"hogs" poems
I used to think in numbers.
1: There’s one of me. Alone. Plus
4: my family. Still 1, but 5, or
4 plus 1; that’s me, alone.
I used to think in numbers.
36: That’s weeks of school;
That’s weeks of math class,
math class, calculator;
Father, Son, and Calculator.
Trinity: the holy three, the three, the
3 times 36: that’s 108.
I used to think in numbers.
Math class, algebra, room 108.
I hate, I hate, I love, I hate,
I hate the way they look at me.
They look at me like man at dog,
like planet hogs,
throw books at me like cannons cogged
at ninety-minute intervals at cinder walls
until I fault and cringe and fall, and fall
like London Bridge and crash, and fall like
Blown-out glass gone back to class. I pass the
tests and cash regrets like rent checks
bounced across the bridge that they knocked down.
Because I used to think in numbers, yeah,
but now?
Well, sure. Abrasions hurt.
And yeah, we all want friends.
But at least equations work
and keep their balance on both ends.
So I will rock this scatter-plot of
social contract to its peak until
my hands are red meat.
I am no dead beat;
I hold the world record for blood lost
to a summer camp spread sheet.
But then,
but then somewhere along that number line,
a 6 stared down its stage fright when just
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 days before the show,
I met a girl who barred my better judgment
like a cage fight,
and thank God she did,
because for once, I put away the calculator,
and I listened to her voice,
and it sounded like…
well, it sounded like it sounded.
And for once, I sat and wrote about the things
that can’t be counted.
I surrendered to the cage fight,
and I fell into a deep hole.
And to be honest,
I don’t miss spreadsheet summers,
‘cause it’s easier to keep cool.
I used to think in numbers,
yeah,
but now I think in people.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
- by Ashley Capps
Ophelia, when she died,
lay in the water like the river’s bride, all pale
and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks,
her hair an endless golden ceremony.
She made the water sing for her; it flowed
over her folded arms.
Not so my father’s sister Karen,
swollen in a day-old tub of water
when they found her,
needle tucked into the fold of her arm,
her last thing: a wing.
So everything went as nameless as the men
who lifted her naked from the tub,
or those who rolled her
into the mouth of the furnace,
which is what you get
when you don’t get a service,
when your mother’s years of grief turn
last to rage: I won’t pay for it.
Leave me out of it.
And even though they finally said
it wasn’t suicide; a mistake—
no one knew what to do
with all of that anger,
or in the end how not to blame her.
Even now, in her unmarked container.
*
People once believed a deeper reason, some dark secret
motivation to the way the lemmings threw themselves
en masse into the sea. Were they weary
of their lives; could they, too, despair?
Or like those second-vessel swine
when Jesus exorcised two babbling men of their demons,
driving the demons through a pack of bewildered hogs—
the way they plunged?
The truth we know now: they leave when food is scarce,
when they’ve grown too many;
believe the roads they follow
lead to new meadows, a place to start over.
I think of Karen, feeding
and feeding her veins, how it is possible
she saw us all suddenly there—miraculous
and festive on some bright and other shore,
like the life she had been swimming toward
all along, trying to get right.
Like those sailors long ago,
that tropical disease, calenture—
when, far from everything they knew,
men grew sometimes delirious
and mistook the waving sea for green fields.
Rejoicing, they leapt overboard,
and so were lost forever,
even though they thought it was real, though
they thought they were going home.
—by Ashley Capps
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!
(my sullen heart)....
still stays
I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass
Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all
Pulling poetry out my ***
___
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
3.8k
Tiny hogs *******
away a bright little dream
bit transparent screens.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,
That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer, and
Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,
That the man who erected this cabin, planted
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,
That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,
Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.
3k
Hiding behind text messages
we believe immunizes the heart
is a forced loneliness
a perpetual confinement
in a dark room, with low music
which only breeds madness
In such famine, the body desires touch
the soul craves fellowship
the mind requires intellectualism
laughs between true friends
and shared tears
of kindred spirits
Once we can no longer bear starvation
comes the gluttonous feast
As wretched hogs at a trough
any form of attention is consumed
to fill the growing chasm of
worthlessness
Blinded by false admiration on backlit screens
the body, the soul, and the mind savors
cheap flattery of dark temptations
Vulgarity drools thick as blood from blackened lips
The sweet tinge of grief
that bitter hit of hatred
spirals descent into the dark void
that forever hides the light
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Dancers can't have eating disorders.
We are meant to be thin.
We are made this way
We are made to hide food
to starve
to throw it up
As long as no one sees us
As long as we can fake it
Cause as dancers
We have to fake it till we make it
And we aren't going to make
it if we are as fat as pigs.
People don't like watching hogs dance.
Don't worry the mirrors will tell us if we are the size of a stick or a stump.
So no I don't have an eating disorder
Dancers can't have those.
We are created this way.
{SM}
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
By the run of wine, by Champagne's flow,
Swine did dine and watch the show,
'tween Squelch and Squeal, they Screamed, "Bravo!"
As merry went, did jolly go,
They drink their drinks, they oinked along,
To cabarets enchanting song,
So hypnotized, it won't be long,
'til Something goes horribly wrong....
For how were the jolly hogs to know
That butchers sat in the fifth row?
As blades grew sharp, their haste did grow,
Impatient to get on the go,
The sows were deafened by the tune,
The boars blinded by drunkards view,
But tact is what the butchers do,
But time at hand is profit due...
So nice the price of pork these days,
And chops and ribs are all the craze,
A roast in beer with honey glaze...
Makes fortunes for the butchers blades.
Had the swine been wise, for moments thought,
To greed they are cash to caught,
They could have run, they could have fought
And not been swine to the onslaught,
But they danced and sang, stupid and heavy
As butchers killed the swine of many,
That now sit in pieces, at a deli,
Their wage in wallet, meat in belly.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
You hear those saint fainted swines? Slopping around ****** in muck. For hogs seeking bogs, bespatter the pink with thick mire. Dull sluggish foul smelled trolls, basking a bridges under cove, feasting on distant mare. But old boar’s belly’s’ under grown, he has not self meat to spare. Go elsewhere wise butcher. Go elsewhere. Grieve not thy ******* of purification, instead satisfactory of sales. He has not the soul to touch rare blood of a bessy hung by hook. Sars covered hands, sars drenched the feet. Not here butcher, elsewhere lay menial meat.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...
The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
2.4k
i'm thirty six now
thrice a rat
and i must say
it ain't that bad
you'd think i'd shed a tear
or two
but after all
the sky's still blue
the sun still shines
the rain still falls
my fam would even take my calls
i'm frens with cats
i'm frens with dogs
some people too
a couple hogs
i walk and saunter
skip and hop
taking my time
around the block
i'm looking back
and all i see:
those things i did
were meant to be
i'm looking forth
and realise:
you can't prepare
for each surprise
that life may throw
at you or yours
you can't predict
as to which doors
will blow wide open
unexpected
and which will ever
be protected
no key, no lock
how to get past?
to secrets guarded
fierce and fast...
another thirty six to live?
so full of joy, and toil, and grief...
or, one day, have just what it takes
to boldly go and up the stakes?..
mid-summer autumn
rat three times
feels good as hell!
unshod and blithe...
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC
Often, the shallows are a good place to be,
Once out of there, no going back, not ever,
Once noticed, return is virtually impossible,
And all pedestals are shaky, no roots: none!
Ensure buoyancy, for one must sink or swim,
So much expected, so much demanded,
One may think shallows are unkind, a waste,
They are safe, though, friendly, pleasant,
Conducive company encouraging creation.
Once out of them, away from safe shores,
New challenges arise, new horizons, all new,
Making one desperate not to fail, not to sink,
One must swim, swim for your life; swim hard,
For it hurts to disappoint, it hurts so much.
Without the grassy bank and sandy bottom,
Creation is difficult, beware the sharks: teeth,
Scoot around the crocs, teeth snapping: biting,
Desiring your tender unsuspecting flesh!
See the glory-hogs wallowing, laughing at you,
Howling with derision; they know nothing,
Stupid hacks, every one of them, frolicking,
Performing in the deep, dark, dangerous-depths,
Unaware their blood will soon feed others,
The swirling waters running red: eventually.
Safer here with golden fish and humble toads,
Prometheus swims here as well as anywhere,
Savour the shallows, dance with creativity,
If you must leave, identity switch required,
Even then, watch sharks and crocs: teeth biting,
Often, the shallows are a good place to be.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
I dreamt of a field of flowers
Where white crosses are planted
Families still together
Content with life
Genuine grins covering faces
I dreamt of full bellies
On the dark continent
Soccer ***** rolling between feet
Of children who also dream
Of lives as happy as theirs
I dreamt of fresh air
And clean water and growing forests
The cleanliness of nature unrivaled
As animals mingled around the watering hole
Roaming freely with homes
But I awoke and saw war
Fires melting the lives of millions
Dropping bombshells of grief
Destroying homes from within
And children dead or weeping
I awoke and saw despair
Fat bellied greed hogs
Rollin in muddy money pits
While babies died without food
And an entire land stripped and sold
I awoke amd saw nothing
But smoke stacks emitting poison
And the homes of the forest creatures
Being carried into lumber mills
And brown water filling drinking glasses
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang
If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry
But, won’t stay around for any old music sang
If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy
While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo
Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio
Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star
They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar
Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more
Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar
Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt
Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys
From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed
Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’
All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land
Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline
Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand
They started a war, that could’ve been stopped
By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine
Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
This dot kami’s ‘Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
I’m diggin’ up dirt on the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds
Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the slEASIEST Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward
Here’s my golden shower tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cacres
Still stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
Just keep livin in this feelin
Never am I beleivin
That **** thats written
Questin for questionin
Im losin
No reasonin
No serotonin
Jane, dope burnin got me floatin
Lucy dances turnin got me smilin
Druggy desperate runnin got me huffin
Huff and puff an puff, pass
One piggy in a house oh straw smokin grass
Nother piggys house of glass
Last piggys house of cards but, alas
Little piggys grow big and pass
One pig in the straw smoked over ash
Nother pig served with a glass
Last pig out of cards, alas
Last pig out of the farm
Free hog free from the harm
Hunted down with a firearm
Pow Pow hogs need not roam
No escapin the farm
Just dyin in a drugged calm
Or dyin strugglin in dirt, ****
So just chill and spread *****
New meat for the grinders
Fresh meat for the diners
Pigs aint **** but some dinners
For pigs with gold incisors
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Oh universe
How you sustain all lives
Is so marvellous
Mother Nature
You constant watcher
You are not a quitter
The seas know their space
The sun sets in the west
And never loses that course
The trees cleanse the air
Herbs with sweet smelling fragrance
And wild honey tastes so sweet
Oh universe
How do you manage this
With so many of us?
The hogs eliminate snakes
The pests feed on wastes
Vultures take care of dead carcasses
We all look to you when we need food
You provide it
We eat it
Every one of your dependants
Know their expectations
In selfregulation
The eater and the eaten
Life never ceases
It only changes form
Rotting plants become humus
And sustain growing plants
Edible animals become part of man
man's DNA lives on in their descendants...
And then man grew a few beards
With his advancements
Interfering with all others
Breaking laws
Creating disaters
In the eco
thick smokes of toxic
chemicals that destroy flora and fauna
Massive deforestation
and then he turns to you
expecting you to produce
When he ploughs your soils
Looking up to the clouds
You used to give a ****
But now you feed them back their poison
And their lives shorten
Retribution for being stubborn
And interfering with you
Mother nature
You heard them talking of space exploration
Look for life in another planet as solution
You just laughed
They think that they can destroy you
And leave for another planet
You are the only One
Blessed among the stars
To sustain lives
They will come running to you
Like the prodigal son
And maybe the rebellious
Shall have learnt a few lessons
Oh Universe
Its so fabulous
that you sustain all lives
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
he won't write you poetry like neruda or bukowski. he won't ink your name underneath his skin nor will he cut his hair shorter for your mom. he won't stay up with you to read jane austen and hemingway. sometimes all you'll hear from his end of the line is snoring and you'll know he has fallen asleep. again. he won't take you to a romantic dinner every other night. he won't surprise you with a picnic basket on a tuesday afternoon to whisk you away to a spontaneous date on the beach. his hand will sweat sometimes. he will smell like cigarettes and the inside of a Starbucks. he will chew his food loudly and eat with his leg up. he will wake you up in the middle of the night just to tell you about a dream that woke him up. he will do this because he's afraid he'll forget in the morning. he will not get along with some of your friends, your dad will ask you "are you sure?" and your little brother will hate him. he will have acne and blackheads. he won't be around everytime you need him. he won't magically appear just in time to catch after you've tripped down the stairs.
he won't be the guy you keep reading in novels about. he won't be the mysterious, poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy you keep wishing you'd finally meet.
surprisingly, despite of all of this, you will fall for him anyway. because even though you wanted a love story similar to those you found printed in pages, you will realize that they end after a dramatic moment in the airport, or a long romantic make-out session under the pouring rain, or after the one major problem is resolved.
you will realize that nothing comes after for them. what happens after the romantic colors of sunset fade and the darkness takes over?
you will realize that your own story is way better. because even though he talks too loud in libraries and hogs the blanket, he stays. he is there beside you at 2am when you suddenly wake up from a nightmare. you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and his arm around your waist. you can hear him whisper "i love you" and it will be dripping with honesty. and that is more than any fictional poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy can ever do.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Has democracy irretrievably gone to the dogs?
Every beast congregates here; coyotes to hogs!
Supposedly most selfless of acts
Cover up the worst and the inept.
Crocodile tears apart, they hanker only for populist tag!
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
Summer field at rest; alive.
We stopped haying twenty-five years past.
Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and
Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow
Once a year.
And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for
Honey bees. Cover for warblers,
Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer.
Hidden lunch room for ground hogs
Until Jack Russell breaks their necks,
At least of the little ones.
Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel.
Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face.
9/23/2012
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
1.4k
Saturday night on the farm managed and operated by the animals.the penguin trio were singing and golden oldies fit the slow dancing mood with the paired bears cats hoot owls ground hogs leap frogs moved in slow rhythm as the leaping lizards finished their set with slide trombone drums trompets when the mad hatter with new and white turned down brim slow dragged with alice in wonderland in Gucci boots the big bad wolf promised to be on his best behavior until 12:00pm before changing back.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
Sounds like crucify.
My hands are bound by his grip
on the plank perpendicular to my toes
that start to curl backwards now.
I binged on memories
of the words words words
and when my ears burned
I imagined you cradling her
on your chest
softly brushing her hair back
and talking about me.
At the summer camp where
Jesus saved me
I picked up a pre-packaged
cereal sealed in a factory
long before my selection.
I peeled away the plastic film
and there where my bowl
of cereal was supposed to be
was a colony of silkworms,
squirming around like
a bunch of tied hogs
in a swimming pool.
I threw up because it grossed me out.
I had no control over it.
When I think about her hair
around your stubby, little fingers
I throw up because it grosses me out.
I have no control over it.
I'm no Will Shortz, but this poem is about you.
There's your clue.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC