"hulks" poems
Technology
Has empowered humanity
Like humanity has been never been empowered
The concern
It has not only empowered humanity to a new level
Brings in the ill effects humanity might face
In the present and future
The new concern for humanity
The use of technology in the wisest way possible
Earth and nature
The very root of humanity
Been in shade
Noblest thing that can be done
Is the wise use the of technological advancement
In the pathway of revival of nature
In the natural and earthly essence of life
Of course
In global scenario there are corporates
Big hulks
That only go for accumulating more and more
Whose concern
Is not the nature and humanity
Now the question arises
The history of humanity
We crave to discuss about now
Has it the future time frame long enough?
As the past time frame
We are talking about in interest
Or the ignorance and unconscious humanity
Lead to the path of eliminating its own race?
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
SANDMAN
Can you see them?-lookin' for me to be them,
lookin' for my warmth to breath life to them,
the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
no heart no mind-mindsick and eyeblind,
sheep talkin' like wolves that I find,
most despicable-Dis-gusting unpredictable,
following the wind as it blows on their wick they're all
candles in the strong wind gutterin',
snipes from a distance yeah they're all utterin'
Great threats from great hollow chests,
that up close-don't stand inspection,
empty vessels-makin great noise,
hard men behind keyboards hands -poised,
with the poisoned pen ready to dip in the deep well,
of hatred they bring from deep hell's,
inside,a void,avoid if you can please employ-
aversion tactics needed,don't need it,
vampyres that need pyres,yellow they bleed it
Yellow right down to the backbone believe it...
CHORUS
*the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Hollow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow men, the hollow men,
The hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Fallow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow then
while I tell you bout the Hollow men*
JAY
Yeah, **** right I can see them.
Trolls in holes. I'm willin' to bleed 'em.
Society's detritis,
..delighted by the slightest sign of weakness.
Bleakness of their lives underlined by the lies they employ..
.. in their contrived..
..cyber sphere.
Scavengin' on carrion.
Peckin' at the carcass. Behind the veil of anonymity.
Sit in darkness as they hammer out calamity.
No nobility or amity. Cyber-highway poison.
I got the remedy.
Hollow husks skulk and lust..
..for coat-tails to ride on. Soon turn to dust.
Rusting hulks their disgusting bulk decaying on the shore.
Soon to be forgotten.
The Yes Men, the Hollow Men, the fallow men.
The everything is borrowed men.
The no tomorrow men.
The follow slowly to the gallows men.
*The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, Hollow Men.
Never follow them. The Hollow Men.
The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, deal in sorrow men.
Yes men. Don't ever follow them.
A fool strolls to the gallows man.*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
loathe — july 17, 2013
reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
i
am
frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]
adore — july 29 , 2013
black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
hulks histories back - lying supine arts
( please remind me to act regimentally )
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
A chilling solemn breeze sweeps thru the town,
Down empty streets where children used to play;
The crumbled buildings, many falling down,
A monument to history's darkest day.
The rusted hulks of burned out motor cars,
Discarded bicycles against a wall,
The roads that carry disused tram-line scars,
The poignant remnants of the old church hall.
No more, the children laughing in the street;
No more, the parents in their Sunday best;
No more, the echoes of jack booted feet;
Forever shall ye martyrs lay in rest.
The town will always stand as testament,
To sons and daughters France will e'er lament.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Woke up in a dream under asphalt trees
soaked in the sap of the sweltering city
wearing these old rat rags
and sneering at the concrete
Greyscale mindset stitched into my sleeve
This town'll fuckin' **** ya
and drop a coin on your grave
dig your way up to the daylight
and hang on to your *****
Waking up
Snapping out.
It's not so easy, is it?
Waking up and snapping out...
The barge is afloat on the sidewalk streams
Burns in the summer, ******* doused in Spring
the bums puke in corners
children ***** in the alleys
Sinking hulks. "Abandon ship!" on the galleys
These waves'll ******* **** ya
and pull you down in the deep
this dream ain't worth waking for
But we can't get to sleep.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
The village is reaching the end of eternity.
The story has been told, written, read.
Out in the borderlands,
David still
fights Goliath.
The crowd have been around them for thousands of years,
chanting names,
fists in the air,
***** angry faces.
As the chanting of his name increases,
David grows in size,
unfolding like a redwood,
gleaming tanned bark.
The crowd becomes uneasy;
a giant among them? whose children will he eat?
which maidens will he devour?
and so they begin chanting Goliath's name;
David's strenght ebbs, they're feeding Goliath with their tongues now,
as he hulks and looms more and more over the shrinking David
alas, the crowd learn their mistake,
bite their tongues,
twisting them
until they are saying "David" once more.
This fight has been going on for thousands of years.
The crowd continue blindly shouting, 'David' and 'Goliath' being the only words they have uttered for aeons
unrealising they hold the power to release themselves
from this eternal fight.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
Dog snores in a dim lit room
His coat is shiny
Just got groomed
He wakes up from a noise downstairs
His curiosity peeked, leads to an inquisitive stare
He hulks up like a pit bull, with nothing to fear
While he’s softer than a teddy bear
His eyes are brown,
round, not square
Shifting himself into 2nd gear
A bark so loud, it fills the air
Danger, I sense danger,
Of that I’m well aware
Times like these are seldom
Times like these are rare
A little like a scare, in a dogs nightmare
Protecter of his masters care
And the noise downstairs
He likes his toys
He’s debonaire
My best friend, with room to spare
Intelligent, would describe him fair
With so much love to give and share
Not everyone can feel this way
Of this, I am gratefully aware
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
Old, abandoned wooden hulks,
They lie, keeled over, on coarse grass,
Left to sleep on the estuary flats.
These brute barges, timbers strong
As the men who worked them, masterless,
Rise on no tide, rest heavy and decay.
From one, still upright, a mooring rope
Hangs in an arc, like the downward curve
Of its great, oaken, rusty-hinged rudder;
Tied to the mud where older keel spines die.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
Forgetting how to walk I end up
falling into the road.
There’s someone singing in my ear.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
What happened to the leather seats?
Sight begins to blur,
stench of burning tar.
Ghosts stagger towards me,
hulks of grey and black.
Have my hands always been this red?
Wet ears sting,
a chorus of distant screams.
The echo does not fade.
My gaze finds a pile of bleeding metal.
Why are there so many blue lights?
Strange green vests in my view,
I think they’re looking at me.
The world has fallen onto its side,
my head finds a pillow of tarmac.
Why are my eyes so heavy?
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
Ululations break the night –
Primal lows meandering over marsh:
The voices of creatures curious and lost,
Alien to these muddy shores.
Spectral under first-light obscurity,
The estuary’s fog swathes those beasts,
Slick hulks rippling the dark water
With trailing wakes of brackish grime.
Bank side, a lonely smudge stands sentinel,
Helpless to heed the low mourning song
Trembling across the fen.
These wearisome keens are muted in murk
And all sound is swallowed
By the rallying dawn.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on
But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough
I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window
It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
When I was a kid, round here
purple sweet peas carpeted common ground.
Thick, and ripe for picking
in their depths we found
all manner of detritus,
single shoes and old **** mags.
My friends and I went roaming
with our secrets and five ****
Down on Slade Green marshes
fearless urban rangers,
ankle deep in water
never minding dangers.
Our private wilderness so bloomed
and we sank into its mire.
Running, jumping, singing, shouting
our youth ablaze, on fire.
Untouched as we believed it
that ground had seen its share,
of blood and fear and wanting,
we didn't know (or care).
Needles in emplacements
left by no one soldier brave.
****** was young back then,
at least, around our way.
In my peaceful ignorance
of 'paedos' underground,
I hid among the rusting hulks
waiting to be found.
Underneath the tower block,
the thirteenth floor my home,
a dragon in the ******* chute!
Imagination sown.
Each time that the fire brigade
came screaming to a halt,
to extinguish yet another mischief
for which none would be caught.
Our little speck of landing
Mrs Kingsley kept so clean,
a bizzy lizzy at her door
she visits me in dreams.
Skin shiny over knuckles
a worn-thin wedding band.
Her flowery dress, neatly pressed,
a duster in her hand.
And I guess she's been dead years now.
She was old as could be then.
I never knew, the day we moved,
I'd not see her face again.
But, move we did,
from 'the flats', to number ninety-nine.
We had gardens - front AND back -
my own bedroom, yes! All mine!
From the windows of our council house
the world changed, all around.
The sweet peas were uprooted,
houses claimed my common ground.
So, I don't own it any more,
if I ever did.
But home is home, wherever,
inside I'm still that kid.
Who ran and jumped and shouted,
a childhood held dear,
and though I think "I've come so far"
my life began round here.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Another sunset spans the sky
Deserting its view of shambled streets,
Fleeing the dark silhouettes and wires pierced high.
On feathered wings it fades and bids good-bye.
What a reminder is sent to us each day,
As sweeping clouds look down before dying,
That beyond this desolation, they still will stay;
No human form can stop their flying.
The eye is jarred by every scene,
In which the darkening hulks arise,
And yet are conquered by the sky, it seems;
We are left to dwell below; to guard this prize.
Who, staring aloft, would never desire,
To rise up and dwell among the splendor,
Rather than stay below in tangled squalor?
Yet we must be content with remembered fire.
(Not finished)
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 2:36 PM UTC
I looked out,
Christmas decorations were already hung up in the sky,
even the frosting floated about
with the lights of the town dwarfed below,
such a glow, each ***** of a star,
the hills, hulks of stone, seemed warmed,
ready for celebrations,
annual explanations of our psyche and its exaggerations,
where the simple tale, just like the one stella, bright,
enacts its cycles in the dark of night.
Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2014.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
wet stoops
wet sleeps
down beside
vibrant hulks
of day into night becoming
a persimmon fleshed in robes
of sweetish musk of raging dark:
that blind canny o' comely marsh
where sweats tallly the brisk frigid
smirk of winter coming into between–
i cannot fathom
nor wonder 'pon a thing more
violent **** or primly stolen
than the absurd tumor of suddenly
which every immense second of life
Is.
and how do i call it?
how do i name it by itself?
is it nameable?
is demanded some strict finitude of immutable logic?
or is impossibly monikered in nothing short of illimitable self?
(and who have I been? have i been myself? where did i begin? and shall i ever end in knowing?)
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Our God has forgotten our world
But we would rather float alone
We would rather own this home
No renting from judgment
Hypocritical clockwork
Every six minutes
Another empty phrase
This isn't just a warning
About the empty globe
This is a promise
Truly an apocalyptic nostalgia
Nebulae will fill the skies
The clouds will dissolve into green madness
It will be the most beautiful night of our lives
Souls have vacated all mankind
Only a few remain in right mind
We're the last to drift alive
But it won't matter by the end of night
The final hour is upon us
It's 3 in the afternoon
Trees all bearing fruit laughing
Gassing animals with broken hulks
Rusted on the roadside
The grass goes on and splits the mountains
The temperature begins to build
My hand and your hand
My glass and your sand
A broken mirror in the rocks
A final breath before it stops
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
A subsonic growl emerges
As the red wolf plunges forth
From his concrete cave.
He shoulders aside the weaker creatures,
In his rush, for the men inside
Live for the hunt.
The siren howl is high at first,
Wild and eager, hysterical.
As he gains his stride
On the pavement path,
His whine swings into a rocking pulse,
Keeping time with the fire,
Or the blood spurting from a man.
Behind the pack there is a white dog,
Sturdy and square, trained and sure,
With a lyrical howl.
He keeps pace yet there is no lust
For the hunt, no need for blood.
They circle the waiting disaster,
Disgorging men in black and white,
The hulks rumble as they wait.
Wolves lick up the flames
While the white-dressed men
Lap up the blood.
The wolf prowls as the flames die
But stands guard as the
White dog points to the man.
He has chosen to save.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Give up or build up your strenghts.
Do planks and set ups also push ups.
Is it best too work out longer or shorter?
Shorter at intense, range will yeild epic results.
These are your planes work out 53 days.
Each day do 29 push ups 55 sets ups 300 pull ups.
Remix take protein supplements for hard core help.
Drink water only devotion is key in your resume.
Only thang's too focuse on are as follows.
Strenght and power calm and control your breaths.
Work out 3 to 4 mins use stop watch.
As your body, will change rapidly am a body developer skilled, at development and production of hulks.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Evening
Whoops and hollers
Torn from tongue
Were gale flung
Back toward the village
If only soiled laundry
Stained of my poor choices
Whipped from
My clothesline of memories
Homeland of Makah
At nation’s far point
Upon that final ****** of stone
We stood atop its
Plunge into sea
Twilight gripped like
Prayer shawls
We could not hold back
Moon nor stars
Home with wind East
Shabby trailers
Stapled to the earth
Chained dogs
Feral felines
Hulks of auto
Appliances abandoned to rust
East toward the dawn
Sunrise and tide
Westward rolling
Sands swarmed with
Seekers
Out of last of night’s
Shadows seeking treasure
Even a glass Japan net float
Noon
In left hand
The map sketched on
Paper torn from
A patient’s chart
With right
I swung pack over shoulder
A cove held secret
By nailed drift and
Rusted anchor chain
We descended
In high sun
On sands, on blanket spread
In the wind hiss of surf
Naked both
Nancy taught me
Arts of love
I tongued her to screams
Night
The moon
Pulled flame into the sky
The hiss and spit
Of burning cedar
Stars!
With radar and chart
Ships cut the night
To round the point
Into the straight
Tacoma, Seattle still hours off
Firelight said a pilot
Lit with lantern
Our shapes writhed and moaned
Upon the thin tent walls
Only a raccoon to see
I slept the dream of Orca
Half brain
Still upon her skin
Her lips
Toward the morn
I slept the dream of Orca
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 8:27 PM UTC
Predicting the unpredictable,
that's not on the timetable,
dressed up to the nines
at
sixes and sevens when
Siouxie's with the banshees
and
screeching in my ears.
it takes me back to punk rock
smoking barrels and the lock stock,
crocodiles and tears they cry,
I spy
but nothing much.
Stripping down the skyline
revealing underneath,
racetracks up in Hampstead
horses on the heath.
Trams and Trolley cars
rotting hulks and broken spars
time delivers everything
if we
have the time to wait.
Far from nothing clear
when the night falls quiet
with the morning near,
the cat prowls proudly
tail *****
one dead sparrow
and she
a likely suspect.
when it's all a matter of degree
and gas mark seven is all I see
because the microwave has
waved goodbye
come the crocodiles and
the tears they cry.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 7:19 AM UTC
Berlin, Berlin,
contradiction city.
Grey concrete hulks stacked around
old buildings rising pretty.
A never ending construction zone
that tries to top the past
while dancing ’round her history
whose pallor shadows cast.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 5:05 PM UTC
From the sea they approach,
to attack a fair city,
Trailed by nightmares,
and hellish pity.
The flash of guns,
smoke on the wind,
ships blown to splinters,
Tormenting their kind.
Once a fleet,
now smoking hulks,
Turining men into torches,
Weapons, useless bulks.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC