pure. Your legs on my shoulders, let me drown in you. The way you live needs love, the way I love needs alterations. Submerging ourselves in broken dreams and empty vows. Lets **** until our heart drops, gasp until our heart stops. Choke on our words, praise fake lords, pursue diseased ******. Let’s create for havocs sake.
Jurtin Albine Dec 2018
He rushes out
And then
Back in again
In a never ending cycle
Of advancement
And retreat

His legions
Are cast by the Moon
Up above
From which he draws
His battle plans
In the sand
Which are just to be washed away
And become drawn a new

The Sun
Above all
Wreak havocs on his desires
Casting his army into the sky
And moving them into far off regions

But the King of Tides collects
And disperses In careful stratagem

Pushing forwards towards his ultimate conquest

To bring down all the mighty Earth
That opposes his reign
And drown it deep within his sea
mark john junor Feb 2014
things surface in the darkness
fair and foul alike
from these dark waters
i have swam and wept these ashen waters
when the fevers of fear and sadness
have swept over me drowning me in
their hostile dreams
when the dark overwhelmed me
when the worlds rough hand has toppled the
ivory towers of greed and lust

i found refuge in this darkness
where your face need not be your own
where skill with pen or sword achieve the same ends
but  these long years on the narrow mile
tilling the dead soil have only harvested shadows
i wish for better crops to be sown which to
set the paintbrush of my pen upon
so i stand here at the gap in the breezeway
and step tentative to the light
to meet favour and fortunes
or death and shadow

should i meet death
i shall drink and sup with him
break unleavened breads and regale him
with fanciful tales of the far east
distract him while you slip away
to plant the seeds of our hopes
or wreak the havocs of our dooms
i shall be as a companion of this mad reaper
i shall be as counsel and cage to his worried mind
keeping at bay the ravenous hounds of his delight
and feeding the crying children of his fears
for are we not all children of light
and we should not turn aside this chance to bend
the fates in our favour
against this strong foe
should i meet death and live to tell the tale
i shall feast this night
and drink the strong ale
A W Bullen Oct 2021
Light
is everywhere,

it is everything

mirroring off rock,
demolishing
ambit

cat pawed with downdraft,
blustered by gale
the channels scud havocs
of pyrite,

The sky, huge
an impossibility
of blue, defies
description

words are formed
tried and retired
tossed
on a blather
of gust,
unlistened.


A syrup of larks tongue,
-an ash of a song-,

Is all that is heard
on the day..
wind rhythm
smallhands Feb 2015
Brushing up against me, except
a caress isn't as welcome as a whisper

Dragging prehistoric pills into my nose
with the pull of memories that
prefer to stay whispers

It's these desensitised nights
that remind me of what was
once so loud

And loud is quiet to me what is inaudible
to others under yellow spectrum
of silver-gloss, enough in god and
without loss

I swallow the capsule and taste the
nothingness and shake my head to
hear ringing and see other, rarer
colours- ones your eyes could hint at

And to be an ultra-deterrent that
kills without touching the lives it is
bluffing, I cannot suture the fracture
in my future
to be god, no

To be semi-real, perhaps
I am not as prolific as
I pretend to be
Each facet is another winter day
I wish wasn't sunny and mocking me

To be what you define reality,
you are a part of me
And a part of yourself is what
you have let me define
My harbouring hunger havocs soft

And if what I inhale makes me
become transparent, will you still
see me?
What's real isn't what I can reveal,
my dear

Isn't it broken, the alignment in our stars
To shift the glow, evermore
I determine the order
You determine me

Isn't it irreparable, the crackling phenomenon
existing between our gazes
We both know it is, and we love to
fall victim to it,
gracefully or not

-c.j. and Joshua Haines
mastermind Aug 2015
It felt so easy to let it pass by,
but when time passes by,
it felt so hard to live knowing what I have left behind;
so it is' keep stabbing me at back;
shrinking my mind ability to think,
dripping my immune system;

makes me feel the havocs and the chaotic of the earth;
and letting stress flow through my veins so easily,
like I can feel the whispering of god voice in my ears;
so when years passes lost opportunities still remain in veins,
where dreams vanishes thou they may seem perishable,
where the darkness of this earth loads the burden on my shoulders;
pardon me carefully always there is darkness before the light,

all who shall fulfill in the darkness shall see the light and be stars,
even the stars lighten up and shine in darkness before there is light.
in poetry all we shall fulfill
Ayesha Feb 2022
ii.
sweet wishes so small
in their impossible distances, they
tickled almost, I trembled almost:
beneath ant-like trails of frisky teasings, I
was settled almost
as if moon on sea’s silk-draped skin
suddenly glittered in a glitching turbulence
and mermaids rose up and out
of their thick black skies of silver tremors
shaking beads out of damp-darkened hair
and questioning questioning around
who dare startle their monotonous dreamings
who dare tremble and
stir all dull-eyed creatures around; and
as if sea dared on
shifting reckless into the answerless air,
frenzied, and grasping at an empty night
causing hundreds strange havocs
for a moon so little
03/02/2022

[been bugging me for weeks]
Mehak Mar 2018
Welcome to the mad world where you don't see the madness happening,
Until it havocs you enough to let you see,
The evil things sheathed in the cover of beauty
It won't obviously give you an inkling while you are unwrapping the parcel in wonder
Because you are not your own master anymore; I found you dizzy until
You were hypnotized.
The profoundness of beauty has triumphed over you,
You are another one in the herd; dragged and beaten with scars and scrapes,
Keep walking till you really wish to stop
But if you ever stop remember :
Welcome to the mad world where you didn't see the madness happening.
David Hilburn May 29
Cold shouldn't
Cold havocs
Cold weddings
Cold twilights

With a couth...
We are a pleasantry
Sake to work overtly, youth
Make me your lover, about profanity...

Sorry, knowing a house?
Wished for, wasting a knot...
Shoulder's with a best, know the mouse
Curious? save the grace in a hop...

Begun before, a rise has a chance
A liberty to share nothing, but us
Longer laughter, than a real face
Somewhere the rain, has become one to discuss:

A broken deed?
So savored, so favored
By wonder, in the voice to lead
A wager of admission's service, a luck sour...?
And kiss my alka seltzer, you flaming pink flamingo...
fray narte Jun 2021
You’re everything bad for me; our idea of love is crashing into sunburnt, rust walls, with hands around each other’s neck. There we are, soaked in each other’s sadness. There we are, all cold, mechanical limbs until we can no longer tell whose hand does the breaking – whose skin is left with scars. There we are, silhouettes jumping off Ferris wheels straight into the fray – all broken bones and the maddest smile.

This is love – in its ugliest form.
You’re everything bad for me; you’re every terrible idea – every wrong decision made seconds before going haywire.

And yet, maybe, you’re not – maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s me; I lived to come undone and fall apart to your autumn eyes. Maybe it’s me: cold, dilapidated skin after all the havocs you wreaked, and still, I would stand and run to you – despite all this knowing – all this hurting. So darling, break me – leave me in ruins, for another life to see.

I wasn’t good for myself anyway.

— The End —