"interloper" poems
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
"Here Made of Gone" for Isabella Stewart Gardner
Lyrics By Randy Vera
Music By: Randy Vera and Anthony J. Resta
http://bopnique.com/anthony-j-resta-and-randall-vera-finalists-john-lennon
LYRICS :
Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, Degas, from my three thousand year old Chinese KU, I toast you.
Mrs. Jack, I am your Bronze Eagle. I cut the painting at the frame – thieves by any other name.
Mrs. Jack with handcuffs and ***** I overcame your walls. Your collection’s complete.
Titian's Europa still hangs. The mirror to my:
Piece de la resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert.
Here, made of gone.
Mrs Jack, I’m your new William James. Through your kindness, you support me, in Dutch Room empty frames.
Like John Singer Sargent, I toil between your walls. I am Vermeer’s "corn flower blue," indescribable.
The metaphysical: Known unknown!
St Patrick’s Day 1990, I’m in Boston in the Fenway. For my penance, I’ll go to Saint John’s, drop to my knees, and like you, scrub the tiles clean.
Titian's Europa still hangs, the mirror to my: piece de La resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert. Here made of gone.
Where language fails that where art triumphs. The interloper between camps of reason and dreams. I’m an event not cognition. Like any event stored in canvas, paper, pen ,or ink.
Oh Mrs Jack I so love your "Head Band." I’m also a Redsox fan. I loved the Champagne and donuts, and thank you for the paintings.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
he had a third beer
before the hot platters came
he would have had another, had she not
stared, like she going to ask every question
he did not want to answer…
how did it feel to slap his first wife?
how did it feel to pull the trigger
and mow men down like so many weeds?
those were the questions in her eyes
and had he ever told anyone, what happened that night
when they came upon a village, where the young ones
slept with the dead, their ancestors
only a few feet away, watching, mute,
beyond the paddies where they planted the rice,
the narrow trails where they hunkered and spoke
the ancient tongue, not adulterated by the romance of the French
or the clumsy amalgam of shredded sounds from the new soldiers
the giants who ignored them in the steaming light of day
but came one night, bringing strange smells, oiled steel
muzzles pointed at their faces, shoved into their empty ears
grunting and groaning in an even more grotesque tongue
leaving tears and trembling in their wake,
the torn flesh, the wounded wombs, the silken vessels
meant to be there for the milky planting of tomorrow’s seeds
not the greedy groping of the interloper’s devilish deeds
was she asking about that night, the sounds he recalled
like puppies under heavy foot, or worse, like
the madding moaning of his own sister
when someone ripped her open
not in the distant killing fields
but in the back seat of her car
not two miles from where they sat
where he ordered more beer, and
she asked those questions with her silence,
with her eyes, the questions he would never answer
not after all the beer, in all the free world,
and he was pitifully glad
they served no sushi, in Kiki’s, though
the sharpened knives were there
ready for his confessional
and the raw slaughter of truth
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
risque thoughts inhabit my mind
as she steps back and forth across the threshold
nubile twenty something hippy dreadlock girl
such a lovely persona
and moist inked beauty of form
she shouts my poem in the parking garage at four am
the echoes add integrity to it she laughs
my girl takes her in our bed
and shows her some integrity
i would so willfully indulge
but i know that such a creature is
the kind i could come to love with true deep feeling far too easily
and i dare not such misadventure
i am so drawn in by her golden patchouli locks
her fine line inked breast
her laughing gentle eyes
i tell my girl
this interloper of her treasures must depart
in the morning
she is unhappy but agrees
i sleep on the floor
waking to my happy home restored
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne
<>
these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,
you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,
the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught
and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,
"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,
and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
*sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I*
lay down with a lie?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
There was a place I knelt
In the light of chicken feathers,
And heard the song of God
Pouring from rain frogs in day lilies.
There was a bark bench in a wood
Underneath an apple-cedar rusted tree
That yielded its slimy children to me
Whenever I needed entertaining.
There was a rabbit that did not run
Immediately, but stilled and watched,
Nose twitching in apprehension, as if
Maybe I was no interloper, no enemy.
These things were -
And some still are -
Though I no longer remember
The path to the fallen pine
Or the hiding place of the rabbit’s burrow,
And the tree has been burned up
For many years.
There are pangs of hunger in me,
Not to hear God in the day lilies
(For I am still shaking from the sound),
But to find in myself the
Absolute wonder that I found
Inside a circle of roses.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC
The Soul, my eternal interloper
Disciple of numerous incarnations
And admirer of the disembodied spirit
Cast from me, my dear
What are you good for?
For I truly do not understand your counsel
My Albatross in life
Shadowy in death
I wait for a glimpse of your light
How do I draw the curtains to
Enlightenment
How many more manifestations?
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
A toe-tapper with dapper deities dancing amongst my dreams, whilst whispering the seeds of hidden keys
Interloper of the thieves
Charmer of the fleas
A Powerful peon, seceding from the teams
Daring to believe in the sea, swallowing the cities in its grief
Dare to achieve the belief of flight and fly away
Contemplate and fall in over thought
Just do not
Stop
Doing the undo-able
Fate is renewable
Outwardly controllable
In what you think you see in the deplorable hues from the hopeful news of better days, lead astray in satisfaction to the complaints of saint-less ways
I debate creating another other place, and drifting away through space, but hey, maybe its a phase and i'm just late to the show
Last to know your nothings
Im [Spinning]
In place
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC
it seems too contrite
to think that it is a revelation
that life can change in a single instant
like the fraction of a second
the blink of an eye
when the world goes dark and
you forget that you can
actually see
but i get stuck there
knocked out of this reality
and thrown headlong
onto the asphalt that
doesn't give way for
my crystalline bones and
tear-stained face
how can this not be real
when the pain is inescapable
taking up residence
in each secret crevice of
my war-torn self
and i can't run
with these compound fractures
ivory bone peeking through
my crimson stained skin
my spilt blood somehow
reabsorbing into my pores
trying to return home
but those cells are outlaws
they've been expelled
exiled and it feels like
they are now more a part of
the obsidian ground around me
where i've lost myself
where no one can reach me
i'm behind a mirror
hidden in a plume of smoke
and my agony
my suffering cannot be touched
or sublimated into ether
where i can die
and all the world will note
is the lack of my return
to the reality of
the world around them
so concrete they would
never imagine the
tenuous connection that we share
a fishing line that
i rely on
that i wrap around my fist
until it cuts to the bone
and i am certain that
it cannot be pulled away
but i lose it
i grasp desperately
to pull it back into the
wounds where it
fits like that's where it was
created to inhabit
and when i'm empty
when i'm not bleeding
from self-inflicted
gunshot wounds
and razor slices that
never seem to fall
deep enough
to remind me that i'm
still alive
to spread bloodstains
and confirm the
strange world around me
is actually reality
and that i am a part of it
because most of the time
i feel like an interloper
an alien species
and integration
is impossible.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
I used to eat dinner with his family.
I would drive over there,
once I had a car, and have a
meal prior to going out. I never enjoy
eating with another set of parents.
Each has their own rituals,
habits, structures around which
they sit down together.
I was an interloper. No one noticed
the awkwardness but me,
perhaps, but in my eyes it was palpable.
His mother didn’t work.
She was a mild-mannered woman
who cared for her children
because she realized that was what
one was to do. She was the
one who would pick us up from
concerts in her Mercedes SUV
and take us home before we could
drive. Or to the movies. She
didn’t mind if it was rated R.
She was a hero for that. His father
was a businessman. I didn’t know him
very well. I shook his
hand when we were older because
men do that. I don’t think he
minded me. His little brother was four
years younger. He was my
savior at dinner because he didn’t
understand the regulations.
The slurp of his spaghetti kept the
tension light. After the accident
I only ate with them once more.
It’s hard to associate with people
when the mutual interest is gone.
Especially with the guilt choking
down any conversation starter
in my throat. I didn’t speak much
that last dinner. I tried very hard
not to spill on my suit. I was the
interloper still. No one noticed the
guilt but me, perhaps, but in
my eyes it was palpable.
The brother didn’t slurp his spaghetti.
The tension choked in my throat
and I think I started crying.
No one spoke.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Lucifer just said I'm two-faced;
But the reality is I wear many faces
Each one a mask
Picking a bouquet of oopsie-daises
Unabashedly lashing out at you
I eviscerate; wielding a scalpel
Then I pounce; scalped him,
Pelt dangling from my ***** pack
**Went Kerouac on ***** ***
Surprise, surprise
Palpable attack
Thumbing tacks into your eyes
Lame as a bad sitcom
Band-wagon careening off the laugh-track
Everybody loves disarray
**** Vamoose!
Underlying interloper
Feel the allusion in high resolution;
Little tike on the *****
Anne frankly I'm that Führer fomenting furor
Have you lost your marbles?
Inaudibly garbling warbled garbage
Mauled to death
**I **** narwhals**
Convoluted revolution
I revel in it
Elusive illusion
Testify, I bring the excellence in electrocution
I'm the executioner
Putting the fun in funeral
Like a neurotic necrotizing narcotic
A lobotomy to the temporal
I dreamt the demented torment of descent
Cascading like a torrential waterfall
Ghoulish delight
Primeval upheavaler
With hopes to elope, many fold
Mic bold, but I suspect she's hitting the slopes;
Ice cold
Evoking emotion but a hopeless show
marionette in a stranglehold
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Time and Place (To Say Goodbye)
You know where I am ensconced,
In my nook, in my solar system,
By the bay.
My love, my life's interloper,
Who divided black from everything,
My creditor, comes upon me silently,
Checking upon her investment,
This sneak attack, holy anticipated.
The music, unfettered by earbuds,
Plays for all who share the moment,
But it plays for her, specially.
When she arrives, Madame Butterfly
Fills the air, before extinguishing life.
When entering the Kingdom of My Lapland,
Time To Say Goodbye,
Con te partirò,
Fills the frothy air, that selfsame wind of yesterday,
Not just remaining, but has grown stronger, carryover,
And the voices, my poetic entreaties,
All, have failed, to calm the blowhard's wrath.
No matter.
My possessions, few and final,
The music, my poetry, the sun bright
and my life, my love.
Of the moment, I whisper.
This, this precise spot,
In this worn down chair,
Where I gave birth to so many
Of my children,
Is where I wish to die,
When it is time,
Con te partirò,
Time To Say Goodbye.
"But not-today, my love, she orders."
In my heart I whisper,
Who can say,
But I smile and say,
*"But not-today, my love,
But not-today, my love."*
For if it were today,
I would not deny it,
For if it were today,
In the moment of now,
Its perfection, accepted.
For should to my chair,
She, solitary, returns,
She will have the music,
The sun's companionship,
The wet-stain spots where the tears,
I weep, at this, of the moment, and,
So many love poems,
And the comfort,
Of this one too,
And the perfect lyrics
Of this our song-to-be.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.
The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.
Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.
Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.
Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?
A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.
A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
An empty street succumbs to one
solitary walker, anonymous
in his raincoat, listening to his
own footsteps, and the camping holiday rain,
dripping. Pigeons mutter disapproval
at this inconsiderate interloper.
His stride shortens, pace quickens, feeling
discomfort at his isolation,
his cold wet feet spattering through puddles.
Grids gurgle, lace curtains tremble.
Mute unseen watchers focus on this
dark figure at the centre of the
taciturn invisible crowd.
Guessing his destination and
motives - a night worker
or burglar up to his tricks -
until his key opens number
twenty-six. Uncountable stealthy
spies retreat and sigh.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
I wake in a rage!
A poacher has dared step foot in this,
my City. It is just not done.
The fool.
I will....extract....him tonight.
Are we that many, that we cannot stay at home?
He may be a rogue. If he is, all the better.
They tend to put up a fight.
I will toy with him. This rogue. This interloper.
Give him a small chance.
In the end I will **** him of course.
I will simply behead him.
Not such a hard task. But it is rather grisly.
Oh well. Off I go.
Now, just what does one wear to a messy beheading?
~Lord Kellington
This is the second installment from the Diary of Lord Kellington
and my Halloween offering for Oct. 14th
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
Ecstatic in the sea breeze,
a magnanimous moment of
interloper pride ******* the day.
Uncoil—my heart, my chin,
my unglamorous abstinence
enforced by fear.
This is no lapse, but fury
and fortitude forging me
in the crucible of love.
Yet again I am up against it—
the stage of floating eyes and
overcooked feelings pawing
at my attention like
squids in a pool.
Ink and jelly in a room temperature soup
swirling and sloshing under
the authority of a rented room.
By gods, this time I’ll make it work—
plant leaves and blunderbusses
leaning against teal paint,
the sun really is on a fishhook.
Stand apart from me then and
judge the waters for what they are—
a storm too small to surface
in a sky too big to swallow.
I’m sweating in it
and the alarm clock is going off.
*bleet
bleet
bleet*
Too deep to turn back.
Too tired to go on.
This is where the end begins,
in the middle of it
with no ground at all.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
This is not so much a poem. This is more a revealing of a high that comes from taking the liars down. This is not about reposting ones own work under multiple accounts (I don't understand it and I don't get it but you can't steal from yourself...) This is a story of being able to show ones true character by pointing out that what they write, how they bask in the muted sunlight of another's ignorance to their thievery, just leaves them looking pale!
You see me as a troublemaker
storming your made up works
just trying to influence your friends
that your not that kind of girl
You see me as an interloper
just jealous of your success
Little Darlin' I don't care for you
except for exposing your lying cheating ***
Stop garnering your self esteem
upon backs that are already broke
Stop making people believe
you suffered what you supposedly wrote
Honestly! If you are impressed
and feel heart whole, then simply,
Say thank you, *I feel what you wrote
I feel you wrote it for me*
Just don't steal their words
and let everyone think
You're a master poet/ess
All you need to do
is
link...
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
rather
a third interloper
that tears off polite visage
and hairspray bun
and gentleman's stance
to reveal red meat ******
carnage and fierce passion
*** is a friend that ruins the -
i thought i was going somewhere with this,
but all i want at the moment is
your hand behind my back
your caress of words
but i'll take
***
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
.
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
the isle is surrounded,
one if by day, and
too by night,
a thickening paste
of fog, condensed humidity,
and the mind smiles that
interloper explorers would sail
past by us, unawares,
for the waters are merely a
dirtier shade of green grey,
a "path" to follow and we
would be spared the noisy
pollution of politics and
and injections of identity
that divide, the tirades of
the overly righteous chest
beaters, who never question
their certainty, their compasses
always broken pointing their
"only one way"
sail on, sail past. this piece of
quiet tranquility, a place that
has just one of everything, a
sufficiency, a rejection of excess,
and the only melancholy is
the finality of passing of
the day lillies,
b u t,
the multi-colored irises, the
flowering of azaleas, rhododendrons, and the brevity
of the cheery cherry blossoms
of those;
secure, safe we are, assured that
their peaceful return is guaranteed
by the firmament and its secrets,
that, along with the overwhelming
greenery of this spot, for the
pleasuring enjoyment of all,
even the fog's quietude,
its surround sounds silences the anxious rapid heart beating,
slowed by one thought only:
Here,
herein is,
here within
lies the truths of
shelter
S. I. 2025
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
Loquacious and Lascivious, a most distracting combination
You’ve driven me, pitch black, headlights off,
into twisted metal heaps of distraction
And yet, it is not me, at least not me alone
There is a sense, from where I know not,
that these thoughts I think are not mine own
That by some impossibility an interloper
has managed to tap in to my frequency
And subjugate my better self in favor of foreign imprints,
dark and ****** dripping blood that spells my name
How is it that you have arrived,
or perhaps the better question is
how long have you been here
How many moons has it been
like a spider creeps
that my thoughts have not been from myself conceived
Claws dug in from where do you perch,
fishing with ****** bait until you find the strain that draws me in
Infects me wherein I add combustion to your dégagé,
and seek out satisfaction dark and base
at which point your needle ******
you mainline the light from my veins
while I am lost in pull and ******
I really must commend you for such a charade
that has been for so long captivating,
adding darkness where light would grow
But we must now part ways, for I am tired of this game,
and have matters of importance that do not include a blooming rose,
flush with blood from a thorny bush that you have sewn
Adieu, I pray that you find no safe landing
inside the gentle mind of your next victim
though you have known me more intimately than most I’ve known
You know me not at all
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
The birthmark rides her set jaw.
It is a deep, bruised, purple
that starts just below her left eye
and runs like a brushstroke,
to the right and comes clear
across the lower mandible,
stopping after her right ear is
swallowed by the color of fresh
plums.
The iPod or smartphone
rides in the pocket of her
pink sweatshirt.
It matters little what songs
reside therein;
those jams are pure armor.
The sun is in her warrior’s eyes,
she squints and the muscles in her jaw
flex.
She’s spotted me,
ambling in her direction.
We share a brief glance.
Immediately, I can see that I’m both a kindred
and an interloper.
(I start. I stop myself. I say nothing.)
She continues with the thousand yards, the long knives,
the silver-bullet eyes.
I’d lay real money that her DNA is angry.
She’s an Incan or an Aztec warrior,
and she wears her unwelcome birthright,
her birthmark,
her war paint,
her war pain
because she has to.
***
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Hard to pin us down, an interloper built for one cause,
to disrupt all the visions that we stir around.
Rip the motivation from our skins, mix it up in a ***
A stew blended with just numbers,
throw them in, brains, limbs and all.
We're not using the knowledge,
so let us pay to devolve.
Sinking deeper into the ground from which we came.
Once a mystical entity, now a puddle of disgust.
Mixing in with the rain, and rust.
No longer recognizable, no longer do we posses trust.
Inspirations and morals dissipating in the vapor,
vanishing into dust.
A name not worthy to remember,
a story never to be told.
An idea we can't fathom,
a sinister manipulator we can't tame.
A distortion of our dreams,
something so vain.
Creating an algorithm of words,
creating a tale of reason.
Leaving something stranded to ponder,
while wandering in the chaos,
reminiscing in the mind.
A creature seasoned,
helpless,
bitter,
old.........out of time
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC