"incapacitation" poems
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
bury me living
for i am in a world of dead
where the zombified stumble around
looking for meaning
maybe it'll make more sense
six feet under
and down the river styx
tie me to a raft
and let me drift
far, from this meaningless charade
known as life
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 1:11 PM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master's whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags, while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them, and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day's sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother's. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, but always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
Tod Howard Hawks
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
Synchronicities coalescing
like an orchestral crescendo
bubbling up all at once
no longer guessing
no shorter waiting
the *** is boiling
moreover
I might
be synch
i
n
g
...
a pod
of killer whales
crash-splashing
quite a commotion
up, out, and back
down into the ocean
born into the storm like
a frightful forte
a front brake
endo
the
feathered
fickle angel
screams pianissimo
on tiptoes, reaching out
toward tomorrows
continuously
contagious incapacitation
tells me it straight like an arrow through time
like a taught fishing hook line
and sinker —
trying to figure out
your reason your rhyme
parsley, sage, rosemary and crime
please, let me in on your
pickled paradigm
a stormy sea, all your own,
decides for you, where
you're thrown.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
THOSE WHO RULE
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 1:00 PM UTC
BRUSH
Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.
Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.
We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.
SCOOP
The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.
When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.
Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.
This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.
POKE
Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.
Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.
CUT
Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.
A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.
This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.
RAKE
Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.
In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.
LOOK
To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?
HIT
Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 30, 2022
Dec 30, 2022 at 4:56 PM UTC
feet glued to concrete
limbs shaking wildly
pulse has tripled
i cannot move
terror surrounds
jaws locked
anguish cries out
i am surrounded
the perfect storm
anger swirls menacingly
doubt trembles in fear
loathe strikes electric
i cannot focus
my eyes have blurred
was that a smile
or a bullet?
i am lost
narcotic-induced
incapacitation
nebulous days
followed only by
tenebrous nights
with evil thoughts
i am the afflicted
a victim
my emblem exposed
naked, they see me
for the child i am
their tears have dried up
just empty words remain
i am alone now
stranded with shaky hands
and too many orange bottles
the words will not come
they, too, have left me
so i sit
and i cry
but nobody hears
nobody cares
my salty tears slip
down my cheeks
and sizzle away
into nothing
how fitting
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
Death before dishonor, blood before tears, incapacitation before submission,
Bite your way past the blows to the heart, search within yourself for that fury ignition.
Wrath stains your gut with an acidic feel, but sorrow leaves your heart defenseless,
Scream a scream, pain makes you strong, love leaves you senseless.
Put on the face of warriors, breath deep, get ready,
Run fast and fight hard, never let them catch you unsteady.
Feel each vein light on fire, each muscle ache with strength, don't ever stop,
Push and push until you can no longer stand, continue until you are on top.
No soft feeling of affection could ever compete with this raw power,
Hold fast, for you cannot ever cower.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
SCENE: we're back in the old house
where I long to reside in spite
of it all but wait there's a long-haired sprite
akin to The Ring girl circling
aimlessly in the hallway likely an autonomoid
waving a captive bolt pistol which
looks like the one that belonged to your father
who as a Victor slash Commando admirer
built himself you said it looked like Lego
he didn't respond kindly to that observation
a weapon ripe for incapacitation at least
which we could do without at this juncture
(full disclosure he's buried under the garage)
ACTION: slam the kitchen door and tuck myself
out of sight behind the cooker
wrestle off my restrictive overcoat
I just feel freer in shorts and a tee
grab a rolling pin who even has one of those anymore
how about a knife, the knifes where are they
<i>and what are you gonna do with a knife anyway?</i>
consider hurling cricket ball style at the Ring head
a chunky mug no that Filippo Berio bottle
the chopping board out of reach is sturdy but I hear a rattling
ACT TWO: my sister's voice urgent from outside 'come now'
I rush for the back door and one step two step
along the path and onto the lawn follow her down
to the gate sidle through the 'loose section' then
free into the woods, platonic escape, don't look back
Every step along the grass elicits a satisfying audio thud
the green shades and breezy lollop convincingly rendered
my sister approaches from the west catches up
her athleticism matches mine as it never did
and we gallop in unison toward the perimeter
a glorious second of release before she barks 'She's behind us!'
I glance back and see the bolt pointed,
blank fac'd in relentless pursuit
ANTICLIMAX: I round the corner with my twin
and we stumble upon the blessed mundanity
of a bus stop
but I left
my card
in my coat
in the kitchen
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 6:35 PM UTC
Identity carefully crafted
Balanced and grasped tightly
To create a semblance of order and hope
Survival amidst unpredictability and abuse
Foundational roots providing the only stability
To a mentally-ill mind
To a future controlled and confined
To an appearance irreconcilable to the heart
Seeking independence, freedom from fear
Authenticity and clarity, all beginning to sprout
But the ground splits beneath, shattering into indistinguishability
An upheaval of all that was ever thought clear
Loss and uncertainty entwine the brokenness
Tears nourish the irreversible aftermath
Fear of permanent incapacitation pervades
But life persists and begins to grow anew.
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 6:40 PM UTC