"irked" poems
A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.
Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.
The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)
Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.
Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.
Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.
Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)
A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.
Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.
Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.
(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: **** says the wheel and shit-shit , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)
(Translated by Sherin Catherine)
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
Someone stole your ****** and now you're feeling under.
Debriefed but not on how to deal with this outfit.
What to do? go out? fit in? Irked but no shoes or shirt.
Took it off of your back and replaced it
with a lack of faith in what this place is all about.
So you hung up your ***** laundry for all to see and they took it.
No mystery just misery. To the wanderer who said "if home is where the heart is, than I'm cynically homeless" unaware that if home is where the heart is YOU are always home.
They may have taken the shirt off his back but he would have given it gladly, cause that's not the sort of belonging he longs for. Wasn't quite his idea of clothing the homeless, but its done nonetheless.
But you got your head, shoulders, knees and toes so who needs clothes? When you're transparent. To the one who feels alone, take comfort in the fact that someone's now literally walking in your shoes... and socks ... and shirt.
Solitary days still leaving him contemplating underwhere? And underwhy? But what's garment to be will be and he'll be alright because his light shines bright, even if he doesn't see it in the glare. There's something fresh in the air. It's a mean feat, but once he learns to stand on his own two, in the space of a haunted Manor will stand a Man. One that can, will and do.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
to ones wronged or irked by some stupid bullsh#t
and who may have an itch to do some ruin—
—ation, e.g., shoot some bullets
all the imprudent bullies
and corrupt ****** contributing to in—
—justice will do as ones to subject to a punishment
[mafias & agents of authoritarian regimes]
and if you are one of 'em
a few words regarding your funeral
[if there will be one]
hope it will be at odds with the usual
it should be a carnival to the bone
whether or not that is suitable
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
Union and Grand
I moved into this house less than a year ago
and already three gun related murders have occurred
within a three block radius; two of them involving children.
I'm not making this **** up.
Those numbers wouldn't be anything exciting for a population
hitting upwards of the millions,
but this is not a big city.
This is the heartland.
-
The city paid for a series of strategically placed dead ends,
forced turns, and surveillance equipment to be installed
in the area of about a mile surrounding my house.
No wonder they call this place "The Trap".
They keep changing the maze,
and studying us like rats.
-
They had a make-do memorial for the little girl who got shot.
They attached her stuffed animals, cards, and photos to a utility pole
on the corner of Union and Grand. The city had it taken down.
Some kind of city ordinance
from some dusty tome at the town hall.
Kids killing kids, and the shots keep firing.
-
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not what'd you call an activist.
But when bloodshed occurs within eye shot of where you sleep,
you start to get a little irked.
These kids have as much potential as me, and twice as much grit.
Their teachers barely even know their names,
let alone what it's like to be deprived of privilege.
-
I'll stomp this concrete until my feet break.
This labyrinth is my constant reminder and reality check.
I am here, and you are there.
This connection is suspended on silver threads and I am your puppet.
Mold me into your angst driven dreamboat.
Because tomorrow, I'm just going to wake up here. Tyler.
-
This soul has been folded seven times
and I grow tired of this reality.
There was a time when I could scream loud enough to wake the dead.
I guess I'm showing the symptoms
of an accidental child
with a tongue that only tastes art as bitter protest.
-
I'd tear my face off
to know if this is really getting through to you.
The face in the photo is that of the goat; the false idol and deceiver.
A Knight of Pentacles, selling you gold plated garbage.
Odin-kin.
You always feel like I have a secret to keep; my fist is in the air.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
They gave me a name that didn’t suit me.
What’s funny is
the universe recognized that
before I did.
She paid me this compliment:
*“There’s too much person to you.
You can’t be tripped up with so many
syllables in something so trivial as a name.
Less speaking, more breathing,”* she said.
Four reduced to two.
Now I can exist in half the time.
I became “Bitsy.”
Which means I’m associated
with certain things.
Mainly tiny spiders
and brightly pattered swimwear.
It’s easy to be irked by that, you know.
Yet, I smile and take it,
because they raised me
with the patience of an idiot.
I get automatic cute points
just for introducing myself with a name like this.
Newcomers get giddy,
like hearing my name is equivalent
to receiving a box of kittens.
I always try to drop an expletive or two—
I just don’t want them
to get the wrong f#@%ing impression.
“Less speaking, more breathing.”
I instructed the universe
not to do me any more favors.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
There once was a queen bee from Iowa
Who had opinions of her own persona
Her subjects weren't a happy crew
With her self praising points of view
The egotistical queen irked her subject's spleens
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
They randomly see each other.
At the store.
At the gas station, farmer's market.
She is irked by how much he thinks she's "into him"
That ego. Smh
He is intrigued by her willingness to not give into him.
She really digs him.
He will never know that though.
They'd have one another in a heartbeat
If the stubborn and pride disappeared
He greets her with a cheeky grin.
"Hello love of my life, please tell me you're looking for me?"
She rolls her eyes and speaks true sass, "does your head ever get..ya know...too heavy?"
He will play dumb to continue hearing her voice, "what do you mean?"
"Your head...well I suppose it's full of air. Can't be too heavy."
His chuckle is genuine for her cute lil evil smirk claiming her victory.
He steps in front of her, asking for more, "Are you following me then?"
She replies with hands on her hip, "oh please. I haven't seen you in 2 weeks. Get over yourself."
As much as he likes the sight of her winning, he whispered, "As long as you're under me, love."
He winked and she left.
I hope it's not the end.
«c.h.b.»
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 2:01 PM UTC
Last night I told the moon to send my hello to someone
The moon didn't say anything back
I told the moon to keep an eye on somebody
The moon didn't blink even
I told the moon to brighten that path
The moon seemed a little irked
I told the moon my desires
My words seemed to irk the moon even more
I told the moon
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
Then I huddled, abruptly
This is the account that I earned from talking to the moon
My palaver is now going nowhere
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
At that instant I got up
I picked up my stringed machinery
Instrument, tool, gear, whatever
I sang glancing to the moon
I told the moon many things
Only to find out the moon has no ears
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?
All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.
Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.
It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.
The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.
Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!
Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?
Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!
Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.
_____________________
May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.
Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger
And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.
-by Bob B (10-28-18)
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
And when she wakes she will not think it long.
1.6k
.Her adjectives were littlemore than colorful trinkets that splashdark light, even on Sunday mornings therewas no rest for the wicked. My earsrejected the multi-colored grotesque barrageof hateful verbiage crammed in therewith every other simple sentence that you couldprobably see long stains left behindlike a fatal battle scar. Her mother was just as evil--I'm surprised my wife even made it to puberty. I supposeshe wanted a carbon copy just in case of an emergency,because she practiced clenching old mens' esophagus' with herice cold eyes; much, much colder than any sea on the moon;Tranquility must have been banned from her cartographers budget.Her words were like old moon rocks she'd hurl at passers bywith her catapult like tongue and even swifter middle finger. Always aiming at the frontal cortex. Her harsh textured words would kickand claw their way down ravaged ear canals like three ****** off catsin an Italian gondola slowly floating down the over saturated streets.It usually irked me beyond comprehension when she would bring outthe sickly sweetened, over ripe verbal ammunition to pry and beg mefor more cigarette money. I'd give her the money with my favorite feined grin which bought me sacred time and to watch her walk away..
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 12:34 AM UTC
From the first wet gasp of
My first hello, I have spoken
As they do. On similar slipping
Legs I have wandered as they have.
I cringed and leaped, and was afraid
And was not. (A time for both, a time
For all. For every question, an answering call.)
There was no surprise;
Everything was a shock.
They, too, drowned in ennui and
Buzzed with electricity. But the lines
Crossed somewhere between:
As they were I have not been,
As they move I have not moved
The record skips out of the groove.
And they press manicured nails
To feathery hair, irked - annoyed -
Blotting out the noise.
Who are they to float above,
To glide in mascara and gold?
What trails and wakes they leave -
All the time whispering dry and dustily.
It's strange, I've always heard
(From the hidden smiling lips of
Those ahead, and those above)
That dust is dull and bland and plain.
How strange that to me it tastes of
Pepper and echoing gilded names.
From some empty table, I have peered
Into open halls with chandeliers -
Plated in silver, glistening with crystal -
And wondered how they get so high
Without a tinkling, slicing word -
Without a glaring, threatening eye.
I know I have tried, first to be the
Waitress, tray in hand, who has her moment
With the table and her guests. Then
To earn my right, to earn their view,
To be a sparkling rarity, a delight.
No more. Adieu, goodbye, goodnight.
Whether you care for me or not,
I'll never mind. I'll find some room
You've left behind, and sleep
Until I want to rise.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 2:55 PM UTC
On cold-windowed nights after
A shy and unassuming rain
Has stumbled over slick fog
And brought the clouds to town,
The pine trees gossip over
Their new sky-bound neighbors
(And I didn't know that needles
Could rustle like voices)
Like dreary all-knowing mouths
Up on stilts - "Have you seen
That Cumulonimbus?
Who does he think he is?"
They know what clouds carry in:
The soothing dark after downpours,
(The shroud of water molecules that
Shields a sunburned world and
Reflects the cool pale shine of
Street lights over a drowsy town.)
They do not care. They are
Hard hearts in bark girdles.
They crack and creak
Sometimes, irked at their own
Swaying weight, and drip
Sly words to the heedless Earth,
Who needs no words
(Who is only dirt).
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 7:55 PM UTC
The air smelt of doom
Mystery hung in the room
No one was allowed to leave
Right on the job was Mr. Steve.
One by one they were called
He had them mauled
With questions often uncouth
But he had to get to the truth.
The smart as well as the shy
Had something for alibi
The tall and lean Mr. Brown
Said he was out of town
Ms. Percival said she wasn’t there
Had gone out to see a theater
Mr. Hubbard was stubbornly quiet
His face pale and ashen white
Ms. Christie who leant on a crutch
Was talking irrelevant too much.
Each one of them denied having heard
Any sound that could take them off guard
Tim the butler slept through the night
Janice heard nothing after putting out the light.
Mr. Steve fumed as his vexation grew
Knowing for sure not all said was true
The ****** has been committed by one of them
Who could it be in this hide-and-seek game?
Was the offence committed for material gain?
Who could benefit from these men and women?
Or could it be, more ghastly and strange,
The ****** was done as an act of revenge?
He couldn’t find flaws with any of alibi
There was no evidence to nail down the lie
He found it unsolvable, and that irked Mr. Steve
His reputation was at stake as a great detective.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
The book of works
Spare me the details?
Suffice, in a general task, irked
That said the comments of Israel...
Polite shoes, on the anniversary of reign
To share an eye full, the truth in a hidden
Taste, for ancientness in the silence, of when
A philosophy comes, is a paradise for the asking?
Oft a share's heed, silent until a kiss never's...?
The haste of poise, the turn of this into something greater...
Welcome home, avarice, the total of courage has a lover
That fated justice in a pale memory for you, the fates of tomorrow?
Wishes in cold conveyance, the times to remember the heat?
Torrid as we are, a taste for houses of promises
Are we the reality to beat, come hell or high water to eat?
A grape, the pretense of mercy - in an accord we due, to vices...
A house of which and worlds of worth
That has none, a squalor that completes the circle...
Of space for a yearning soul, semblance in a call heard
By any who would, a cause curious enough to hope, miracles...
Have a shadow of youth, to a gesture of time, to a coarse song
Winking and preaching a salty tune, that is to come...
A livid appearance of kind, if not kings of journey and wealth, long
To the tooth and made from frank controversary, we dumb...
Salt and honey, the truer passage of uniqueness
Honey and rice, the presence of love, with a cordial ordeal
Rice and vinegar, known to take the time at life's crossroads, to bless
Vinegar and myrrh, with a personal observation, the very winds of healing...
Add milk?
So do we, the irony of prayers that substitute a focusing heart
To wisdom and undue hate, the pyres and frustration's of ilk
To see you in a holiness's robe, the voice we keep, sincere Jerusalem's?
Stones of health, or the knife of war...
Poignant to a fall, the season we chose for a character to blow
The untoward, the cares of simplicity to kingdom come, for out
A rallying heat's rage, that has become a future we know...
With another's heart, the total of cherubs and heaven
Look fast and hard, the haste we further, is a nerve
That has chosen you, for a chance of life in the giving
Where no one, more special than a kite, is a tree to serve?
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 5:38 AM UTC
put your phone down
quit it with the selfies
i know those smiles aren't real
put that cancer bringing stick away
talk to me instead
i'll listen to what you have to say
let me be like the pillow
you whisper your dreams to
when no one else is around
let me be your friend
i only ever see you at parties
but i notice
i noticed the scars
and i noticed the bruises
and with every one out the door
when it's all finally over
i notice how you always stay behind
to help clean up
it's always my friends' parties
they aren't your friends but you help
with you trying to be nice
don't you just want
someone to be nice to you as well?
i can be that person
i will be that person
because i used to be the person you were
battered and everything much worse
but what's really got me irked
and conflicted
is how you can be nice to others
but not to yourself
is why you add trouble to your problems
rather than trying to rid of them
put the phone down
happiness isn't something you can fake
put that stick away
yes, the smoke you puff out
it's beautiful
only because it came from your lips
but remember
stress isn't something you can be free from
those sticks won't help
they could but only for a little while
never permanently
that phone and that stick is not your friend
but i can be
just look at me
talk to me
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
You wore socks to bed- knowing it irked me.
Faced me while we slept- breathing your stinky breath in my face was a definite, guaranteed.
You loitered as I changed always trying to cop a feel- ignoring my agitated pleas.
You watched your wrist- telling me I’m late; of course, I forever disagreed.
Invited yourself to my TV time- talking to me as if I was free.
Told me I was beautiful; each and every day- annoyingly, times three.
Sometimes you had an ‘I’m the king’ attitude, and I was just your sidekick wannabe.
Sadly, I still wash all of your socks each and every week.
I face the fan as I sleep, so it dries my tear’s wet streaks.
I continuously pause while getting dressed- waiting to hear you make the floorboards creak.
I put on my makeup extra slow anxiously anticipating your frustrated shriek.
I turn up the TV’s volume hoping you’ll come interrupt to speak.
Waiting for your mushy compliments as I check the mirror at my womanly physique.
I made you a personalized crown, so you could be a king that’s honored and chic.
But silence and heartbreak are all that is left here to tweak.
You’ve departed this world suddenly, leaving my life confusing and disastrously bleak.
Now, your once irritating traits have become the only thing that my broken heart desperately seeks.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
There are a lot of things I can never put into words, phrases, sentences, analogies, a concluding statement things like the feeling of falling apart when you just can't close your eyes at night or the impetuous carvings of your name into my heart when there was no more room for you in my head. I search on the internet a synonym for angry I get cross, vexed, indignant, irked, galled; when there are things I cannot put into words like when I feel this ditch, cavity, trench big enough to fit in all my sorrow at the bottom, extremity, underpinning, base of my stomach which flips with every bus ride home. Home. Property. Abode. Domicile. A place I never really had or knew how to get to because I always got distant— Location. I close, shut, get rid off the tab on my computer and I close, shut, the laptop screen. There are no words to describe this feeling. The feeling of messy closets and not sleeping for three nights and finding meaning out of a life that had no value to me. So I wonder if things will ever change. If my hair will get shinier, if my worries fade away and I still ask myself if I will ever stop asking myself to do things I can't do. Do. Execute. Achieve, I have achieved nothing but let parts of myself descend deeper and deeper into a Tiffany and Co.'s box filled with dust that never catch the light and a Marc Jacob's bag of dimes that just weigh it down. A glass hammer, an inflatable dartboard. A helicopter eject seat, always throwing myself into situations— I can't fix with the same bare hands I've used to beat myself up. And still I try to make sense of the nothingness I am typing. Yet, I still take the train to school. I take showers. I listen to music on long walks. I try. Everyday, I try.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
I find it rather funny
what changes with time,
yet it's also quite strange
what remains the same.
Though I have once claimed
to know my own flames,
I have still burned many things
and been baffled by the pains.
Though I know I used to say
I wanted such in my every day,
I must confess, I wish I knew
of thy rancor, vile ire and ado.
I once was puzzled, baffled,
by the very thought, addled;
that hasn't changed very much
I fancy thy antics yet less than thy touch.
Thou, who claim'th to be so selfless,
who are so caught up, pitiful and helpless,
bound by neurotic, insecure delusions;
a harlot of Shadow, subconscious profusions.
It is not of a person, but of an archetype
within which I find inspiration to write,
yet, I can't help but ascribe to it a name;
a face to complete this linguistic game.
I'm not upset, just motivated,
I do not want this celebrated,
yet here I sit, still dominated,
evermore irked and captivated.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
and the echo you called out
(we lied to ourselves the first six weeks;)
had the whole town irked;
(spending time in an alley's shadow)
an honest tongue only after you won.
(your sophomoric soul and my reflective streets.)
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
When I used to read ****** romance novels or online fiction (we all do it when we're lonely, don't lie) Before I was in a stable relationship myself, I'd noticed that when love is described it usually unfolds the same way.
it's a warm ball of light in your chest. it starts out small, unravels, and becomes so big and filling that it radiates through you. hotter than the sun. or at least, that's what they say.
It always irked me to read, because surely love is indescribable?
you can't spin the roller coaster of love into a straight forward strain of thought, enough to actually explain love fully in all it's capacity and magnificent energy.
No little ***** of light could match the intensity of naked love.
This here, is the problem I am having. you can't write it down. all of those beautiful things written by others before? they don't compare. no song, poem, verse or bible passage can compete with how I feel for you. and at the time these cliched descriptions were enough to sate the hopeless romantic inside me but now, now that I am aware of love I can't abide the misrepresentation it gets.
Nothing compares to you (Ok, maybe Sinead O Connor had the right idea...) and because nothing compares to you, I can't write. I have no songs to sing and nothing to write because I'm happy. I'm more than happy... I'm beside myself.
I can't capture you, my feelings for you, or the magic of our connection in any art form. supposedly it's because it is it's own art form. our love is art, priceless and constantly changing.
It bothers me because I want to tell the world. I want to show them. I want to run up to all the lonely people, who felt like I felt and go "IT EXISTS! YOU WILL FIND IT! HOLD ON! DON'T LOSE HOPE!" because they need to know... they need to understand.
but if love can't be expressed correctly, they will never understand.
So to the lonely people ;
Love is incomprehensible.
It is life saving.
It is frustratingly beautiful and unbelievable. it is every cliche you've ever heard of and much, much more. it is definitely not over rated. don't ever stop looking, don't ever give up hope. it's there and one day, you'll feel it too.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
It’s Hard Not To Be Optimistic: An Updated Sonnet to Science
by Michael R. Burch
“DNA has cured deadly diseases and allowed
labs to create animals with fantastic new
features.” ― U.S. News & World Report
It’s hard not to be optimistic
when things are so wondrously futuristic:
when DNA, our new Louie Pasteur,
can effect an autonomous, miraculous cure,
while labs churn out fluorescent monkeys
who, with infinite typewriters, might soon outdo USN&WR’s flunkeys.
It’s hard not to be optimistic
when the world is so delightfully pluralistic:
when Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive,
and Hawking says time can run backwards. We thrive,
befuddled drones, on someone else’s regurgitated nectar,
while our cheers drown out poet-alarmists who might Hector
the Achilles heel of pure science (common sense)
and reporters who tap out supersillyous nonsense.
NOTE: I am a fan of both real science and science fiction, and I like to think I can tell the difference, at least between the two extremes. I feel confident that Schrödinger didn’t think the cat in his famous experiment was both dead and alive. Rather, he was pointing out that we can’t know until we open the box, scratchings and smell aside. While traveling backwards in time is great for science fiction, it seems extremely doubtful as a practical application. And as for DNA curing deadly diseases ... well, it must have created them, so perhaps don’t give it too much credit!
Submitted to U.S. News & World Report
Dear Editor,
While I’m usually a fan of your magazine, as a writer I must take to task the Frankensteinian logic of the excerpt I cited, and I challenge you to publish my “letter” as proof that poets do have a function in the third millennium, even if it is only to suggest that paid writers should not create such outlandish, freakish horrors of the English language.
Somewhat irked, but still a fan,
Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: science, fiction, quantum, physics, Hawking, Schrodinger, cat, DNA, infinite, monkeys, typewriters, Shakespeare, lab, animals, new, features
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
Blanked out parts of my old memory,
Meted out an alienating treatment,
Short-term loss of my memory,
Still undergoing treatment,
Collectively boycotting my soul,
They do their duty of progressing,
Irked they are by my apparent ease.
They follow their basic instinct.
I don't mind it for what my life is.
"A Different Kind Of Hell."
I was supposed to have died but I survived and am made to live here.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 7:14 AM UTC
are some dreams real?
dogs in the alleyways
stopped at the robot by a slavic cop lady
but she lets others pass
dragged to a restaurant
interrogated by a mafia owner demanding money I don't owe
they say I've eaten there with a pregnant lady last week
dunno what they mean
Alan smiles but conspiratorially with them
how can he be a friend?
I sob that I don't get their drift
too late..
I need to a safe room to tell a story
whisper your name in the night
dream you lodge nearby
I jump up to do midnight chores
i pack out glassware from closets and you're there
ostensibly to help
the helpful lodger gesticulated that he's leaving
while I make the right noises of working
so, after upturning the table to work on its insides
you leave it on the floor
upside down
it will stand that way till you return
you get so irked at my queries
I'm half afraid to talk
I get a quick kiss pressed onto me face
I didn't brush my teeth
my tongue feels thick and gritty
you rush off into the night
I'm in an alley with a tape-recorder
hearing a deal go down
I call to the fat son of the owner
they're all slobs
with underwear down their knees
and *** on their shoes
I drive down the highway with half attention
and think how we could have met
yet that thought drifts far away now
as my story waits in line
on a conveyer belt the public never sees
stepping out this time line
to lance ahead single entity
for when the other catches up
there just ain't enough temporal cloth
to be clad in unity cloaks
some dreams are maybe then just dreams
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC