"indifferently" poems
Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned ramps, fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,
wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.
Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,
here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
Religion is like wrestling when it was kayfabed
The kind of immersive storytelling that is A grade
We became trapped
In the Walls of Jericho
Separated on the map
From the fields of marigolds
Shinier things catch our eye
Like Goldust in the ring
Not of Mankind
But McMahon's kind
We start to see behind the Big Show
Until they introduce the Boogeyman
Manipulating until progress is slowed
All according to plan
Jake the Snake offers the apple to Eve
And into calamity we are cleaved
This was something I never agreed
But Christian pushes me to Edge
No room in discourse to hedge
Swanton bombs fall in cities
The Million Dollar Man cracks a smile
Unable to feel pity
The billions of bodies start to pile
And I haven't seen the Hart Foundation in a while
These ideas pin us down
And we can't kick out
We end up indifferently submitting
To the Big Boss Man
A legacy we're cementing
Like the Ku Klux ****
I'm from Kentucky
Where biology is taught in the context
Of where it fits in with Christianity's teachings
I wonder how many people this knowledge is reaching
When we're trapped in Wrestlemania
We cheer for the Undertaker's victory
Because we're constantly wrestling with demons
Transcendence is only something we can dream of
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
After I thought it through
the stigma felt abused
I cycled through the minds of others
exposing their consensus to my senses
for better or worse, I don't discriminate
I do, however, hate
without a second thought
suddenly, void of reason
in passing or in wait I would
indifferently abuse the scarred stature
what remained was waste
letting me think is a sin
there is no god who can forgive my mind
not that I condone the plundering of others
it's just that my father will never know.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim
Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him
A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith
A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give
A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture
He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture
He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall
Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all
He will become the most that he can ever endeavour
Be the creature he needs to be and whichever
Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him
It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim
He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly
Who would be more and only more to her and her solely
His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own
If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown
A man would be raised and the sky would be without border
A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order
There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander
A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer
There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth
To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief
To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack
For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back
To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky
His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by
Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent
He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent
If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught?
If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought?
Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt?
That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout?
Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity?
Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity?
Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her?
Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise
No he would not rise anymore
If there ever was such a man and ever such a she
He would have her for as long as that may be
Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you
Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
And if we're ever lucky enough
we'll meet each other again.
We'll look into each other's eyes
maybe only for a split second, as we pass by.
Maybe you'll be on your phone,
and I'll have a coffee on my right hand.
And we will cross each other indifferently
but our eyes will know.
'cus the eyes
my sweet, gentle, boy,
they never lie.
//A
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
They knifed his chest
And indifferently examined
Red flowers just grown on his soul asylum
Red flowers
On his soul asylum
The blood splashed on the children’s faces
It’s no blood it must be freckles
It is blood
It’s no blood it must be freckles
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A sleepless cop was killed
He had been reading Naked Lunch all night long
And then they killed him
And the kids
Freckle-faced
Each bought an ice-cream
And threw the changes into the face of
A beggar with a boyish haircut
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A proud cop was killed
His eyelashes smashed the sun into pieces once and for all
And once and for all his lips repeated:
Kids
Heroine
Tangier
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
He knew nothing about the literary work of a poet Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov
He just remembered his name
From a literary radio program
In November or April
On the left side of the supermarket
From the darkness and the wall scripts of the entrance
A cop appeared like a comics character
With a cap on and a stiff collar, he had been cutting through the darkness and air
And he somehow reminded a shark
Huge and white
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A courageous cop was killed
Then he got up and walked across
The river, which does not divide a city into two parts
He walked with pride
He’d got the power
To taste the sea
Without getting wet.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
We slump on the couch when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
We have to, even though it was only a seven minute walk
to the dining hall, because 1) the food was just
“weird consistency”
(which we tend to say regardless), 2) the light
in there yawned indifferently to us (when does it not?), and
3) the reassuring clink of our forks on our
plates wasn’t even there this time it was
hiding underneath slop
and smothered on top by the intruding sound waves
(who asked?)
of our next-table neighbors’ lives.
You made a sly remark about seconds to catch
a glimpse of youthful ****
She’d gone to get some more baby carrots and cucumber slices
to put in her salad maybe
(who knows? who cares?)
Either way, her youthful **** would make the food taste like
something to you. And you
described them to us when you sat down again so
the slop would taste like something to us
(there’s pride in that type of generosity, don’t forget) and
(congratulations)
we had the faint impression of
some sort of
****** there, but
we didn’t tell you
(it’s easier that way).
A cup, a squeeze, a kiss on her ******* yes that could feed
our hunger for a night. And tonight was a night
like any, so her ******* led us to talk
of women, and women led us to talk of
love
(and the blooming one for the poor *******
as we who lost withstood the vicarious twinge of
an addling ****** very different from
the first.
This one led us to pine for sweets, but the ones we found
were dry, so we left the table, left the dining hall, looking around at
the others: the lonely, the couples, the blessed
lonely couples, and the fortunate friends
huddled against everything with open laughter, enjoying
the weird consistency like drunk theoretical physicists before
they discovered bubbles and inflated eternally meaning
when they safeguarded a
zoo with a pistol they didn’t know how to
use, in Soviet Russia.
(So you see?) We have to slump on the couch
when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
No one even bothers to pick up a guitar, we leave all four of them
strewn on the floor like
dead wooden boxes because
Dylan or Young or Cash (or whoever)
is already in the living
room. Any
bubbling, inflating, theoretical physicist
(any drunk, pistol-packing zookeeper, for that matter) will
tell you that.
So we slump, comfortably uncomfortable,
(at least we’re trying!)
feeling their (our) strings plucking. No sounds, no voices.
Because we don’t need
to hear this that.
Not right
now. (Not right
now).
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
tiara
you call your cuts failures
and your blood a testament
to all the times you didn’t succeed
but living is an art
and you are clearly an artist
so don’t tell me there’s no reason why
you are still alive.
when the cops came
you swam through a crack haze
to the window
and jumped
i wasn’t there but i can see it so vividly now
you thought you’d land like a cat
but your legs gave out and snapped like popsicle sticks
you shrugged off the pain
and choked on blood
as you dragged yourself across the lawn
there was a warrant for your arrest
you decided to give up
and wait for them to find you
collapsing in on yourself on a moment’s notice
is your specialty.
laugh about the man who cheats on you
dream about stabbing his ex-girlfriend
tonight i will not give you knives girl
you know the world is a harsh place
learn to navigate it with no razors.
you are not a crown
to be worn by others
you like to make sure people know
you are a tiara
and you will weigh heavy on their heads.
tell me you are stupid
say the methamphetimes made craters in your brain
as you peer at me over your physics textbook
that you call light reading.
lament about the classes you failed
as you strap jigsaw puzzles together
with the scarred arms you carry
the split skin you once opened
out in the open.
are you calling me stupid
by playing this lying game?
tiara
you are all cat eyes
a frail body with an endless appetite
we both secretly derive joy from the money i spent
slipping you candy bars
and the flowers i left by your door
that you dried between the pages of books.
you have not been outside since december
i want to bring you more than flowers
i want to bring you grass and dirt, trees and roots,
birds and mice and worms
i want to give you life
i want you to run your fingers through it lovingly.
you shoulder pain so indifferently
i want to make you cry
for more beautiful things
i want to grab your tender wrists
and fill them with the sunlight.
when i left i hugged you so tight
you said you’d see me
all the big plans you had
i knew you were lying again
i know you cried that night.
tiara i love you
you are someone who needs to
bear the weight of those words
not the pain of never hearing them.
that is what you needed to hear
why did i never say it.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!
Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.
To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.
The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.
As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."
Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."
"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
With no true friend around I talk to myself.
Or maybe I'll head outside and tune in to the clouds
I've never been intentionally hurt by a flower.
And the grass breathes life into my restless soul.
The breeze carries me away from this plastic world.
I don't belong here amongst the dour faces and slippery minds
Why was I forced to leave the light and inhabit this body?
Some say choice, others say fate. Above me the cosmos twirl indifferently.
A lone tear slowly weaves its way down my creased cheek.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
This majestic creature glides
As she takes to the skies.
Her mind works with an eagle’s ability,
While her heart is crafted with a sparrow’s humility.
She flies not with an eagle’s pride
For her hopes are not to own the sky;
But to share it with her accompaniers
Flying never in front but alongside her peers.
She sings not with a sparrow’s naivety:
Each day unbothered and indifferently,
For the purpose of this altruist’s life
Is to serve others through sacrifice.
Although she is fearless in her flight,
She does not soar far out of sight.
She stays close to the ground, not in fear of the skies,
But in awe of the water above which she flies.
And as she departs beyond the river bend,
Her wings command the day to end.
This Blue Crane floats away effortlessly
As the sun takes a bow into the depths of the sea.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
I’m the worst **** in the world
No one is worse than me.
For my next bride,
I shall marry the Queen of She
Ba (Academy presents her majesty.
Nominee gushes.
Audience applauds exhaustively.)
She will manhandle me,
Liquor on her breath,
Feathers framing ******
Inflamed blossoms drenching submissions
She told me to delete
The photographs,
Even though there were many
Caught her beauty in amazing graces.
She hated me
For putting up so little struggle,
Obliterating her splendor
Indifferently.
I wanted to prove
Deserving of her love.
she dilly-dallied, distracted.
I cried pitifully, “Where’s my girlfriend?”
Chain of events to nothingness
My desolate existence
One deficit after another
Honed to fragile cutting-edge.
I wanted her to pleasure me
With subtle painful tinge.
She brilliantly found fault
Every conceivable way to blame.
She accused, “you fiddle in noodle factory.”
She was the true artist,
Dissatisfied with the sound
Of my heart beating.
You want to play hardball with the big boys?
You better show up with bulging intelligent creativity.
You complain about
Every infinitesimal gargantuan thing.
Nothing makes you happy.
I will always love you no
Matter how impossible.
Looking back,
You were an impossible chance.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
"...from dust thou art..."
It was one peaceful evening we were having,
ruined by a message; distasteful and disturbing,
a misunderstanding? no, never had been..
.but it had always been the easy way out...
it was an overflow of misunderstood courage...
someone shouldn't have had the face,
but really had the chutzpah to reach out...
one that stood up to the last moment
to gird, to break, to wreck.....and won...
to be...to feel they belong,
this, could be allowed no longer...
this must...has got to stop...
here comes the CLOAK of non-acceptance,
it quickly spreads overhead,
but repugnance PERFORATES!
to be duped anew,
ah, brings back to life old hatred,
for those who think they know better,
but never again, to swim in bad blood...
feelings to be repeatedly exploited,
this, can no longer be allowed....
this...has got to stop...
ashes that were hidden,
ashes that were forbidden,
ashes i didn't feel like seeing
an urn of ashes i firmly refused to hold,
ashes i firmly refused to be anywhere near me.
and now, they suddenly ask,
where to take the forsaken urn?
they can just pollute the river
let the ashes flow with the current...
or, be indifferently blown by the wind
atop a mountain...
for God's sake, why not just buy a vault for the urn?
give the ashes the much-needed peace it longed for..
and let those who were once denied and deprived,
have their own share of much needed peace...
ashes may be carried away
by the sea or the wind---
but there's only one known place:
to the ground we all go,
cremated or otherwise...
so, why fuss on where the ashes should go?
"From dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." *
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Biblical quote, from Genesis 3:19'
"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return."
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
He shakes his bones around
And wears them overhead like flags
By night he stalks through shipping yards,
Amusement parks by day,
In time with all the parts he's stolen,
He will build a mausoleum
Seal himself inside just to
Emerge when moonlight fades from view
And night is darker than blindness
He stumbles in an out
His brains are full of fire
He tastes the morning sun
And falls aghast with pleasure.
He stands and brushes off
The filth and turbulence.
He barks into a mask
His sweat sustains him
He presses pennies through
Your skin and seals them
Inside their package there
Where you can feel them
He laughs indifferently
He cries with pleasure
Ignites the tablecloth
And folds it twice
He slips ideas into
The money boxes
He hears the rain upstairs:
What? What's that? That's a fat cat! That's a fine hat hat hat hat hat...
He calls his mystery
Out through the sunlight
The birds don't ask him why,
But spread the message
He stings on either side
Whoever watches
He wets his hands and sets his watch
He waits with pleasure
He gathers firewood
In stacks that tower
And when they tumble down
He loses power
The skies break down their door,
Ask him to wonder
Does he belong up there?
He knows the answer.
The skies defend themselves
They rain and thunder
They pelt him down with flames
And tear asunder
A hundred artifacts
Beneath his bootsteps
He grasps at them in fear
And dives on after
Into the tunnel here
Where others like him stay
Paved into the ceiling
He hears the clattering
On down the way
He chases after echoes
Trips over shadows
He loses himself
He loses himself with pleasure
He comments on himself
So no one else can
He's overweight and he
Could use a sun tan
He waits for you to leave
Before he'll follow
He feels inside his skull
And thinks it's hollow
He hears his name and he
Takes flight at noon so he
Can make it back again
Before the moon
He single-handedly
Gives up our secrets
To any spy who'll pay
A healthy ransom
He's spoken innocence and
He's spoken nonsense
He comes to me each night
Proposing new games
I've never played before
And always feared
He cannot calmly state but scream
His shopping list
He tries to change his name
He's on top of his life
Cos he's the only one
The only one who lives it
Nobody will do it for him
Nobody will do it for him
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
An auto dreamer indifferently tastes the essence of green
quietly silent screens will then self seed
and the rains court memory,
are we all co-owners, longing
the freely given lichen.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:50 PM UTC
snow is falling
silently waiting
for the scrunch of a story
then watching indifferently
as a fox disappears
down an alley
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
Humans
I need not necessarily
your flesh to multiply
but your brains to think rigorously, strategically
artfully a way
to tear down your Tower of Babel
painstakingly and indifferently built
from the bones and blood
of a few amongst your kind
now as my mercenaries be enslaved
suffer from undiagnosable symptom called
Murderous
On clock but not grid they gather
be summoned
by the cry of their ancestors' resentment
spill unto this Earth I breed
unto your downfall I feed
For I come in greater numbers
I am Legion
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
First see new photo, or else won't make sense.
Word is out
Animal kingdom on red alert,
No animus allowed near the chair,
Tween human and animal.
Good eats, good writes to be had,
Near that ye old adirondacke chair,
Where scribbles float in
L'air du temps,
Ripe for the plucking.
Arrived in the night dark,
Twelve eyes grinning, sheepish,
Wasn't tho no sheep, just a veritable
**** deer herd munching the shrubs,
Who when head lighted, indifferently said,
Yo ******* it is September, remember,
Get the fk off our lawn!
Argh.
Morning.
Coffee-armed. Tablet shotguned,
Went to write in the fall sun,
When to my shock n' awe,
A gaggle of geese, awaiting.
And I mean a good-god-damn giggling-gaggle, no sht!
Probably resetting, resettling, looking for forgiveness,
For ******** all over the hard scrabbled grass.
Well no atonement boys, Yom Kippur notwithstanding,
I ain't the forgiving type!
No, no poet!
We stand before you on the Jewish Judgement Day,
Decorously waiting, in a row,
Before the throne, tho honking a little rudely,
Impatient for inscribing in Natalino's
Hall of Fame, Book of Life for the coming year.
Harrumph.
Well, in that case,
(Ego melting secretly inside),
Here is a poem just for you.
Fly south safe,
Inscribed and sealed you will be,
In both the Book of Life and Prosperity,
But only if you, stay off my grass in perpetuity!
Done and off they flew,
Me smiling, proud of my new fame,
Until I found their presents
Under my flip flops.
******* deer.
******* rabbits.
******* geese.
I wish they were not such
Poetry fanatics.
Ok.
Forgiven.
10:11am Yom Kippur morning.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
She was bleeding, crying, and queazy
Fear alone kept her from leaving
Knee deep in lonely; emotionally depleted
Bluntly touching, there was no loving
Indifferently ******* he was no husband
Drunkenly cussing; brokenly crumbling
She'd grown cold, old, and withered
Blankly staring into the mirror
In which a spider had grown upon
Not even it could escape his palm
Ready to fold; she no longer quivered
Figuring no one would even miss her
She looked through bruises, hate, and hopeless
Paint brush loaded;
sharply focused
Fingered trigger;
predicting scriptures
Abusive liver;
idle dither
Quondam shadows become formless
To be adrift in that unknown ocean..
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?
Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars
Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches
Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote
Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:
“Darkness brings uninvited guests
And our bodies are bare
Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
Of life that we all can share.”
Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****
There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters
And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC