"incinerator" poems
Breakfast
The morning spins lazily
out of the Universe’s black eye
like a surveillance camera
************ my paranoia.
I eat a small breakfast
of toads and do my coughing
exercises.
In the cellar the flesh
incinerator purrs for dinner
and is only satisfied with
one species of rare mammal.
My exotic summer guests,
strewn on the floor
like pickup sticks,
are becoming a burden,
so I toss one in the furnace
and hazily return to bed.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.
Logan Robertson
8/4/2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
Your toothbrush still has the paste on it
The plate shattered in fragments of you
The glass still has your lip stain on
This bed I'm sleeping in still smells of you
Lying to myself that you'll comeback
Leaving him and crying and knocking on the door begging to come in
But hey, who am I kidding..
*Put the car in reverse as you slipped into neutral
A gear must've rusted; I trust the machine busted
because things became mechanical, to be truthful
Major malfunction--our junction ceased to be lusted
by my soul's circuits and tired wires proved to be liars
I thought I knew what I wanted, but I was wrong
My cogs, guts and screws became loose in the mire
of our muddled love, where I did no belong*
What worth is living when everything ran rampant silhouettes of you
Running through these polaroids on the wall
I did get out, but it's you everywhere I go
You have etched this fire in my heart
When it burns when we're in love
And when it burns my soul
To ashes remnants of you
Trying my best to get out
I knew you were trouble from the start
But my heart's like a glass thirsts for that lust
Now broken brittled into pieces
Fragments no longer could be fitted
*Puzzle pieces and Polaroids for the incinerator
A conflagration consuming our condition
where you fail to see what I fail to do
I may be coldly pieced together, but I'm no traitor*
***My love was just another raggedy rendition,
But your eyes are the demons haunting you***
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
Raise your hand if
your confidence is reaching its limit
Well let me tell you,
don't dare believe it for a minute
A poet stands at the center
of circles of illusions
Sparked by the fire within
and burnin' institutions
They write about the current state
as far as they can see it,
as well as personal doubts
claimin' that they can feel it
Don't hand your savings over,
'cause now you pay it forward,
but life won't pay you back,
So what you say to that?
*"I say we're bein' controlled
by such an evil system;
a metal contract was forced
on lost and bleedin' victims."
"I don't agree with you, man.
We're where we need to be.
With very little control,
we risk to eat for free!"
We risk to eat for free?
"Food's a commodity!
And with overpopulation,
I say this honestly!"
"Don't mean to interrupt;
your notion of depravity
appears dumbfounded and
far from grounded by gravity."
"I say this world belongs
to kings and innovators;
hope of the people is thrown
to the incinerator."
"We're seeking liberators
mightier than the sword.
We work to buy them a pen -
weapons we can afford."
"And when their eyes are wide open
I think that writers see
the world not for what it is,
rather what it could be."
"Yeah! They're talkin' for us metaphorically,
imaginin' utopias for you and me,
questions answered rhetorically."*
The world is yours
and no one else's,
so live to give it more time
through love and being selfless.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
One two three four five
One two three four five six seven
One two three for five
Capitalism
Industrialization
Incinerator
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Color me in.
I lie naked and
wrapped in white linen-
A corpse.
If only my mind could
lie still as my body.
Let them carry me
to the incinerator.
But the pallbearers
have heard my death rattle,
they've found me out.
But I am an island now.
It is quiet here, only
remnants of Chopin
and little gold rings,
ashes,
a story in Braille,
what else have you got?
I'm so tired of being
the Phoenix in this tale.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
#
There are six ways to die on my table top
There are four ways to get lost in my cupboard
There are seven men drowning in my bottom drawer
There’s a coma above the ceiling fan
and an incinerator under my covers
Under the bed is a mouse trap
In the sink is a death trap
In the gap between the walls
is the most appalling noise
and my radio produces
only the frantic breaths of fitness breeders
The tortured hide under my pillow
(though they belong in my ears)
The glass in the window is made
of the slowest distorting tears
(I never produced them)
The carpet covers my blood
My clothes are covered in sod
The wallpaper hides my dreams
and my dreams have spilled at the seams
I collect masks that are the person I hid
Where do I sit ?
The door is a lid
The room is too warm
Enclosed
An expanding balloon
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts
Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light
Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'
Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly
Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm
Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated
Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained
Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
Rich
The place where America tells us to go
Rich
The golden flute blaring the joyous lie
Rich
The side step over a dead *** in diamond studded shoes
Extravagence over originality
Mummified dice rollers whose only thought
Is where to go and what needs to be sold
The fold of the deck the break of a neck
Rich Rich Rich
The human race is oh' so rich
Swimming in a sea of deadening shallowness
Hovering from the Earth by choice
A smile only brought to a child
When they have enough cash for that
Conveyor belts of broken down bodies
Headed to the incinerator
This place is not my home
I am just passing through
Headed out
Here I am constantly disillusioned disappointed and dismembered
A black dot on and all black screen
Age no longer matters love no longer cares hate spins on the tips of his high heels
Even poetry goes along for the ride, even this place I write on now
The need for richness in life used to be real
Used to be a smile from a girl from across the way
Some money here for her and maybe she'd have something to say
I feel as if I have missed out on what it meant to be human
And now
I am trapped in a maze where no one
No God
No Devil
No Man
No Woman
No sentence
Can truly set me free
Here in this place of raining fire frog dented horror
Alleyway murders where ****** named Trisha wished they woulda' kissed yah
Dank fire places with the wood all wet n' Uncle Jeff's trying to make a bet
Holding fear in the eyes of the one's that say they believe but lie
We are all animals with suits ties papers shoes laces and pressed socks
We are all animals with skirts heels purses eyes that glisten as the squeal
We are all leaf eating meat dripping cave furnished mutants
Who think we are better then the ones who have come before us
We aren't
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.
others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.
some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.
the photograph.
this does not mean
i love you.
sbm.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
The Incinerator
Does not care
How much money
You have
Or how many degrees
It does not care
About your family
Your hopes
Dreams or desires
It is the incinerator
And that is its function
The obese
And elderly
Will be the first
Taken from their homes
Tossed into the incinerator
There are limited resources
And a land
That was once plentiful
Has become barren
I've really grown
To love myself
More and more
Each day
After all
This is MY life
I have failed at many things
I don't have a strong muscular body
Why build up my muscles
Even more anyhow?
The overly large
Muscular and
Obese individuals
Will be the first to die
During the time of trials
With limited resources
Their bodies
Did not receive the
Necessary nourishment
I'm here
I'm here
Say it to yourself
And scream it out loud!
Run, Run from the incinerator
The snipers may get you
But a bullet is swift
And merciful
To burn in the incinerator
Well
That's not a pleasant thought
Is it?
I don't know what
America stands for
Do you?
I think there are many good people
That live here
But I don't think much
Of our government
And our government
Thinks even less of us
Smart appliances
To record
Smart phones
To save data
London is the most
Surveilled nation
In the world
I hope it never becomes
Like that here
Every minute in a public space
Being recorded
On their CCTV cameras
The thought police arrested
John Middleton
Of 480 Ashbury Lane
For a thought crime
He was angry
At his employer
He believed he was dismissed
From his job
Unfairly
And so in anger
He imagined bashing
His face in
Such a violent thought
The evidence was reviewed
Of course by now all thoughts
Were being uploaded
To the super computer
And stored in the cloud
Each human being
Had to be chipped
There memories stored
Each waking thought
And sleeping dream
Recorded
It's been terrible
Hasn't it?
Human life
I'd say so
But it could always be worse
And it has been for others
Run
Run Mr. Middleton
Run from the incinerator
Such violent thoughts!
The orchestrators
Of this one world order
Will not allow such
Violent thoughts
In their society
Mr. Middleton's digital monitor
(That was required in every living unit)
Calmly read the recommended
Daily intake of nutrients
He could hear
The incinerator
Always came
In the early morning
At the waking hour
It's been terrible
I know John
Hard for the most part
Holy Holy Holy
Is the......
John remembered quickly
That any repeated thoughts
Of a Divine Being
Would move him higher up
On the incinerator's list
Fear not the fires that burn
The creators
Of the incinerator
Will one day learn...
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
My bones feel heavy and
my skin presses tight into my
cold, purple sheets.
There is a knot tearing at the center of
my chest.
Arteries pump blood like fire to my heart and I fear it may combust.
Burn me up like an incinerator,
flames engulf every part of who I am,
dragging everything around me
into the implosion, spitting out
Ashes of what could've been.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
Smiles for the last one standing,
The one that's better than us all.
Set him there so we can watch
And wait for him to fall.
While he stands, we are his puppets.
In his sugar-laced, poisoned words
(That he speaks so low and gentle)
The sly deception can't be heard.
Our world becomes an incinerator
Of muffled screams and silenced cries.
Still, his judgement is never questioned
As long as his banner flies.
But there's a noise there in the distance.
A very faint but determined voice.
It's chanting softly from the heart,
Reminding us we have a choice.
We don't have to stand here waiting
For his next deceitful demand.
We're being lead off of sheer blind faith,
Toy soldiers with our heads in the sand.
Some refuse to hear it
While many others join along
With this hopeful rebel chanting
That's starting to resemble a song.
The singing develops lyrics.
More and more of the crowd join in.
It's becoming a revolution,
One that's destined to win.
He finds this rather shocking.
This wasn't part of his master plan.
Figuring this was better afterall,
People sing while they still can.
With every note, the crowd grows stronger.
A nation united, hand in hand.
Not thinking about the consequences
Of making their final stand.
"I will have order!" A voice from the abyss,
Our fearless leader, fighting one last time
To have power over now waking citizens
Who will make him pay for his crime.
He has no choice but to fall to us
For now, we're all that he can see.
And just to think, it started with chanting
Three simple words: "Let it be"
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
twirl ballroom spritz
'cross abandoned parking lots
weave your lamentations
out in umber mist
gin and panadol
white arsenic cordial
death drive in moderation
bushy dough
down your gumboot towers
yyo faggg
fark your sign'a'lings
carped up in the haddock pouch
in maudlin dreams
swirl your phone sleeve
round your wristflick
nah
you blooster mate
right cranberry
*where the **** is it? where the **** did you put it? it's not funny, hahaha, oh god, hahaa…..*
but later,
radio incinerator
nightcap in sodium cloud
beached tire tree
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
You shattered my insides with something wicked.
I didn't know to expect this, but I got it
shoved down my throat at the last possible second,
a hurt I didn't think you were capable of administering.
You shattered my insides with something wicked.
I suppose I'll become a heap of organs in your closet
because my skeleton is just dust in the wind,
what more could it be, after the heat of the incinerator?
You shattered my insides with something wicked.
The thing is, I don't know what I expected.
Maybe I was dreaming of some happy ending,
but woke up to realize that reality always shines through.
You shattered my insides with something wicked.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
hypodermics lined up like firing squad rifles, loaded with Morpheus' mortal brew
at this "humane" place, where we stare in the face of every critter we "put down"
felines, canines, by the score--there will always be more
we do it Thursdays; each gets its own black plastic bag, for a trip to the incinerator
courtesy of the county's grandest
crematorium
that has donated the friendly fire for our four legged friends;
we watch the trails of smoke fill the night sky
there is no Zyklon B to fear--not here, where we use shots instead of showers
and pass the hours scratching the ears and petting the rumps of those we slaughter with sleep
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 11:14 PM UTC
Sewer Gases
Belching Conversation with the One
Rotting Flesh Released
Incinerator
So much more Pleasant
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
some things need not be saved,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.
others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.
some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.
the photograph.
this does not mean
i love you.
sbm.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Take my hand
Glean from crossroads
On my palm
The secrets of my heart
If I ever loved you
Or wished you dead
And shoved
Into the abandoned incinerator
With mass of *******
Concealing you
Maybe I thought of numerous
Others and the funtimes
I could have with them
And not you
The trees shed their leaves
Sprouting with fresh leaves
You would know the thoughts
Of my heart
In time
As my actions reflect
The light and darkness
In me
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC