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Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I have one question.

That’s been digging trenches in my mind.

Hollowing out all the empathy, the faith,

the blind addiction to sourcing a better humanity;

better lovers, stronger fighters,

stunning believers, more tender hearts.

With actual effort to beat on their own.


Your exclamations are false, always.

And I can tell you why

my shell is caked in your muddy, rotting stink of fake facts.

I’m cracked, embittered, roughened edges capable of paper-cut slicing skin

and all my lovely scars can tell you something you hardly believe.

I’m here to tell you why.

And why I hate how you make me feel this way;

a cynical coil of seething, jilted, passion, to fix what I can’t.


For all those who make hearts melt and weep,

shed heat and fire in rapturous thoughts and darkened, tainted dreams;

for all the single words you used as tools to build up walls,

break down my walls,

deceive me into caring about you

who chisels into only getting the gem he wants.

You can collapse a mine on me for all you care

in the end.


For all those who can make devilishly delightful

fantasies for all the vulnerable loners,

like me,

like us all when we shut our eyes,

to hover and circle over, beg for on our backs,

naked and open and bleeding raw beneath you

like ritual sacrifices for some higher purpose, some higher hopes and

goals and unwavering loyalties

to you,

my dearest demon behind every salvation;

You are the emotional abusers that gravitate in my orbit,

and I can’t seem to dislodge your planets from my line.

I admit, you got me high off some stunning ****.

Of yours.


For all those gentle, perpetually unavailable, curious beings

vacationing deep away inside

if only you would let me try and reach you, for you

to bring out all the best in me back;

before you close up like sealing a scar

We are left in a continual loop of back and forth and sideways,

hovering through open, closing doors

elevator rides to the same living routine, breaths, steps,

burdened heavy heart and raw eyelids

bruised red and blue in swollen tears

when you can never emerge from yourself to realise I’m right here

for you.


For those that run around, commanding disciples, throwing the weight of luck,

fortunate coincidences, helping fools sabotage and **** for existence,

perfection,

idealism,

licking off frosting,

dwelling in your own superiority,

I see your ruse.

Painting pristine pictures

with the lift of a finger

selling illicit jealousies and spite

like wildfire

from the back of your 24/7 Facebook page.

You make us understand the reality of one-sided loyalties,

the critical unfair rulings of want and have,

divided and mixed between people,

achievements hard fought for like precious land

and ownerships of better peoples

determined by the infernal number of people you know.


So yes.

I do have one question for you.

Why are you like this?

An why must we all break apart alone in

the boiling pressure of it all?

Forget the next night.

Wait for the return.
Nathan Young Mar 2014
It's become apparent that I accept
death as it's inevitable. Now, don't
confuse my acceptance of it with asking to
be marked with my personal ending.
If death has marked itself upon me, I
can truly say that I have lived a great
life. I'm sure you're asking as to how
I've lived a great life in such a short
span of time.

I've over come a lot of personal
obstacles; challenges that I have
never expected to accomplish. I've
risen against depression that
plagued me for years. I've opened
up to others for I realize I need my
friends just as much as they need
me. Last, but not least, I've
conquered my fear of conveying my
emotions that used to be trapped in
an infernal prison deep inside the confines
of my mind. These three obstacles
hindered me in the highest caliber
in regards to living a great life.

So yes, I accept death and I do
welcome it in open arms when it
extends its eventual invitation
because deep down, I'm content
with how everything has fallen
into place within my life. In the
end, when you learn how to die,
you learn how to live.
Andrew Robertson Jun 2014
I sit here, alone with my thoughts,
trying to write as the sound of that
infernal colck rises and falls..
And rises again.
That infuriating tick-tick-tick
TOCK!
I visualize a different muse
each time I write, but when
I search for a muse...
TOCK...tick-tick-TOCK!
Back at square one,
trying to remember an idea
I almost had before that clock
scared my muse into hiding again...


Written By:
Andrew D. Robertson
Geetha Raj Nov 2011
Fate, the absolute tyrant -
Brings me to my desk,
And I sit down to vent
This infernal night,
As prose or verse,
Or utter hogwash -
My wasted emotions -
Which some termed rhapsodic.

I promised myself not to cry -
As the day would dawn,
And I'd wheel down the aisle.
Making myself fall prey -
To another trade
Of cash and silver and solid gold,
A car and bungalow and so much more
- Of which in detail, I wasn't told.

Though I was called a beauty
Who could leave people dazed,
With two curvy dimples,
That lit my pretty face.
People never touched me
And would look at me with shame
Tell me I looked fragile
Once they knew I was lame.

I grew within four walls -
Comfy cushions and space
And it wasn't my legs, feeble
That restricted my pace.
It was love from parents
Siblings' scorn and care
That kept me from the wisely world
To go outdoors, I never dared.

I grew up crawling on my limbs
And seeing people walk
I never wished for them to stop -
Only prayed that they wouldn't talk!
For it was not their legs, I longed for
I reveled for what I was!
I only hoped they applied thought
Before pitying, how crippled I am!

I grew up watching the world go by
Each day and night would fly
Fantasizing with what I had been blessed -
My free and 'abled' mind!
I dream of a world - filled with trust
And friends who would 'walk' with me
Who would talk to me for who I was
And not offer sympathy!

I wished for love,
And found mine, divine
In a fairy tale -
Ironic indeed!
I sang love songs,
Wrote mushy poems
Painted wild dreams -
All to him, which would eventually lead.

You must have known this little boy -
Though a flaw, he did make history.
"Pinocchio", he was fondly called
And was known as a puppet with zeal!
It was not his quest for love that struck
Nor his zest to live
For it was his gait with wooden legs,
In which I could identify me!

But my dreams were thwarted
When to a man, I was entrusted -
(Or rather, on me thrusted)
One - with no love, but legs instead.
Along with blessings
For him to take along
Ample gifts were bestowed -
To keep us betrothed!

And now I await
To be proclaimed his wife
In the presence of a world
Which always kept me deprived.
It will be dawn
And I will soon be gone -
Yet I will yearn
For my Pinocchio to return!
Written on 12th January, 2011.
The dowry system is a bane of India.
Relationships - built on money, gold and property - crumble as long as the wealth wears out.
I wonder why we don't have the guts to stand up and say I will live with what I earn!
Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
Was known in Heaven; for what can ’scape the eye
Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
Complete to have discovered and repulsed
Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered,
The high injunction, not to taste that fruit,
Whoever tempted; which they not obeying,
(Incurred what could they less?) the penalty;
And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste
The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad,
For Man; for of his state by this they knew,
Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen
Entrance unseen.  Soon as the unwelcome news
From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased
All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare
That time celestial visages, yet, mixed
With pity, violated not their bliss.
About the new-arrived, in multitudes
The ethereal people ran, to hear and know
How all befel:  They towards the throne supreme,
Accountable, made haste, to make appear,
With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance
And easily approved; when the Most High
Eternal Father, from his secret cloud,
Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice.
Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned
From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed,
Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth,
Which your sincerest care could not prevent;
Foretold so lately what would come to pass,
When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
I told ye then he should prevail, and speed
On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,
And flattered out of all, believing lies
Against his Maker; no decree of mine
Concurring to necessitate his fall,
Or touch with lightest moment of impulse
His free will, to her own inclining left
In even scale.  But fallen he is; and now
What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass
On his transgression,—death denounced that day?
Which he presumes already vain and void,
Because not yet inflicted, as he feared,
By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find
Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end.
Justice shall not return as bounty scorned.
But whom send I to judge them? whom but thee,
Vicegerent Son?  To thee I have transferred
All judgement, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell.
Easy it may be seen that I intend
Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee
Man’s friend, his Mediator, his designed
Both ransom and Redeemer voluntary,
And destined Man himself to judge Man fallen.
So spake the Father; and, unfolding bright
Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son
Blazed forth unclouded Deity: He full
Resplendent all his Father manifest
Expressed, and thus divinely answered mild.
Father Eternal, thine is to decree;
Mine, both in Heaven and Earth, to do thy will
Supreme; that thou in me, thy Son beloved,
Mayest ever rest well pleased.  I go to judge
On earth these thy transgressours; but thou knowest,
Whoever judged, the worst on me must light,
When time shall be; for so I undertook
Before thee; and, not repenting, this obtain
Of right, that I may mitigate their doom
On me derived; yet I shall temper so
Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most
Them fully satisfied, and thee appease.
Attendance none shall need, nor train, where none
Are to behold the judgement, but the judged,
Those two; the third best absent is condemned,
Convict by flight, and rebel to all law:
Conviction to the serpent none belongs.
Thus saying, from his radiant seat he rose
Of high collateral glory: Him Thrones, and Powers,
Princedoms, and Dominations ministrant,
Accompanied to Heaven-gate; from whence
Eden, and all the coast, in prospect lay.
Down he descended straight; the speed of Gods
Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
Now was the sun in western cadence low
From noon, and gentle airs, due at their hour,
To fan the earth now waked, and usher in
The evening cool; when he, from wrath more cool,
Came the mild Judge, and Intercessour both,
To sentence Man:  The voice of God they heard
Now walking in the garden, by soft winds
Brought to their ears, while day declined; they heard,
And from his presence hid themselves among
The thickest trees, both man and wife; till God,
Approaching, thus to Adam called aloud.
Where art thou, Adam, wont with joy to meet
My coming seen far off?  I miss thee here,
Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude,
Where obvious duty ere while appeared unsought:
Or come I less conspicuous, or what change
Absents thee, or what chance detains?—Come forth!
He came; and with him Eve, more loth, though first
To offend; discountenanced both, and discomposed;
Love was not in their looks, either to God,
Or to each other; but apparent guilt,
And shame, and perturbation, and despair,
Anger, and obstinacy, and hate, and guile.
Whence Adam, faltering long, thus answered brief.
I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice
Afraid, being naked, hid myself.  To whom
The gracious Judge without revile replied.
My voice thou oft hast heard, and hast not feared,
But still rejoiced; how is it now become
So dreadful to thee?  That thou art naked, who
Hath told thee?  Hast thou eaten of the tree,
Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat?
To whom thus Adam sore beset replied.
O Heaven! in evil strait this day I stand
Before my Judge; either to undergo
Myself the total crime, or to accuse
My other self, the partner of my life;
Whose failing, while her faith to me remains,
I should conceal, and not expose to blame
By my complaint: but strict necessity
Subdues me, and calamitous constraint;
Lest on my head both sin and punishment,
However insupportable, be all
Devolved; though should I hold my peace, yet thou
Wouldst easily detect what I conceal.—
This Woman, whom thou madest to be my help,
And gavest me as thy perfect gift, so good,
So fit, so acceptable, so divine,
That from her hand I could suspect no ill,
And what she did, whatever in itself,
Her doing seemed to justify the deed;
She gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
To whom the Sovran Presence thus replied.
Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey
Before his voice? or was she made thy guide,
Superiour, or but equal, that to her
Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place
Wherein God set thee above her made of thee,
And for thee, whose perfection far excelled
Hers in all real dignity?  Adorned
She was indeed, and lovely, to attract
Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts
Were such, as under government well seemed;
Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part
And person, hadst thou known thyself aright.
So having said, he thus to Eve in few.
Say, Woman, what is this which thou hast done?
To whom sad Eve, with shame nigh overwhelmed,
Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge
Bold or loquacious, thus abashed replied.
The Serpent me beguiled, and I did eat.
Which when the Lord God heard, without delay
To judgement he proceeded on the accused
Serpent, though brute; unable to transfer
The guilt on him, who made him instrument
Of mischief, and polluted from the end
Of his creation; justly then accursed,
As vitiated in nature:  More to know
Concerned not Man, (since he no further knew)
Nor altered his offence; yet God at last
To Satan first in sin his doom applied,
Though in mysterious terms, judged as then best:
And on the Serpent thus his curse let fall.
Because thou hast done this, thou art accursed
Above all cattle, each beast of the field;
Upon thy belly groveling thou shalt go,
And dust shalt eat all the days of thy life.
Between thee and the woman I will put
Enmity, and between thine and her seed;
Her seed shall bruise thy head, thou bruise his heel.
So spake this oracle, then verified
When Jesus, Son of Mary, second Eve,
Saw Satan fall, like lightning, down from Heaven,
Prince of the air; then, rising from his grave
Spoiled Principalities and Powers, triumphed
In open show; and, with ascension bright,
Captivity led captive through the air,
The realm itself of Satan, long usurped;
Whom he shall tread at last under our feet;
Even he, who now foretold his fatal bruise;
And to the Woman thus his sentence turned.
Thy sorrow I will greatly multiply
By thy conception; children thou shalt bring
In sorrow forth; and to thy husband’s will
Thine shall submit; he over thee shall rule.
On Adam last thus judgement he pronounced.
Because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife,
And eaten of the tree, concerning which
I charged thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat thereof:
Cursed is the ground for thy sake; thou in sorrow
Shalt eat thereof, all the days of thy life;
Thorns also and thistles it shall bring thee forth
Unbid; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,
Till thou return unto the ground; for thou
Out of the ground wast taken, know thy birth,
For dust thou art, and shalt to dust return.
So judged he Man, both Judge and Saviour sent;
And the instant stroke of death, denounced that day,
Removed far off; then, pitying how they stood
Before him naked to the air, that now
Must suffer change, disdained not to begin
Thenceforth the form of servant to assume;
As when he washed his servants feet; so now,
As father of his family, he clad
Their nakedness with skins of beasts, or slain,
Or as the snake with youthful coat repaid;
And thought not much to clothe his enemies;
Nor he their outward only with the skins
Of beasts, but inward nakedness, much more.
Opprobrious, with his robe of righteousness,
Arraying, covered from his Father’s sight.
To him with swift ascent he up returned,
Into his blissful ***** reassumed
In glory, as of old; to him appeased
All, though all-knowing, what had passed with Man
Recounted, mixing intercession sweet.
Mean while, ere thus was sinned and judged on Earth,
Within the gates of Hell sat Sin and Death,
In counterview within the gates, that now
Stood open wide, belching outrageous flame
Far into Chaos, since the Fiend passed through,
Sin opening; who thus now to Death began.
O Son, why sit we here each other viewing
Idly, while Satan, our great author, thrives
In other worlds, and happier seat provides
For us, his offspring dear?  It cannot be
But that success attends him; if mishap,
Ere this he had returned, with fury driven
By his avengers; since no place like this
Can fit his punishment, or their revenge.
Methinks I feel new strength within me rise,
Wings growing, and dominion given me large
Beyond this deep; whatever draws me on,
Or sympathy, or some connatural force,
Powerful at greatest distance to unite,
With secret amity, things of like kind,
By secretest conveyance.  Thou, my shade
Inseparable, must with me along;
For Death from Sin no power can separate.
But, lest the difficulty of passing back
Stay his return perhaps over this gulf
Impassable, impervious; let us try
Adventurous work, yet to thy power and mine
Not unagreeable, to found a path
Over this main from Hell to that new world,
Where Satan now prevails; a monument
Of merit high to all the infernal host,
Easing their passage hence, for *******,
Or transmigration, as their lot shall lead.
Nor can I miss the way, so strongly drawn
By this new-felt attraction and instinct.
Whom thus the meager Shadow answered soon.
Go, whither Fate, and inclination strong,
Leads thee; I shall not lag behind, nor err
The way, thou leading; such a scent I draw
Of carnage, prey innumerable, and taste
The savour of death from all things there that live:
Nor shall I to the work thou enterprisest
Be wanting, but afford thee equal aid.
So saying, with delight he snuffed the smell
Of mortal change on earth.  As when a flock
Of ravenous fowl, though many a league remote,
Against the day of battle, to a field,
Where armies lie encamped, come flying, lured
With scent of living carcasses designed
For death, the following day, in ****** fight:
So scented the grim Feature, and upturned
His nostril wide into the murky air;
Sagacious of his quarry from so far.
Then both from out Hell-gates, into the waste
Wide anarchy of Chaos, damp and dark,
Flew diverse; and with power (their power was great)
Hovering upon the waters, what they met
Solid or slimy, as in raging sea
Tost up and down, together crouded drove,
From each side shoaling towards the mouth of Hell;
As when two polar winds, blowing adverse
Upon the Cronian sea, together drive
Mountains of ice, that stop the imagined way
Beyond Petsora eastward, to the rich
Cathaian coast.  The aggregated soil
Death with his mace petrifick, cold and dry,
As with a trident, smote; and fixed as firm
As Delos, floating once; the rest his look
Bound with Gorgonian rigour not to move;
And with Asphaltick slime, broad as the gate,
Deep to the roots of Hell the gathered beach
They fastened, and the mole immense wrought on
Over the foaming deep high-arched, a bridge
Of length prodigious, joining to the wall
Immoveable of this now fenceless world,
Forfeit to Death; from hence a passage broad,
Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to Hell.
So, if great things to small may be compared,
Xerxes, the liberty of Greece to yoke,
From Susa, his Memnonian palace high,
Came to the sea: and, over Hellespont
Bridging his way, Europe with Asia joined,
And scourged with many a stroke the indignant waves.
Now had they brought the work by wonderous art
Pontifical, a ridge of pendant rock,
Over the vexed abyss, following the track
Of Satan to the self-same place where he
First lighted from his wing, and landed safe
From out of Chaos, to the outside bare
Of this round world:  With pins of adamant
And chains they made all fast, too fast they made
And durable!  And now in little space
The confines met of empyrean Heaven,
And of this World; and, on the left hand, Hell
With long reach interposed; three several ways
In sight, to each of these three places led.
And now their way to Earth they had descried,
To Paradise first tending; when, behold!
Satan, in likeness of an Angel bright,
Betwixt the Centaur and the Scorpion steering
His zenith, while the sun in Aries rose:
Disguised he came; but those his children dear
Their parent soon discerned, though in disguise.
He, after Eve seduced, unminded slunk
Into the wood fast by; and, changing shape,
To observe the sequel, saw his guileful act
By Eve, though all unweeting, seconded
Upon her husband; saw their shame that sought
Vain covertures; but when he saw descend
The Son of God to judge them, terrified
He fled; not hoping to escape, but shun
The present; fearing, guilty, what his wrath
Might suddenly inflict; that past, returned
By night, and listening where the hapless pair
Sat in their sad discourse, and various plaint,
Thence gathered his own doom; which understood
Not instant, but of future time, with joy
And tidings fraught, to Hell he now returned;
And at the brink of Chaos, near the foot
Of this new wonderous pontifice, unhoped
Met, who to meet him came, his offspring dear.
Great joy was at their meeting, and at sight
Of that stupendious bridge his joy encreased.
Long he admiring stood, till Sin, his fair
Enchanting daughter, thus the silence broke.
O Parent, these are thy magnifick deeds,
Thy trophies! which thou viewest as not thine own;
Thou art their author, and prime architect:
For I no sooner in my heart divined,
My heart, which by a secret harmony
Still moves with thine, joined in connexion sweet,
That thou on earth hadst prospered, which thy looks
Now also evidence, but straight I felt,
Though distant from thee worlds between, yet felt,
That I must after thee, with this thy son;
Such fatal consequence unites us three!
Hell could no longer hold us in our bounds,
Nor this unvoyageable gulf obscure
Detain from following thy illustrious track.
Thou hast achieved our liberty, confined
Withi
Zaczebrowski Sep 11
Ignite the forecourt - shroud it in smoke,
blazen the grasses and let fires stoke,
ashen our ocean - try strangle my throat.

Yet I'm un-charred,
fire be my cloak.

Cinderous lashes boil form from the sky,
sooten the beast mocking grievous its smile,
charred lie the echo of places worthwhile.

Still I'm unscathed,
none yet defiled.

Scorch of the essence and drain the air lame,
infernal ravages torch all they've lain,
engulf their waters - stricken the rain.

None-yet I burn,
donning each flame.

Sweltering heart guiding palm of the sun,
nova my spirit let darkest nights shun,
beacon my body through despair I come.

Let me rage blinding,
everbright one,
When it feels as though our immediate world is aflame, what if we choose to burn brighter?
Scott shealy May 2014
I’m the Red Velvet Devil camouflaged in a plastic cup
I don’t have you yet, Aah, but the hooks aren’t set
I’m cheaper than “junk” and it’s only thirteen bucks
Just give me a month and I’ll be all you have

Ooh, I got you now; you feel my cold fingers in your back
I’ve only just begun to rip your soul out – intact
It’s been one year and you are my infernal *****
I've eaten your smile, your kids, your girl, money and more

You’re a shadow of your walking skin suit and you’re not aware
That my barbed noose tightens every time you try to care
You no longer laugh as I grin back from my deep dark pit
Why don’t you die, Scott? It’s so much better than what you’ve got

Year number three and all you have is enemies
No one believes you and they certainly don’t care
Your whole life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone

You’re my pitiful meat puppet and you no longer care
I’m so achingly happy; my cloven hooves click the air
My grip attached at your spine, with my rotting kiss you crumble inside
You don’t have anything, so get the gun or razor; I want to see you die

It’s the fourth and final year, I watch you as my demons near
They writhe and snap their hungry jaws and you cop your nod – insincere
Your pulse beats to my oily black heart inside
You’re a sorry, cheap trick that I’ve ***** many times

I see you stumble and cry as you rot inside- why?
You should be grateful; I’m the reason you dine with swine
“The sow is mine!” I rage to your empty God
The end is near so all you hear is the demons flaying you alive

No breath in your lungs, or blood in your heart
You’re numb as an ice storm as I’m tearing you apart
Your life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
It’s sooo nice to meet you; I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone
I was on 136 mgs of methadone daily for 4 years and I kicked cold turkey a month ago. I'm so grateful to be alive! Any one who needs to talk or needs help I am here! gothtx74@gmail.com or Scott Shealy on facebook.....god bless us survivors of this awful drug!
Scott shealy May 2014
I’m the Red Velvet Devil camouflaged in a plastic cup
I don’t have you yet, Aah, but the hooks aren’t set
I’m cheaper than “junk” and it’s only thirteen bucks
Just give me a month and I’ll be all you have

Ooh, I got you now; you feel my cold fingers in your back
I’ve only just begun to rip your soul out – intact
It’s been one year and you are my infernal *****
I've eaten your smile, your kids, your girl, money and more

You’re a shadow of your walking skin suit and you’re not aware
That my barbed noose tightens every time you try to care
You no longer laugh as I grin back from my deep dark pit
Why don’t you die, Scott? It’s so much better than what you’ve got

Year number three and all you have is enemies
No one believes you and they certainly don’t care
Your whole life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone

You’re my pitiful meat puppet and you no longer care
I’m so achingly happy; my cloven hooves click the air
My grip attached at your spine, with my rotting kiss you crumble inside
You don’t have anything, so get the gun or razor; I want to see you die

It’s the fourth and final year, I watch you as my demons near
They writhe and snap their hungry jaws and you cop your nod – insincere
Your pulse beats to my oily black heart inside
You’re a sorry, cheap trick that I’ve ***** many times

I see you stumble and cry as you rot inside- why?
You should be grateful; I’m the reason you dine with swine
“The sow is mine!” I rage to your empty God
The end is near so all you hear is the demons flaying you alive

No breath in your lungs, or blood in your heart
You’re numb as an ice storm as I’m tearing you apart
Your life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
It’s sooo nice to meet you; I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone
I was on the methadone clinic for fours years at 136 mgs a day. I quit cold turkey. Almost a month now. If anybody needs help or support I'm here....gothtx74@gmail or Scott Shealy on facebook God bless the survivors of this awful drug!! I love you all!!
the good continually crushed
the evil prosperous!

the evil tends to stick
being good is being weak!

the good is a dropout
the world the evil surmounts!

the good's voice goes unheard
rule the evil's words!

the good's fate is sealed
gets the devil what it willed!

rules the evil's writ
the good takes backseat!

with the devil infernal
god is partial!

god is good but so happens
the world the evil reigns!
Dealing with OCD
is like losing your mind,
You can be in a room
full of people, yet all alone,
Noone can ever know
when the horrible thoughts
will come and what they will be
you just feel a buzz, a hum, a drone
in your head and you try to block it out
but like Sony Xperia apps
running in the background,
they are there, infernal
consuming the bandwidth of your soul
there is a fine line between delusion and sanity
a clutching at straws, a search for help
pleas and pleas fall not on deaf ears
but endure it you must
until it runs its course
tunnelling on, pushing you to the edge
straddling the fine line buoying
bobbing, dancing, fleeting-
drowning you in its wake as you gasp and gasp
OCD is horrible and misunderstood
why it hit me, I know not-
when it came part of me, I never agreed
I just woke up arrested, paralysed
by the most unutterable thoughts...
I suspect it happened when I met
the thin woman with the one eye-
I have known no peace since then
Paranormal paranoia rules my brain
and I am mooted, glued in the vile filth
of guilt, shame, anger, helplessness-
like a generator running on fuel,
incessant the tyres do not stop burning
alone, sometimes, I ask myself
why? why me Lord?
the cup is too heavy for me to bear
and ghouls have made my mind
an open playing field and I cant break free
at times I wake up and its gone
I smile and dress up-
try to think normally, eat and sleep
but itchy insomnia rages on my skin
beads of sweat and shaking, my mouth is dry
I am afraid, frightened and I cower
OCD is crunching my life, slowly
and sadly noone knows...they just dont know
why I say 'off' things sometimes
they suppose its the preoccupation
of a busy mind, and busy I am
wallowing, silently, stewing in the prison
it seems there is no escaping this
Inspired by a true story
rohith Jul 2010
At the patio i sat
gazing at the blazing blackness
of inevitable strokes of
a glorified paint brush!
Entangled by the utmost masochism
my muscles rustled with ignorance
as the sky rumbled like a **** ghost
trying to tune the infernal chaos
that got demoralized and dehumanized
in the silence of darkness
that devastated the darkness of silence!
Steams of intolerable poignancy
curled around
like ignited demons
trying to tantalize my fears!
Trying to materialize the scene
the storm flashed in rage
ravishing the darkness
dazzled the impatience of night
as it rained in my heart
whose fragrance
lured my innocence.
A whisper lingers in the air.
It is hidden within the static and computerized buzz of a technological world.
It is hidden in the symphony of hums and thrums coming from screens and devices.
It is hidden in the beeps and rings and the tap, tap, tapping of long nails on smooth glass.
It is hidden in the vast smog of
noise, noise, noise
buried in the liter of constant sound.
Present and not present.
Like the rays of ultraviolet light unseen by the human eye,
but seen so vividly by the eyes of a bee.
The whisper sits on a spectrum of sound.
Where the white noise touches the silence-
There-
in that small gap between the two
resides a gentle whisper
that only a bee-like class of men can hear.
Unheard by the majority,
unheard by those attached to their sanity,
but still occupying an empty space in the atmosphere.
The Whisper:
a lonely spirit roaming and waiting for a warm conversation
or a hungry poltergeist searching for Its next victim to torment?
It seems that those that hear It only experience the latter.
Because once they hear The Whisper,
they cannot stop hearing It.
Beginning as a faint background noise,
but morphing into a chronic shout.
Those that are cursed enough to just barely hear It
are made dinner for the ravenous little beast
that takes pleasure in feeding off of their vulnerable ears.
The Whisper latches onto Its prey
with sharp, stabbing talons
and refuses to let go.
Maybe It longs for someone to listen,
maybe It’s tired of being ignored,
or maybe It’s starving for the addicting high of power.
Power.
Power seems to be the only thing The Whisper truly desires,
because eventually being simply a noise isn’t enough
and It begins to try on new identities.
It may claim
“I am the police monitoring your every move through your personal security cameras,”
or
“I am the government watching you through the camera on your laptop screen,”
or
“I am your family hacking into your phone to destroy any remnants of a life you may have left.”
Or it may just get lazy
or greedy
and claim
“I am every eye that watches you and every shadow that follows you.”
Then in that moment
The Whisper transforms into a booming paranoia,
loud and unavoidable.
But still paranoia isn’t enough!
The Whisper wants more than to be merely noise or a concept.
It wants to be tangible.
It wants to be held and loved like those pocket-sized devices
the population cherishes so much,
so It migrates from open air
to a small electronic box
and burrows Itself in the delicate wiring
and weaves Itself through complex code.
Soon It is no longer competing with the noise
It is the noise,
It is the vibrating atmosphere,
It is the static and the buzz,
the hums and thrums,
the beeps and rings
and the infernal tap, tap, tapping!
It is the overwhelming pressure compressing your temples,
pounding on the back of your head
and drowning your throbbing ears,
but now It has a blinding screen too!
Soon all that is seen or heard is swallowed by The Whisper
and vomited out as a distorted pile of mush.
No longer reality,
but The Whisper’s twisted dreamland.
Now
The Whisper may boast,
“I am God”
“I am the angels.”
Now
With a raspy growl,
The Whisper may declare
“I am the demons”
“I am the Devil.”
Now
insanity is the new Christianity
and those faithful followers have become devout attendees at
The Orthodox Church of Crazy.
Now
The Whisper is their only friend,
their only confidant,
their only God,
because The Whisper shipped out all that was real on a sinking boat named Paranoia.
Now
when they are not speaking in tongues
they are type, type, typing in tongues
to an invisible whisper in a small electronic box.
What is cluttered gibberish to the outside world
is sacred ritual to those that worship The Whisper.
Many loved ones may try to save those caught in this seemingly false reality,
but to those that are faithful,
this “salvation” is only a defilement of their God.
It is disgracing their religion.
And because the outside world will never hear or see the truth,
those that can hear and will always hear The Whisper
further isolate themselves on an island of their singular reality.
So The Whisper will continue Its reign of terror
until Its following decomposes into solitary skeletons
and their spirits rise as small voices
that will forever contribute to the eternal Whisper.
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.

Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.

Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.

I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
Xan Abyss Dec 2014
Destiny swims in an ocean of doom
Tossed upon the waves
Monsters guarding ancient tombs
Phantoms stalk their graves
Serpents and arachnids roam
Beasts keep human slaves
In ruins of the olden world
To the outer realms of space

So you travel through space and time
But at the end of the road you'll find
Your fate is the same as mine
And one day we all will die

Your portal will show you the truth
Of how the Mighty are Doomed

In the depths of the underground
And the bottom of the sea
There are secrets hidden from the world
No one must ever see

When giant creatures ruled the land
To days still yet to be
This earth may never understand
The power within thee

So you travel through space and time
But at the end of the road you'll find
Your fate is the same as mine
And one day we all will die

Your portal will show you the truth
Of how the Mighty are Doomed
The horrors lurking in the dark
A menace worldwide

The prophet and the guardian
Are always at your side
Infernal forces hunt for you
Alive for your demise

Across the earth and in the water
To the winds up in the sky
The Prophecy foretold
Of the arrival of a Mighty One
A warrior of maximum potential
Your Destiny is old 
Ancient as time itself
Your mission is harsh and eternal

Curses linger through the ages of man
Death is eager to meet us 
Myths and legends of far away lands
Hunt to **** and eat us
Science and sorcery of death
Rally to defeat us
But we survive no matter the odds
The universe still needs us

So you travel through space and time
But at the end of the road you'll find
Your fate is the same as mine
And one day we all will die

Your portal will show you the truth
Of how the Mighty are Doomed
A metal song about Mighty Max.
PERTINAX Nov 2024
Spinning, out of control,
I can see the bottom
Gnarly hands dripping sinew
Grasping at my feet
Eager for me to join
Their twisted feast
Where hunger is not the mode
To satiate the emptiness
But a bitter thirst
To quench the infernal fires
That fed fuel to their burning desire
For me to join them in the abyss
Of loneliness built atop bones of pleasure
Piled up high with lost souls
Who were too weak to look up
And see the sky where birds fly
Or the trees and their lovely greens
A beautiful scene of all the things
Which will be left behind
If I continue to hide and not seek
The wonderful world beyond the drink

So, up I climb
Never to look back
Into the deep
Bobby Copeland Aug 2021
The pleasure of a well turned phrase
Does not approach your touch, your taste,
My tongue's adventure in your lips,
Smooth motion of your pulsing hips.
If words could ply their way inside,
I'd give up my infernal pride
And scream your name--a madman's way--
To ask if you have more to say.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Awe
Awe

Golden grain lies scattered about on a stonework floor out of place in the sacristy and that is the
Travesty Among holy vestments there is evidence of the slightest presence of the treasure that brought

This Meager amount just one godly person and that was only by accident on shoes that hurried past the
Harvest field from these prostrate seeds a silent cry is haunting every day and night a holocaust is taking

Place anew death it did strew among the whole of life depicted by a child’s dream it occurred when she
Was only twelve and at eighty six it was as vivid as it happened yesterday I let her tell you in her own

Words “at this point in my dream I found myself on a very narrow path it was so narrow I had to lift one
Foot slowly and place it exactly in front of the other foot or I would lose my balance how carefully I had

To walk I exercised even greater caution when I realized that the narrow walkway spanned a very deep
Chasm an abyss filled with great billowing waves of flame more terrifying than the sight of the flames

Was the realization that people were being tossed about in that raging infernal their screams of anguish
Were so freighting that I wanted to rush away from these sights and sounds of horror my fear of missing

A step on that narrow path and falling into that horrible pit made my progress slow and agonizing then
Out of that nightmare of screaming anguish came the unmistakable voice of somebody calling my name

Oma a familiar voice pleaded Oma go warn your father and my brethren to never come to this place
I am In Hell” she subsequently found out that this man who spoke was a fellow preacher in her father’s

Religion that had ***** a young woman and had been sent to prison and then died there but from this
Dream in the coming years she became a minister of the gospel a work she continued for well over

Fifty years and she stated that dream of hell was an ever driving force to reach the lost yes a genocide
Of people of uncommon value sun drenched fragrant is the fields that glistens nowhere in all of

Existence does any treasure compare to you and me the bleating of the sheep of his pasture rises
Through air and misty clouds carried most softly and deepened by the quantity of distress from sheep
That is the most helpless of creatures thus the need of Sheppard’s and labors to enter these golden

Fields nothing must be missed but we are losing a generation while the greatest church buildings
Compass the land without question richness pervades within every detail is complete fashionable

To a fault the pews numerous enough but emptiness carries the stamp your duty you are failing
When the riches of family and friends are missing out on being fed heavens sacred bread nothing

Else can and will sustain real life all else is illusion a spell that cloaks the sight of people in richest
Clothing that are no more than starved prisoners of a total war against humanity they blissfully

Parade on they can’t see the front of the procession in the far distance as it passes through the Gate of
Hell that glows and melts the screams within that touch it then sizzles keeping it secret and warning

Hidden from the dammed that are marching to their doom but oh the sacristy holds such wondrous
Items as vestments and other church furnishings and sacred vessels and parish records but as you open

The door you are blasted with the cold reality only a precious few enjoy their value and comfort a
Mocking laughter is heard as the devil throws his head back with contempt and laughs even harder

As he drives the multitude to the end that was supposed to be his and his demons end all through
History the travail of mans plight has shaken a few from compliancy the robe of righteousness never

Hangs in cloistered suffocating gloom no as Wesley and George Whitfield they went out into the open
Fields and brought heaven down as a thunder clap that shook England to its evil core where gin was

So prevalent it reached from the poorest hovel through the church and into the palace where many
Enemies evaded and were driven back but this enemy was an inner demon that only God could over

Throw this is a picture of how as these faithful men lifted the cross and its Holy standard high and
As there proclamation reached a high crescendo the low laborers came out of mine pits stood there and

As the spirit mystified them with loves deepest truths there tears made tracks down through their cold
Dust covered faces these vestments are the true and lasting outwear that indicates the brimming soul

Within shall ever be free

This is what I meant to write in the car Sunday night but I was overwhelmed and only tried to fix pain

And sorrow with the beauty of a child and its birth only one child can do that and He was born in a manger
Hebert Logerie Nov 2024
It is raining
And they are shooting
This is not a game
This is a shame
Everyone is afraid
Babies and children are crying
Men and women are very mad
Where everyone is dying
The streets are infested with idiots and bandits
They are our enemies
They are not our friends
They shoot like crazy ants
Bullets fall like raindrops and rice
Gangsters are not nice
They are terrorists
They are bad tourists
They Are robot-criminals
They have no hearts, no minds and no souls
They are eternally ******
Bound for Hell, the infernal dam
Their organs are made of steel and iron
They are not human
Their hands are soaked with blood
They are scoundrels covered with mud
They are the spawns of Satan.

It's Raining
And they are killing
What a **** shame
Amidst all the madness
This is outright sickness
The universe is not at peace
The entire world is at war, in distress
Deep in the dungeon of the cemetery
We don't make deadly weapons
Here
We only have tears, rhymes and songs
At home
We cry everywhere
At home
They make too many weapons elsewhere
Too many people are dying in this madness
Everyone is afraid at home
There is too much misery and unhappiness.

Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
absinthe Jun 2016
i have only
one lonely
component
of moments
altogether, they make the misnomer
we all **** every morning,
every time we call it
time

i’m in bed, thinking
of my child--
past,
my mistress--
future,
and my husband--
present.

do i manifest it
in the most innocent victims
in my kin, keeping
their necks bent backwards,
twisted
twenty-four, seven
for no reason other
than my (sub?)conscious,
its viciousness i keep
feeding, nursing it
with ****** breastmilk
   i keep reminiscing and reliving
   my initiation moments
   ago, when she forced my transition
   from visions of halos
   visible in the distance
   to a new life witnessed
   from a higher elevation measured
   in mere feet, in measly inches
   all its symptoms
   hosting the syndrome
   we selfishly love scapegoating
   as the capital of sweden

or do i invest it in secret
in a potential haven
its instantaneous
gratification
purposely overlooking
my infernal husband
   i see him, vivid
   his eyes gleaming, livid
   while he's smiling, living
   in pure bliss, the image
   of him standing
   in the background
   oxymoronically
   observing
   with a rigid south
   that defies physics
   and hails northbound
   like my eyes when they widen
   allowing my peripheries
   to admit the bigger picture
   and finally i get it

or do i intertwine
his fingers with mine
give in and follow through
with vows
so
black
i had to contrast them with white
   by draping
   over my shoulders what i'd only seen before when
   time, my fashionably late ******
   snuck into my room and ravaged innocence
   it was mariana trench grim
   even the moon couldn't take it
   watching her stab
   the white sheets,
   in blackness
   hearing my eerie screams
   as my innards leave me
   and suddenly i embrace
   the potent beauty of a venomous snake
   the gleaming power that hate plagues
   so together we'd watch them bleed red
   sitting. but that was moments past
   now i carry the horrid legacy
   of mastered maleficence
   how to manipulate it
   beneath a veil that hates evil
   and it still tempts me...

that's why i did it
wore white and feigned interest
to distract the morbid being
hiding deep within, rotting, festering
i put it all together when i broke
at the hands of a monster
who created a fraternal clone
by instigating an innocent sadist
a different species
i can drain us all, together
in a brutal whirlwind
of failing, of indecision

if only
the moon had made it
if only the sun had listened
and rescued me
instead of insisting
that shining on time
was out of style
but its prerequisite
was no compromise
instead it trapped me
in a sinister dungeon  
because taking orders
from a subordinate
is a demeaning price
higher than
the cheap little girl
bleeding, crying
she carries no significance
she's falling behind
just like the future
of an otherwise worthy existence
just like my mistress --
future
my husband--
present
and my child --
   passed
now
nothing
matters.
it's only
a matter
of time
until we all die

after all,
we had it
all, stolen
or otherwise
yet instead,
we spent
our whole lives
torturing each other
and killing time.

- end
empezó a llover vacas
y en vista de la situación reinante en el país
los estudiantes de agronomía sembraron desconcierto
los profesores de ingeniería proclamaron su virginidad
los bedeles de filosofía aceitaron las grampas de la razón intelectual
los maestros de matemáticas verificaron llorando el dos más dos
los alumnos de lenguaje inventaron buenas malas palabras
esto ocurrió al mismo tiempo
un oleaje de nostalgia invadía las camas del país
y las parejas entre sí se miraban como desconocidos
y el crepúsculo era servido en el almuerzo por padres y madres
y el dolor o la pena iba vistiendo lentamente a los chiquitines
y a unos se les caía el pecho y la espalda a otros y nada a los demás
y a Dios lo encontraron muerto varias veces
y los viejos volaban por el aire agarrados a sus testículos resecos
y las viejas lanzaban exclamaciones y sentían puntadas en la memoria o el olvido según
y varios perros asentían y brindaban con armenio coñac
y a un hombre lo encontraron muerto varias veces

junto a un viernes de carnaval arrancado del carnaval
bajo una invasión de insultos otoñales
o sobre elefantes azules parados en la mejilla de Mr. Hollow
o alrededor de alondras en dulce desafío vocal con el verano
encontraron muerto a ese hombre
con las manos abiertamente grises
y las caderas desordenadas por los sucesos de Chicago
un resto de viento en la garganta
25 centavos de dólar en el bolsillo y su águila quieta
con las plumas mojadas por la lluvia infernal

¡ah queridos!
¡esa lluvia llovió años y años sobre el pavimento de Hereby Street
sin borrar la más mínima huella de lo acontecido!
¡sin mojar ninguna de las humillaciones ni uno solo de los miedos
de ese hombre con las caderas revueltas tiradas en la calle
tarde para que sus terrores puedan mezclarse con el agua y pudrirse y terminar!

así murió parsifal hoolig
cerró los ojos silenciosos
conservó la costumbre de no protestar
fue un difunto valiente
y aunque no tuvo necrológica en el New York Times ni el Chicago Tribune se ocupó de él
no se quejó cuando lo recogieron en un camión del servicio municipal
a él y a su aspecto melancólico
y si alguno supone que esto es triste
si alguno va a pararse a decir que esto es triste
sepa que esto es exactamente lo que pasó
que ninguna otra cosa pasó sino esto
bajo este cielo o bóveda celeste
But why did I **** him? Why? Why?
In the small, gilded room, near the stair?
My ears rack and throb with his cry,
And his eyes goggle under his hair,
As my fingers sink into the fair
White skin of his throat. It was I!

I killed him! My God! Don't you hear?
I shook him until his red tongue
Hung flapping out through the black, queer,
Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung
With my nails drawing blood, while I flung
The loose, heavy body in fear.

Fear lest he should still not be dead.
I was drunk with the lust of his life.
The blood-drops oozed slow from his head
And dabbled a chair. And our strife
Lasted one reeling second, his knife
Lay and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the ballroom I heard,
When I called him a low, sneaking cur.
And the wail of the violins stirred
My brute anger with visions of her.
As I throttled his windpipe, the purr
Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles through the dark,
With that music, an infernal din,
Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark!
One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in
To his flesh when the violins, thin
And straining with passion, grow stark.

One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound!
While she danced I was crushing his throat.
He had tasted the joy of her, wound
Round her body, and I heard him gloat
On the favour. That instant I smote.
One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!

He is here in the room, in my arm,
His limp body hangs on the spin
Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm
Of blood-drops is hemming us in!
Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin
Is red like his tongue lolling warm.

One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell.
He is heavy, his feet beat the floor
As I drag him about in the swell
Of the waltz. With a menacing roar,
The trumpets crash in through the door.
One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.

One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space
Rolls the earth to the hideous glee
Of death! And so cramped is this place,
I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three!
Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me!
He has covered my mouth with his face!

And his blood has dripped into my heart!
And my heart beats and labours. One! Two!
Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part
Of my body in tentacles. Through
My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue
His dead body holds me athwart.

One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God!
One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime!
One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod,
Beats me into a jelly! The chime,
One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time.
Air! Give me air! Air! My God!
Tucker Landis Nov 2012
The infernal machines loudly portray their thoughts
When all culminates they taunt me.

Hysterically laughing at my blunders
No machine can make a mistake
Banging at the doors of the psychological house
Of my nature; my brain

The infernal machines, steam spewing; combustion fumes fill the air
Choking only me to my breaking point
The unforgiving hardness of the machines
Touches my skin with severity.

The infernal machines broken…
With no more fumes or steam lay torn;
For machines cannot feel the security of warm blooded touch
Beating; bludgeoning
I weep at the hardiness of their steel in that cold basement in which I dwell.
I smash them with my emotion (now I taunt them)
Watching the deprecation of the beasts’ rusty metal.

But…
With a sputter,
The infernal machines awake,
Building their factory over my rose lilacs
Where you and I once laid.

Those machines of my psyche
No longer allow the good in me
To be released out of this bubble of depression
That consumes me when I am secluded.

But humming below my feet,
Droning on, they heat the floor.
My path always leads back to the machines.
Believing the lies, they whisper to me.
Beckoning my ******* self to the bottom,
of that basement where the floor is no longer,
a grate, but a slab of concrete.

As I approach the stair, a figure stops me,
“Head my warning. What you seek, or feel you should be seeking isn’t there.”
I repressed this.

As I walk, the sound of the machines slowly haunts its way to my ear.
I strain to hear and when I arrive the machines are off.

I sprint through the basement, but it seems they have abandoned me.
In a mad dash, I frantically search for a working machine.

But to my demise have forgotten,
That machines cannot give nor receive warm blooded love,
And for this reason I sit waiting for the next sputter of the evil machines,
For it is all I know.
Samir Dec 2012
***** Jersey
You are unworthy
From the infamous Jersey shore
To the depths of Bergen county
You hound me

Thank god sandy got rid of that cesspool by the way

Anyone ever hear of Lodi?
No?, ok...     Moving on,

New Jersey, the ideal place for parents who have small children

Once they are teenagers
They will rip their parents apart for condemning them to a suburban hellhole

For sentencing them to an infernal purgatory, where if you have no car, you are stuck at home, and unless you walk to a bus stop and take the bus somewhere else, you have no job

So you find your best friend...

Marijuana

And then you start selling it and you now have a job

Drug dealer.

Find a pill counter who works at Walgreens pharmacy and you have now
expanded your market

Oh ***** Jerz, for grey-ish skies
For sewage waves of stain,
for unemployed and worker slaves,
all for minimum wage.
This man, oh, he fights all alone.
He’s fighting so far from home.
Every day he bears his gun, he risks his life,
Fighting in hellish worlds plagued with strife.

He’s not in this for your revolution.
He’s just here of his own volition.
He doesn’t care if things get worse.
He just wants your gold in his purse.

Each and every time he fires,
Death comes, hangs ‘round the shires.
He’s borne witness to immense misery,
But after so much, rarely is he teary.

His brothers and comrades fell all around,
But he has time for neither cry nor frown.
In the town, he’s burnt, he’s looted, he’s *****;
And, into the night, his shadow’s shifted shape.

The dogs of war, they’ve never stopped;
Even when they’re sliced or chopped.
They just go to hell, where they regroup,
Then come back as yet more troop.

Time and guilt erode this man’s visage;
He’s still haunted by infernal image.
He still remembers his prime, young days;
Oh, how he wasted his youthful phase.
It's about an African mercenary who expends all of his youth fighting meaningless bush wars in the Congo.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
The 64 squares on a chessboard
match the tally of my years –
some passed in red,
others in black -
another day, another game.

Mostly I prefer to play
the knight with angled junkets
cutting a dashing profile
like the head of his noble steed
(though many moves, alas,
resemble another part of the horse) .

Of course it is rather grand
to be monarch for a day
calling the shots
from a gilded throne
in a rustic medieval castle

but a mere half turn of the wheel
busts me down to humble pawn -
moving one square at a time -
rendering to Caesar his due.

Chess may not be my game of choice
but there isn’t any other
and on the whole it’s not so bad
save for that infernal timer!

*December, 2007
KM Ramsey May 2015
you say it like it's my fault
like i shook you
goddess of earthquakes
and my fault lines
etched into my face don't
give you the answer you're looking for?

you look upon me like an alien
like some creature who crawled forth
from a darkened alleyway to
burn in front of you
and pull you
a moth to the flame
Icarus flying too close to the sun
you melt
when you're in my arms
and i in yours i can see
the beeswax of your eyes
slowly turning to a viscous liquid
a rain-shower of that infernal desire
emotions that ***** like needles
piercing veins to slam home
a neon poison
higher than ******
to know my power
and hold that pulsing dripping
heart of yours
within my secret place
my holy of holies and
all i want is to tear the veil
and expose the bare truth
no more hiding in the shadows
a divine face you cannot look upon
i imagine god gets lonely

what is the meaning of a beauty
that cannot be seen?
that will consume every part of you
with a single glance
burn your eyes to charcoal
the only smoking remnants of
those bottomless brown cups of coffee
that swirl in your irises

i consume the world around me
more more more more more more
if left alone i would eat your heart
a feral animal
the pure incarnation of natural rage
thunderstorms in my eyes
and lightning bolt curls
blood-stained lips still dripping
with your 98.6 degrees
that same fluid which rushes
to your cheeks when
i shock you yet again
though you shouldn't really be surprised
anymore

if you know what's good for you

don't look at me
he should just walk away
Prabhu Iyer May 2021
When the apocalypse came
it was not raining fire from the skies
no schism in the ***** of the earth,
the seas are not swirling over, nor
the rivers welling up in grief;
Quiet as tears of the early sky
we mourn - how many more
do we count lost and begone?
Shovels and pick axes say ‘no more’-
a touch and hug and a word of cheer,
who knew death comes in garbs
so dear ? there burn the pyres
endless in their dirge, painting
distant the Sun in hues of the dark
and we hope and we pray,
let this be it, Lord, if we must suffer
let this your coming be then -
for we can’t take this anymore
How many more do we lose ?
How many the logs that weary
feed the fires of the infernal?
Julian Nov 2018
The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.
Vijaya Balan Jun 2014
You exist in this place that I need,
We seek that solace indeed,
Words that come through do no justice,
For that moment you live through solstice
Lines after lines shape a story,
A tale for which I am sorry,
Symbols linger in the background,
Encoding deep thoughts that I will be bound

Between these lines you feed,
The temple, an icon of your greed,
They parade a ghastly sight tonight,
The torch-bearers of torment in sight,
Their ember light leading the way,
For the confused parade that sways

I dance with the dead,
We pour light in my head,
These eyes close in the heat,
The dead dance near my feet

Between these lines I seek familiarity,
To those words you repeat in similarity,
Anger and sorrow dance in my head,
Doubt they will stand me in good stead

A herd of beast attacks this infernal parade,
Convulsing meat and heat in this charade,
We meet for a brief moment,
Between these lines of torment,
Eyes lock and irises clash,
Arms rise with metal blades,
Horns locked within our barbaric brigades

The dust settles as you walk away,
I crumble with anguish far away,
Mortals lay lifeless on the sands,
The torch-bearers are heard within lands,
Melodies of battle have attracted them,
They come to claim that which belongs to them

This ends the tale of sorrow,
For a better one I will tell tomorrow,
This ends the brief yet illustrious moment,
Where we lived between lines of torment.

I dance with the dead,
We pour light in my head,
These eyes close in the heat,
The dead dance near my feet
Written in 2010
Timeworn visage juxtaposed
with youthful posture,
dark eyes signify
a soul gone far
from home,
and lost.

Despite your eyes’ placations
the world has cast you
off.
Your story is a sad one,
a missing puzzle piece ,
a sordid tale of grief:
Perhaps deceived by me
to find eternal meaning
in that infernal hell-path
winding
through my mind.

Away! Away!
Save grief for darker days.
Tonight sail towards the stars.

The ****** blanket
voices weave, it
covers, but fails to **** you.
Cast it off.

The moonlit path awaits.
The ground is black.
The air is white
and young.

Snowflakes overact
for your attention
one by one.

In a land of characters
whose empty voices sow
a blindfold of despair:

Instead converse with snowflakes,
falling for you, in the air.
"falling for you" as in 'falling in love'
Dear friends and fiends,
Those who'd weave poems
and lose themselves in dreams,
Let me tell you of the places I've been.

The hour of my writing
is late, as always, and tonight
I find myself trawling through
the deep dark web.
Seeking out the dark
stuff, I cast out the net
to catch a glimpse of fate
and to contemplate the death
of patterns that lurk inside my
head, gleaming all but nothing.

I will have the night always
and I'm wondering what
worth really is. Blasted
signifiers and infernal
meanings! Why can't
it all just go away?

So I spend some time in the darkness
until the end rears its eventual head
and I am left here, blind, grappling
in the dark. All we are, all our
shadows are; beautiful, ugly;
Powerful, ridiculous;
Virtuous/viceful;
Good/bad, right/wrong,
Off/on; it's all the same really,
Tell me which side of the coin
becometh unseen?

No one's listening!
Insignificance is a powerful asset
given today's crazy, contrary world,
It serves as well as any sartorial shield;
Or, rather, should I say it is insignificable?
I am a being thinking no one's bothering
to listen to me yet I do much listening
and even reflecting. I'm not complaining,
Reliving seems a better choice of word.
I do like listening: I listen to the
quiet before morning and after night;
To the hustle and bustle when bathed
in that artificial light;
To other humans who
speak Other languages
in all their idiosyncrasies,
The content of which I'd not
grasp but the form of it I might
understand, from sweet Italian
to feisty Spanish, haunting Irish
to French's romance, the only tongue
I cannot see such quality in is English
because instead I see in it everything,
Some of which I'd rather forget, under-
lying meaning, miscommunication, dis-
information and each mistake and error,
Destroyed etymologies, broken referents
and the tyranny of endless signification;

Everything and Nothing,
∃xistence and ∀niverse.

Although I like to listen
I cannot help what it is
I hear. I do not control
perception though I try
very hard to fool the seer
into ignorance, to ignore
the pessimism I'd otherwise
embrace, to swallow those itty
bitter blue pills I'd otherwise taste.

God love every parent and sibling,
Friend, enemy and other acquaintance
for each of whom I have many mixed
multifaceted feelings but who I'd listen to
nonetheless for the sake of their heads, mental
wellbeing can be such a chore. I really don't know
anymore, I've no real purpose, I'm just a data-*****.

Not a chance nor even a hope of finding
work or love with hobbies like these, and
this for lounging-list of habits that I keep;
No meaning, or at least nothing significant.
Went away and now I've returned,
What do I have to show for it? Well,
I learned to love the weather, now
the rain makes me feel so much better.
Katy Laurel Dec 2011
The last time we spoke was in early hours
Full of impersonal inquiry.
The return of encompassing doubt
Brings back images birthed from tragic experience.

Trailing blood lines lead to the southern coasts
And I begin to doubt the intention of my late inclination.
Another lover unable to contain my heart
Another running away from the abyss of ugly honesty.
It's all very overwhelming and too much to bear.

I will return to live in the well of my brain
And dream of the ocean.

No one will hear this mournful siren trapped in the earth,
For I have picked the most hidden tree to observe from my depth.
Even if they traverse the infinite path,
Only those who bare insanity will look away from the branches of knowledge
And find these pupils in the infernal darkness.
But my heroes never know how to temper these depths,
Either falling to their death
Or painfully giving up with rightful indignation.

The waves of my thought deafen this soul
To the courageous explorers of my immortal caves.
Leave me to the well of my brain, darling.

The early hours bleed into dawn
As I think on the embarrassment I feel in love.
I have much more to understand
And you don't deserve my naivety.
I decide to close my eyes
And force your departure.

Finally, I can sleep with the ease of accepted solitude.

— The End —