"iconoclast" poems
Live through me vicariously...
My rich neighbors got upset
Sycophantic ******** pretentious jet-set
I am the pariah the iconoclast blasted by rumors, iron-curtain of suburbia hurtin' tuff darts pointed at me
Think young it's only the vicissitudes
That control your mood and attitude
Am I gay? Your wife doesn't think so!
Go ahead live through me vicariously...
D. Clare
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
In the rear view mirror
Things become much clearer
To the standard bearer
Who see them much nearer
Than they were before
When it was easier to ignore
The intricate designs
Of the various warning signs
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Seconds minutes hours
With all it’s magical powers
We observe like blooming flowers
That time finally devours
And as slowly we retreat
To our thoughts so bitter sweet
Not acquiescing to defeat
That occasionally we meet
So we long for yesteryear
Cuz we’re far away from there
And the veil is very shear
Between there and here
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
We try to grasp all that we can feel
Every grain of substance we can imagine
All the hesitant hands we couldn't deal
From our arduous compassion engines
How long can we believe until we kneel
To the unkempt veracity of religion
Or fade into a vengeful iconoclast
Cynically mocking the faithful breed
Of merry-go-bashers that attempt to cast
Their egotist ideals of what we all need
Fairy tale prophets that lived in the past
Getting off on their own selfish greed
The words of mankind have nothing to tell
Implicating a heaven is rhetoric at best
And, If i'm to live i'd rather go to hell
A tactic of fear sounds like a fitting nest
For someone who has already gaily fell
To a nihilist end that I should have guessed
I have opened my mind to one single thing
A universal truth that we all should know
That one simple rule is to believe in nothing
Is there any trace of deception in what I sow?
There is no wrong answer when you doubt everything
And, your deathbed will teach that there's nothing to know
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
Lexical littorals illiterate foal
Talus and cirque shore and shoal
Iconoclast anarchy vortex knoll
****** matrix vertex peak
Semantic regalia flux and seek
Torrid allusions own and keep
Dichotomy paradox surge and swell
Primordial integumence purge and fell
Contiguity confluence dirge and knell
Reliquiae requiem show and tell
Accession assertion deliberative need
Transcendent ascension expiate seed
Subordinate ancillary exigency deed
Subliminal subjunctive sensorium seethe
Uxorious usury detinue blithe
Contiguous currency decimate tithe
Tractive proximity critical lithe
Delusory phantasm futurity kithe
Alacritous tactile acuity interstice
Accidence ambience resonance quipy pith
Scenario synopsis resilience gist
Endergonic protensive progressiveness rift
Prestissimo preterite retroactive gift
Poignant puissance piquant myth
Fable fantasticate legend list
Preternatural gesticulate proclivity pith
Propensity assimilate diabolical mist
********** fornicate zooidal mist
Parenthetical erudite erumpence fist
Quiescent gossamer lecherous wrist
Militant mercenary actuator aorist
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
i am a survivor, i am a scavenger, i am a man with
no shame. i am an artist, i am a writer, i am an
iconoclast. i am a lover, i am a creator, i am a
destroyer. i am quality, i am worthless, i am absence.
i am man, i am conqueror, i am world-ender. i am an
addict, i am old, i am wizened. i am free, i am
young, i am unnurtured. i am secret, i am becoming,
i am a wreck. i am a shadow, i am oblivious, i am
obvious. i am obscene, i am abhorrent, i am hidden. i
am a seeker, i abstain – i am a liar. i am a deceiver, i am
an actor, i am unknowable. i am entirety, i am
citizen, i am insolence. i am thought, i am concept, i
am revoked. i am wanderer, i am thoughtless, i am
lost. i am undying, i am inured, i am fleeting. i am
alive, i am mythologized, i am end. i am a thief, i am
a monster, i am alive. i am a philosopher, i am a
thinker, i am superfluous. i am good, i am evil, i am
unaligned. i am pragmastic, i am irrational, i am
common sanity. i am emotional, i am withheld, i am
interred. i am new, i am ruined, i am interregna. i am
proper, i am erased, i am discrection. i am sought, i
am not, i am simple. i am somnolent, i am erratic, i
am errancy. i am abstinence, i am uncontrolled, i am
the world. i am fraught, i am emptiness, i am
humanity. i am dandelion, i am magnolia, i am an
albatross. i am talent, i am intelligence, i am
fettered. i am here and now, i am then and when,
i am done.
i am malice, i am harm, i am self-destruction.
i am a fighter, i am encephalic, i am lost.
i am alone, i am alive, i am free.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…
Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.
You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um – make people think…” Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I seem to note, in your constant ******
dearth of artistic ability. Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…
They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).
I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art? NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”
You: Postmodern Art – to the firing squad!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
When the west moon tilts and goes on the wane
Becomes a dying streak on your windowpane
Your frenzied sleepless mind breaks in roaring lust
To hammer the unyielding night into powdery dust!
All else but you in slumber dwell
Your rebellious thoughts burn hunger’s fuel
To pry out from darkness fading treasures of night
Dig them intact and bring them to light!
You could buy peace and live within norms
Bathe in moon’s kiss stay away from storms
But a ****** madness in you wreaks havoc
You nurture it, allow it to run amok!
Past the ebullience of night your furies vaporize
Can’t hold back the transience, stay in poet’s disguise
The dawn would devour it for transform you it must
To conventional sanity from the garb of an iconoclast!
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
Fixed on repeat with stagnation as aural salvation
they dance to the archaic discord
entombed in relics from 1973
rooted in pensivity behind the repetition of each melody
they've heard this one before
used it to pick themselves up from the floor
an effigy to lost lovers
who used to sit beside them
smoking on the balcony
paying duty to a capitalist society
taxing themselves with each breath.
They never hear the strings breaking in silence
dancing through progressions
which paint plaintive signs of the times
disparity haunts the rhymes
but nostalgia stole the show
apathy drives ignorance
to the songs, they don't know.
Artists gorge on the decline
too many pills to swallow
so instead, they'll do another line.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Hope here is dead. Man in a box, Cobain in my head.
Court me some love and spin on my throne,
Of brittle remorse.
Sick in the womb, the silver spoon pollutes.
Tiny tadpole in the pool, grows to patrol the Black Lagoon.
Devouring the newt it once knew.
Fearful men, conceal their worries, in tall tales of courage.
Ironclad, Iconoclast. Kings and heroes alike,
Plant their flags in fields of ash.
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 7:25 PM UTC
I'm just like an angel that never had wings, an angel that got forced fed while tied to a cross of hate. I see the mystery soul, taking control. I simply hear, no sounds so familiar. Self chosen alone, isolation-iconoclast forming inside a broke heart. Breathing no more. Truth, one separates life and death. I'm missing, chose to leave. Just one dot on society of misery. A ripple upon the water of life, I sit there PTSD ****** me through the *** hold of my ***** It burns like some sexually transmitted disease. Over and over they whip me with words and judgements. Lashing at my flesh and emotions. I cry no more. I abuse myself to their satisfaction.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
My sweetheart my crazy naughty stranger
I am really impressed by your style and candor
My heart is in search of your beauty to capture
With your enchanting beauty let my love conquer
Your sweet smile has taken me on and away
You are a streak of light ,a little beam and ray
Really you are my destiny my dawn of the day
I do not have words how I praise and what to say
But let me assure you that the moment I saw I lost
You are so graceful so sweet like wonderful host
With you smile what ever comes in way you blast
For you I am deviant ,heretic and the iconoclast
With out you I will not be able to live to survive
You are green ocean of beauty let my love dive
My every step is for your sake to get and to strive
Let me be yours and you be mine o not deprive
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless 'forgot ya'!
And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.
The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,
Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons
headset taking orders.
The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,
his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,
While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,
lagniappe of chocolate stashed,
away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,
and she can't wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
but fools only relish!
the psyche in which we perish!
hatred buried so!
and burned within merry lore!
for are they not,
the sane within the in?
and the in amongst the sane?
and the in of the sane--
which in here will truly reign!
like this, there, and, that?
and which, where, and what?
and spit, spat, and sput,
through here, hear, and hat?
brothers and sisters of spitting scholars!
we sing in two, to, and too!
with be, bee, and bat!
to this, there, and that!
easy to know--surely so, surely so!
the sane within the in--in the inn iconoclast's igloo!
"for what if the in shared the inn amongst the sane?"
"and the sane melted and blurred tongues within the in?"
what troubles your mind? what minds your troubles?
did you not know we live in the inn within this, there, and that?
and the which, where, and what all share one lobe!
for this is for the truly sane within the in,
and in inn of sane!
it shakes us!
like nails bitten in two, to, and too!
and mends us!
like dresses, treading thru, threw, and through!
might, in greatness, we rest, in base
eating bass--knocking bass!
for it is one-- nice and tight!
as the sane dances with--within the in!
in the inn of linen and tin,
for there is nothing greater, than the knowing labor!
and the world spins,
in and of the inn,
of the sane within the my,
and the in of the sane,
in which noose you and I tie,
and lie,
and die,
to again yearn for the sane within the I.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
We need to talk, she said at last
Her perched up high and holding fast
Like some towering iconoclast
And I bowed to her whim
She looked me up and down and then
She threw a fist under her chin
Cocked her head and to begin
She said “Well, I’ve been thinking”
I sat and let her thoughts collect
My silence somewhat circumspect
No words for fear they would inflect
And belie my position
A million possibilities
Of personal fragilities
A lack of sensibilities
An abject lack of tact
An endless scroll of mournful songs
The devil’s list of total wrongs
Small evils gather by the throngs
Just what is it I’ve done?
Or maybe that’s the problem here
It’s not mere acts that cause my fear
For the ills I own are not so clear
It’s the fault of willed omission
Have I not noticed something change
Or left things fester like a mange
Priorities to rearrange
Oh so much left undone
And in a moment she begins
To load upon me my grave sins
Just think of all the dreadful things
Resign me to my fate
And then her lips begin to move
Her voice a breathy open louvre
Her words of silk are just as smooth
“I think we need a cat”
~ L. Alexander Carlé
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
The hollow I am, habit, cowl of the sky, hand
Of the holy, mouth of the most high witnessed all
The bloodshed of the children He should love. A bullet
To the infidel set to flight, bore the dove. I
Don’t know what it was that inside me died, at the
Sermon in the woods, they were preaching in the dirt
It was faith in silence made the good man convert.
Bore the holy cross, they would bear the holy sword
Those defamers of His name, smoking sacred an
Offer to Adonai, the poor lamb they had lamed.
Christ wept, held his face littered by the holy man
‘Till he disappeared from vision became just an
Ordinary man, to walk in the valley of death.
I took from my shoulders the weight of debts past on.
Centeries’ share of ghosts of the ****** lived and died
Like this iconoclast and I blazed on that path,
Now penitent for everyman for all the love
That he may bring is surely shame to everything,
And to all by it abide. I shall revere no
Holy man nor the love he cast aside nor He
Who allowed the righteous to bear His name in vain.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
You are alive
Yet not at all, it seems
As though you are of living dead
A skull with a beating heart
Dreams of death, despair, decay
Surround you in your passings
I feel them as you go on your way
And look on with helpless wonder
How did you create yourself
The way you are
Born from golden promise.
Now known as the ruiner of tradition,
An iconoclast of her own
In the negative connotation.
You are elusive
Futile
Miserable.
Each breath you take should be
A nicotine filled dream
For why breath free if you're already dead.
I encourage you no more to live,
I ask you to relent
You're strangled by the joy of life
And happiness is your cancer.
Goodbye, once friend I knew so well
I know you no more and
For that I say
Goodbye to the living dead.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
I am the age at which you died
no comely pictures immortalize me,
though I am not washed white with time
like you
a lone silver streak stripes my chin
many would say
you were too sensitive for this world
thus rushing your years
and guiding the barrel to your mouth
I would pit my pain
against your Nobel torments any day
if such things be a contest,
what is not, though
a rabid race to the grave?
but who would really win?
for your mother’s madness did not leave you
skittering around like a cat on a hot tin roof
and your father’s anvil hands
did not leave scarlet letters
on your skinny legs
excuse me then, if I don’t
grant you a capital letter in your name
excuse me if I don’t applaud your time in the ring
or say bravo to the iconoclast
for your sparse use of words
(though, “for sale, baby shoes, never worn” was…perfect)
excuse me if I don’t think your readable feasts
should be on everyman’s menu
you were but a man
who drank and ate and fought and ******
until you could no more and decided there was nothing left
I respect your triggered choice and do not call it craven
but janitors aren’t made legends
they just clean your brains
from the floor
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Magic is in the air which shows you are in the area
My love this is nothing but your presence and aura
Your charms and graces are culminating on aroma
This is enchanting beauty which gives to love inertia
I can feel you in my room just like a rose to bloom
Your soothing image dances this is what I presume
I am in trance, lost with you in past let me resume
I can feel petals of rose and caress without costume
My passion has arisen my my emotions are to blast
Our ship is in the violent ocean and you are the mast
My sweetheart my love I will get you just at any cost
I am not only staunch love but I am also iconoclast
Embrace me and then forget never leave me to rivals
Let me taste the apples of Eden let be innocent angels
Light is blooming in us we are like burning candles
Our extreme love just sizzles and makes both rebels
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
We are assembled here
this May evening of 2006
to celebrate our own
Leading Lady of
American Letters.
The tall, slender author,
her classic looks
so reminiscent of
ladies in an elegant
Victorian era salon,
reads one of her
earlier short stories
at the Free Library
of Philadelphia.
She speaks with such
feeling and precision,
we close our eyes
and envision her
youthful heroine's
anxiety and naivete
in that familiar setting
of an upstate
New York town.
Later, in another room
of the library,
I will meet her
too briefly at a
book signing.
She stands to greet me,
smiling so pleasantly
and asks, "What do you do?"
in the friendliest way.
I reply "I'm a
proofreader," somewhat
embarrassed at my
flimsy Dickensian
credential.
This was my own
personal brush
with greatness
and I find myself
tongue-tied with
hero worship.
She is gracious
and fragile, exquisitely
feminine and warm and
I would learn I was
not the only groupie
in the library throng
that evening -
a multitude of fans
lined up to meet
the literary icon.
Joyce Carol Oates,
as her critics
rightly rhapsodize,
is a force of nature,
a uniquely powerful
writer whose brilliance
rests not just in the
singularly American
landscapes she paints,
not just in the
idiosyncratic
characters who people
her storytelling,
but in the creation
of rich personal
moments of intimacy,
of revelation and insight;
she makes us witnesses,
eavesdroppers, to her
characters' deepest
thoughts, longings,
her voice reaches out
to us from the pages,
a voice as poignant
as a mother's in the
gloom of night,
reading to her children
just before prayers
are murmured and
sleep tiptoes in.
The path of
literary greatness
leads us to her heroes...
James Joyce, Emily Bronte,
Thoreau, Faulkner,
Flaubert, Hemingway;
like each one of these
celebrated wordsmiths,
she is an iconoclast,
an original...
unique,
incomparable,
our own
quintessential
national treasure.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
The Wrath of craven Masses Arise
All hunting for the Sacrifice
What thought or Image Should be cast
Like Books Upon the fires of the Iconoclast
As poet arise blazing Edgar Allen Poe in Eyes
Just as a raven crosses a Grave...
Searching for within whats saved
To savor the flavor of putrid Flesh
The Poet is obsessed for words to caress
Arousing his compulsive Chicaneries
And bearing a touch of Poe's Insanity
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
In the rear view mirror
Things become much clearer
To the standard bearer
Who sees them much nearer
Than they were before
When it was easier to ignore
The intricate designs
Of the various warning signs
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Seconds minutes hours
With all it’s magical powers
We observe like blooming flowers
That time finally devours
And as slowly we retreat
To our thoughts so bitter sweet
Not acquiescing to defeat
That occasionally we meet
So we long for yesteryear
Cuz we’re far away from there
And the veil is very shear
Between there and here
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC