"incubated" poems
We assignment felonies, who got no melody
It be a blessing to breathe but mans can't find the remedy.
School work got us incubated, well tubed in
Hospitalize for ages.
Penned in these cages
A constant grind on the daily.
Once a man emancipate
8 to 5 is gonna hit him with a straight.
From a frying pan to the fire
He's been stuck in a sticky state.
******* in a system that's meant for retire
That's what he gonna inspire.
Beware to those who tryna finesse the system
Life is gonna hit them with an intricate plot.
If you can't Euro-step them in quick time
It gonna be raps, just watch.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
I was born in a cold land,
The leaves bright orange like the sun
And a dusting of icy dew on wilted grass;
I was born in sanitary white and surgical blues,
Incubated, saved, isolated;
Mamá cried:
In the motherland,
mi Apá would’ve had to choose.
I was born into exile.
I was born to immigrants,
Brown like the dirt
Mis abuelos grow caña in,
Like the leaves, glorious colors past;
I was born foreign.
I was born in Español,
Accented with indigenous words,
Bastardized like our foods and dance;
I was born and placed
At the care of a deer’s eye,
Tied red around my wrist,
A wooden cross,
A brown ******
A blue-eyed Niño Dios.
I lived in dust for 2 years.
I ran free, in fields of milpa,
In fields of caña,
In zocalos with
Colorful waving paper flags
And statues of generals.
I played with cousins,
Sharing bolis and nieve,
The hot clay burning our feet,
Racing to cool down at the spring.
And then I was brought back for school:
Los gringos van a estudiar,
They whispered, a bit mocking, about me,
4 years old, a girl,
In a place where girls were good for marriage,
University for the rich, snobby folks
Of faraway cities.
I came back to the cold land in spring.
A small barrio of tall broken down buildings,
Tiny apartments that became havens
At the sound of guns at night.
There was no more running around freely,
No more campos, no more town squares.
School was foreign,
There was English to learn,
A struggle to lose the accent,
To make the thick words
Comfortable in my tongue.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.
It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.
Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.
With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes
You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.
I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.
I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.
Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.
My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain
I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.
A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
You’re your own idea
written in blood and electricity.
You’re Pulcinella. You’re judy.
You’re someone else’s description
of light
imagined alive.
You’re temporary.
You’re the dream in a Jivaro head.
There’s the ceiling of a skull
just above your clouds
and even further out
there's another.
You’re pock-marked, wood-wormed
with thoughts,
words,
that you’ve been taught
on you, like tattoos
and shared birthmarks.
You’re picture-framed
in my eye sockets
flipped and made
understandable
and only some of you
oozes
through
like the sun
below the surface of the sea.
You’re me
and i’m you
swirling in each other’s boundaries
like the Tao and oily water
and the point between the colours in rainbows.
You’re infinite to mayflies.
You’re an explosion’s leftovers.
You died last time I saw you
and reformed in the doorframe
when I came around again.
You’re the world’s re-used love letter
from ****** to organised organism
incubated in original sin
the kiln
making Russian dolls from living things.
You’re the seed of a ghost.
You only existed since this morning
and yesterday’s you woke up
and is now out haunting.
You’re both here, and there, and here
a string vibrating
a seismograph
a tree ring
Earth’s music
playing
and playing
and playing.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
How much do we have to take before we can go without, how long before the draught? death by entertainment, it seemed so glamorous how could one go without?
I knew better to begin with, now its time to have faith in my oneness. opening a new chapter to a story that has no end, doing away with infinite incarnations perpetuated by masochistic sin. Death to the creator, the created, the masturbated, incubated, presipitated falsehoods of pajentry. Death to all the silly megabytes of pompous epiphany. Death to the beast that thrived off of insecurity. Death to all that which is no longer me.
Unsimulated, unappropraited energy that is free to be anything but alerts on a screen. False flags of fullfillment waving endlessly with self pity. Perfectly punctuated cries for help and lol's that reeked of nothing but "I hate myself."
Cut the net, it's a trap for something fluid with that which doesn't connect. Don't bother looking here for love, it is already in all that doesn't limit itself.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
I feel like God hates me
Or stopped caring
Ceased to provide
Left for good
And now I'm left here to straighten myself out for better or for worse
I've met people who feel the same way
Who surprisingly have the pincushion audacity to put all the blame of their misfortunes in the absence of the omnipotent one
I just feel abandoned they feel betrayed
Maybe he makes a chump change commission on every life he guides to a certain point then leaves them stark naked at the haunting hour
I know all the preachers and secular teachers lie through their teeth
They win the merit-less hoax award by a landslide
They have no consideration of for the people they mislead or the ramifications their poisoned sermons causes
They use emotionally charged language to increase the parish's numbers
They're terrified of God, they live in fear
And see carpal tunnel as a punishment for ************ and wish blindness upon all those who partake
There is shared consensual hiraeth between those who have been through an invasion of privacy and the trespassing of private property
They want their rights and their guns back
They want their personal space
They retreat to their happy place
Let's go back to the Pantheon of lactose intolerant divine idols
Of epileptic godheads
Who's line of work is about incubated pie pans
Can you make a tutorial that summarizes the resounding reduction of options using nothing but euphemisms?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
sometimes it creeps into the bones in my knees and it gives me artist's arthritis
i massage myself with the dull point of a pencil,
listening to the soothing sound of my thoughts coming to life
and sometimes an idea will crawl into my ear and lay its eggs there
if my passion is warm enough, they are incubated on the inside of my skull and crack open without warning
and to clear my head of the leftover eggshells, i have to play minesweeper for days on end
wond'ring when my days will end
and if my poetry will still be breathing
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Let me be the first to warn you:
I am wildfire and catastrophic destruction,
I am consuming fever and searing passion,
I am possessed by infectious radiation, a contagion
for all things surreptitious and sacred.
I will vacuum the oxygen from your gasping lungs,
blister your lips,
and plunge you deep into my inferno.
I will gallop as chopping thunder across your oceans,
etch lightning streaks zigzagging behind your eyelids,
and illuminate veiled dimensions of your incandescent spectrum.
You will know me,
in flares sparking your night sky
into snapshots of opalescence and shadow.
You will know me,
in relentless flames licking your woodlands
skeletal and hollow and barren.
You will know me,
in remnants of cinders, ashen palms,
and smoky ribbons evaporating through your skin.
I am celestial pyromaniac:
daughter
of Hephaestus and Artemis,
incubated
in the womb of a supernova,
birthed
in the creation of Andromeda,
purified
by internal cycles of eruption,
hurled
through the cosmos by shooting stars,
magnetized
to earth by gravity and destiny, carried to you by entropy and choice.
I am volcanic and heaving
beneath the crust of the planet.
I am ultraviolet hallucination, I am firework destruction, I am spontaneous combustion, I am electric incineration, I am smoldering embrace, I am all things cataclysm and rebirth, interlaced.
And when I pierce molten and ecstatic and untamed
through your reality, you will know
what it means to drown dancing in flames.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
TOMATO CHASE
Now....
Out of season
They're reddish
Uniform in size & shape
Firm
And flavorless
In season
They're RED
All sizes and shapes
Firm, soft, some just right
And flavorful
Yesteryears
They were magic
Like the transformation of a caterpiller
The little yellow flower
Gives way to the tiny green marble
Stalk n stems grow bigger
Marbles grow larger
The green fuzzy rough stems
The scent
That wonderful smell
So unique to the tomato plant
They turn green to red
Some even get incubated on a sunny sill
When it's time
Knife reveals seeds and red splotched juice
And the TASTE
A taste that fades with our age
That TASTE that we chase every summer
Close
But never a ringer
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
Strife wields the knife after your rifles raise high,
No need for a biblical sign since it takes only a few to steal the spot-light
And only one to spoil a life,
The notions of potentially prospering a home,
Planting a peaceful place,
Where pigmentation does not define your days,
But the way in which you prove yourself,
Because this is truly an extraordinary species,
Hindered by man’s inherent ignorance,
An internal enemy described as grace,
Barbarians breeding thieves,
Inhibited from sanity,
Inebriated with fury,
Incubated in hatred,
As you continually cultivate such cruel beings,
Some individuals can defy the trend,
Some of Adam’s relatives rose because they knew the knuckles could do so much more than listen to a serpent,
From their roots of savagery,
It’s in the blood to be a parasite,
But it is in the genes to eradicate these devilish deeds,
Imaging the possibility like a dead-head hippy,
The chance to see a society,
Distancing itself from the armory,
Poverty pushes people to find relief via a knife,
Causing those governing eye’s to raise their rifles high,
Forgetting to sight the white of their eyes,
And turning bystanders into enemies.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
train pace
quaint face
indecisive stutter
faint lace
embrace
cloaked behind the shutter
roving revolver revisions
inflict internally incubated incremental incidents
spit right in his ******* face
separation. moksha.
hypodermic hypocrisy
copper lined veins
keep pumping
filth =
into your eyes
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
I’m mixed race
a human
and still
I am so unanimously ******* segregated
for Christmas
tell the children
that there is no way Christ
was ******* white
its not innocent or cute
while life is lost for this egregiousness
Christ was the same confused shade
that Obama resides within
and apologize
needing them to believe this
so that humans could be tortured and *****
In America and Africa
proslavery language
to keep the distractions cheap
to turn up the frequency of apathy
and wrap it up with a bow and tinsel
shine away
a children’s book
detailing the reasons
for teaching that whiteness
in caves
in the blistering cold
starving and diseased desperation
invented things like
higher intelligence
that really
the warmth of Africa incubated and spread
generously letting greedy tourists study
Africa taught the precursor to whiteness
Europeans
how to get to America
and what to expect
there is no happy ending
to the imagination of whiteness
which is a self destructive
self fulfilling prophecy
of the most cowardice event
experienced by humanity
human trafficking
the genocide of colonialism
they refer to as traditions
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
hurt grows
in the dark un-monitored corners
of the most wonderful, wonderful people
grief is a seed
incubated in all of us
....
unexpectedly the jagged thorns
slash
the gentlest hands reaching out for you
You wont know
You don't notice
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
The gun at my hip is ready to make you disappear,
The club your ancestor loved is no match for mind I run,
Think you’ve got the better of me,
Let’s wait and see who welcomes another day of agony,
Life is rough and resembles damnation,
From conception,
Making it to your twenty’s, ******* impressive,
I would have aborted your ***
Just a dramatic demon,
Despite the deaths of other humans,
Across the ocean,
Far from where I hide,
Far from where I can see,
Where I would mind,
Out of sight,
A place where the bodies lay,
Where militaries fill graves,
Land of the free, land of the incubated,
Indoctrinated,
Intoxicated,
Belated by your brutality,
Why do you think I reach for my 9 milly’
Betrayed by your humanity,
Why do you think my trust in you diminished?
Because you are ******* human,
And Darwin wasn’t dimwitted,
Ignorance graced by intellectually \ lives,
Sprinkled amongst the ash,
However I feel like I should last,
What was I talking about?
That’s right your demise,
At the hands of you despise,
But this shouldn’t be a surprise,
Since you spawned this stupid stride,
I feel like picking on those who can’t find their way out of a compromise,
I don’t mean to pry,
But your confessional is so humanly inviting,
I’ve gotta criticize your justifications for the way you live a life,
The fact you can’t forget the dollar,
The fact you still pop a collar,
Who the **** do you think you are,
You are just a bump in the modern mold,
What am I saying?
Oh yea you’re the prey and I seek relief,
I believe in the possibilities of this species,
But evolution out grew a generation of intellectuals,
So who is going to take the helm?
And make sure we don’t end without spewing a few words,
A generation enslaved by self-entitlement,
Nothing is given to you my son,
You’ve gotta reach for you guns,
And earn your stripes,
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Little One, my love,
my heart, my world.
My love for you
and its strength for you
has power beyond words
that will never let go.
It will not shrivel and be gone
when the paper has devolved
back to its roots
when time out of mind
has worn it down to none.
The insanity
that seizes me
is fertilized by your past actions
and incubated in my head,
growing and growing
'til it can no longer be contained.
Then I burst out as crazy
to vent all my mind,
to build anew
in that space left vacant.
As I feel by turns spurned
and then jealousy in return,
on and off that keeps
the wheels of this evil complex
moving.
That jealous want
to have you to my own,
to be with you,
and to be all to you, causes my downfall in your eyes.
And I am left with love
as I try to continue to be good
to you and your needs
at such this distance.
I love you
- it feels as my only function -
and its all I ever want to do.
And then you let me go
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 12:55 AM UTC
We throw around “I love you”
Like children playing catch
Disregard for incubated tenderness
Too impatient to let it hatch.
We throw it on the floor
***** with all kinds of mud
Disregarding potential growth
Limited as a spud.
We drag it in the dust
As if we never care
Hearts. Raw love. Precious.
Yet, not considered rare.
Perforated souls
Deadly games of fear
Initial intention: hope and love
Yet harbored pains appear
Yet smiles appear on every face
Pretending its all ok
Too hard to face true worth I suppose
So our hearts of love, become child’s play.
A common misconception
We believe the lies are true
But let’s review true treasure again
Let our understanding of love be new.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
Attempt to shine
flickering figurative klieg light
with the help of hyperbole
on poverty wrought
debutante material, this predicated
on my own unbiased thought
initially related during
my early boyhood,
how many countless
bachelor beaus sought
to pledge their troth,
who hailed (strictly
for purposes of this poem)
from Pennsauken,
Perth Amboy, Penobscot,
but thee essential truth ought
to be gleaned (lodged
as like some precious gem
within geode, qua Harriet Kuritsky,
who oft times recounted her
personal anecdotal information)
underlying veritable truth, I allude
means to underscore
how thine late mum
as the "baby" of her family
wore mantle of exclusive favoritism,
sans donning beautiful clothes
perfectly cared for,
coiffed, and curled hair
(think Shirley Temple)
as her older sisters brewed
festered, and steeped with jealousy,
asper me mother receiving
lion's share of blatant favoritism
all the while said long since
deceased maternal aunts got exclude
did from requisite
(shut heard textbook case) maternal love,
hence within their cerebral hood
incubated, evolved, and flourished
emotional disease affliction
with changeable mood
and thee Aunt Ruth oblivious,
while pacing hallway in the ****
whereat verbally abuse sent
both aunts to mental institution
insanity didst the
ultimate discordant prelude
resulting viz lifetime
of baleful, hateful, shameful,
and worthless venom got spewed,
hence no surprise
rabid mailer daemons
courted, thus psychosis easily wooed.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
The clouds known they will change
Their seemingly firm shapes harbor minuscule movements , intangible to the naked eye , with no reason
to be awe- inspiring but the simple reason to be awe-inspiring (!)
Coconuts washed up on the shore like old bald heads having bobbed along
the sea currents with seemingly no purpose
BUT!
What if there , right on this beach , a tree grows....
And one day the tree may feed young minds with the precious fruit of the future.....Now,
This washed up bald man played no effect until the child's parents had copulated
incubated in a cosy womb
grown into a flesh and spirit being
to need the nourishment from this once unassuming tree...
nourishment to all
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC