"inimical" poems
The Blue Rhinoceros.
So Blue Was He.
The Wind In His Hair.
The World At His Feet.
Once The Blue Rhino,
Who Wasn't Albino,
Ate A Man Named Ringo.
Who Was Writing A Bio.
The Bio He Wrote.
About His Pet Goat.
The Goat Was Quite Royal,
But Wasn't Too Loyal.
The Man Died That Day.
The Rhino Ran Away,
Because The Goat Was a Rhino,
And Not Albino.
Inimical
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.
Jury on.
Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ****** she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,
They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.
And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.
I lull and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.
Mine. Hate. Anxiety.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
I have written a million words and fought a hundred battles.
I have stood against all enemies in all corners of the world.
I have been an agent of destruction and retribution.
I have been a despotic symbol of unyielding authority.
I have been a god of war and slaughter.
But in the face of this new force I am powerless.
I stood against the atom bomb, and bent it to my will.
I broke the tides of imperialism and nationalism, and soon devoured them too, with my insatiable lust.
I have crushed all who have contested against me; no revolution has ever ousted me.
And yet.
In the face of this new force I am powerless.
My atom bomb is enervated.
My armies are decrepit.
My once iron resolution has melted to lackadaisical fancy.
My Tanks, guns, swords and bombs are nothing but flaccid instruments of failed conquest.
Because
For all my inimical **********
I am rendered prostrate before the empyrean power of joy immeasurable.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Much have been ruined, but, people know
what once existed in spaces where now stand
modern structures...mountains are crumbling,
not much trees left...soil, rocks are eroding,
the calming sound of gushing water is missed
since the beginning of life,
it has been our provider, our source
of food, shelter and protection.
today...it is the one that needs
protection from us, humans.....we
have turned inimical...deliberately,
ignoring its cries for help, because
of self-serving interests...we've exploited,
we've abused mother nature, and those
creatures living in its midst.
we humans are part of nature,
we dwell...we rely on it,
we survive in its realm.....yet,
we continuously violate this
human-nature relationship.
even before the laws,
an implied agreement,
a known understanding
existed...weren't we, humans,
taught not to hurt, or abuse
any thing?.....or any one?
weren't we taught to respect
all kinds of life on earth?
it's a pain in the heart, to watch
hurricanes wreaking havoc on lives
and sources of livelihood, anywhere
in the world...especially when they
happen....right before your eyes.
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 2:34 AM UTC
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return
a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.
Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.
Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
*From far away has come
what lies beneath Dreamworld~
Inimical insomnia rises from below.
Lyrical temperance painted on walls,
walls of wonder, walls of gold.
Perseverance seizes my dryness
written alone with kitten ink~
And steals these sentiments of shyness
Speaking with an internal imp,
Rhythmical synthesis, words suddenly cringe.
And slowly we become rivers,
we become photographs without sun~
I release my eyes on your throat,
Reflections without borders,
*********** behind God.
My decadence prayed for madness,
and knock on thine heavenly doors~
But what are we but just a lonely song?
A little music lost, a melody untold
But all and by all, we were just like tracks in the snow.*
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
I used to be one of the brightest reds
but now I've turned grey
forced to be numb
grown familiar with the pain
"Is this right or is it wrong?"
I ask myself everyday
while you are unaware of these conversations in my head
that I am caught up in this fray
if you could only see the way the way
you tell me endless stories about her
like the gleam in your eyes and
how your smile grows wider
every time you mention her name
inimical to your happiness
there is an ache in my chest
yet I do not blame you for my heart’s distress
how could you be so oblivious?
why can’t you realize? why can’t you see?
why won’t you pay me enough attention
and look at me properly?
you leave me with no choice
but to stop myself from jumping off the cliff
only to fall into nothing but misery
as I fill this paper with the
breathings of my heart
tears blur my vision and they fall drop by drop
I’m all by myself again, nothing new
with a question left in my mind:
am I in love with you?
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
She's awake, eyes wide,
Gazing at everything that surrounds her.
Ugly? Someone apprised her no.
Loving is the cue to everything beautiful.
Skin deep is nothing. They are just words.
Magnificent is nothing,
And nothing is unlovely,
When you see the world in gray,
You fail to remeber,
There's an other side.
From sad to happy,
He made her, unknowingly.
He showed her,
People can be inimical,
She said she is aware.
Then what was that he did,
To make her all so beaming?
I guess we'll never know.
It's a tale of two seeds,
Who were growing into trees.
When one was about to die,
The angel came to relief.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
what's rain to a city?
gloomy, gray drops
brutally gritting
in drizzle people's hopes.
its wetness is inimical,
its moistness - whimsical.
no sun, no, no happiness;
cold gales beget haplessness.
rain, Rain, rain!
wash away-away
disdain!
(never mind, never mind
pain...)
(c)kRu, 17.09.05
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:34 AM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach
"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."
~~
and thus, the circling noose grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point -
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, yeah, sure, sure,
you knew that,
tho daring to verbalize same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind with body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of life's linkages and motifs parallel
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts,
called words,
into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
truthful, youthful and crucial
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
I have only time and dreams. I do not know how much more time I have, but I do know that the time I shall have is, pardoxically, timeless, as are dreams. I shall use the time I have left to continue to dream--to dream not about the impossible, but about the inevitable. I shall dream about caring instead of uncaring, of helping instead of hurting, of loving instead of hating. I shall dream of a world of peace, a world on which all the billions of human beings come inexorably to realize their innate worth, their inviolate sacred spirit, a moment in the not too distant future when all will not only join hands, but also join hearts, a spiritual ecology that will complement a climate ecology. Instead of self-aggrandizing, we all will be accruing love--of self, and therefore ineluctably, of all other creations on Earth. At this moment, our world is turned inside out. Our "values" are convoluted, contorted, twisted. The world is presently controlled by inimical forces that bring torture and terror to Earth, that think weapons and wars are their their sole prerogative. But Earth's destiny negates this notion. This is not just my time and dreams, but the time and dreams of all. And sooner than later, the time will be now and the dreams will be manifest.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 5:26 PM UTC
Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?
....................................................................
Heaven in a dark place.
Jokers with no face.
Not a moment free yet not a thing to do.
The theif paints his cell wall.
With crushed plants and they fall.
Ivory clouds speckle the sky of blue.
Deep in the brain stem.
A bulb burning light dim.
Wallows the roots of everything once feared.
Blind marchers guiding.
Hunters found hiding.
Messy brigade leaves the ruins cleared.
Time will move on and on and on and on and on you too soon.
By the time eyes adjust to the sun you'll be seeing the moon.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
The city was laid bare:
like a patient upon the operating table
I walked the streets with precision
I was the scalpel carving communities from the fauna
the city was alive, and so it was truly sick
concrete jungle
projects and penthouses
the beleaguered old traipsed about, silent, but not quiet
the youth, rambunctious and carnal, feasted upon the dying
With each touch, I soothed the soul
Kisses, like antiseptic.
Lectures, like stitches.
Like cumulonimbus, the raucous ramblings of crowds grew
I said to myself, "It is fine, this is life, let it live."
Youth, ablaze with carrion wings, descend upon the old
beaks barrelling forward, pecking and snatching decency
still there are some who help
swooping down like proud eagles, they shoo away the scavengers
they beat back the tide of villainy
they shelter innocence, foster truth
but they are not enough...
I carve out the **** of corruption
I ventilate the lungs of the city and plug the punctures
but the pollution is virulent and stubborn...
Still, I say to myself, "This is poetry, love is a mystery, let them be."
I will hear them cry in the rain
I will not know my place
I might extend a hand, proffer an embrace, but
they will shy back,
for man will become monster
and God will become devil... in their eyes: deluded; poisoned by hate.
I will wonder where I went wrong.
Will I try my best to turn the helm against the wave,
go THROUGH the heart of the storm?!
Of course, I will try
I will try,
but I will fail.
Man will flaunt his freedoms, those which were freely given.
Despite my grief, I will say to myself, "All things have an end. There was nothing I could do."
I wonder to myself...
How many centuries have I folded my hands against the storm.
Behold! It's patience!
It will ever rise,
It will ever approach!
So long as man lies,
It will reach for his throat!
Man will always feign surprise,
It is a sickness he cannot broach...
As the color of morning skies is calming,
The fumes of the rumbling storm are maddening!
I always let the storm build until the lightning sets the world on fire
because
I thought the storm was man's voice in an inimical life...
But I was wrong, the storm is the beast that lurks in the shadows.
It sets the table for carrion.
The beast builds the cumulonimbus, preparing the kindling for the floods of war.
The storm's pallor stains man's skin so ubiquitously
That he mistakes the storm for himself.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
I'm confused by the caustic whispers
What I do, I do for love, they say
I'm profane.
Of course I'm atheistic,
I'm under the dome
of this upset city
with my badge and gun,
what do they expect,
my broken home?
I of all the answers,
answers, I have none.
I know their caustic whispers well
because I am one of
the inimical voices
spraying my name.
My name is in lights,
while I wanted this, I never asked
I never asked, but
now my brain is awake and I'm profane.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
I thought they said that distance makes a heart grow fonder?
But somehow miles seem much longer than they used to.
The space between has grown.
Unfamiliar to me are the surroundings you now call home.
I had thought your home would always be the one around the corner from mine.
I thought they said that distance makes a heart grow fonder?
You bury your discontent under a heap of lies;
Never enough time to call, stamps are too expensive; don’t expect letters anymore.
The space between has grown.
I’m reaching out into darkness.
It seems like you're across the country, not a few states away.
I thought they said that distance makes a heart grow fonder?
Honesty has become inimical, denial is now our close friend.
We didn’t seem to notice the change happen, once we did we tried to cover it up.
The space between has grown.
It seems that we have changed, grown up in very opposite ways.
We let two hundred twenty six miles define us, change us, it has successfully destroyed us.
The space between has grown.
I thought they said that distance makes a heart grow fonder?
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
“Poetry teaches one to read casuistry and put into fluency of words,
A reality of contributing the internal thoughts of rapture in mending,
Come to pass but it is a poet’s way of living the arts of expression,
Art of expression for the poet as well as a benefit for the reader,
Life through philosophy of words affixed to realization of the subject
When there is obscurity another spectrum of an unusual piquancy,
A poet and writers life is always looking for that germane connotation,
Daydreams of delusion or a nightmare with a colloquy word equanimity,
When everything is onerous we reach a point of imperious efficacy,
Mind body and soul an inimical to dream and precipitous thought with no end,
An uninterrupted moment of solitude and words moments of cessation rest,
In all this words teach a poet care for loved one or dear friend to aplomb,
Until lovers or friends may meet once again earnest in Poetic Acclimation”
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/11/2019 ©
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC