"klaxon" poems
Lamentation; infelicity through neurotransmitters
Passing fleetly; swift but disturbed
Grids of brainwaves for the degraded
Overhead LED view is negroided
Chapter 1 Migraines;
A klaxon that grains into migraine
From there on out, strolling convulsion lane
Deriving from deception; antibodies start to lead loosely
Throe after throe I choose not to fuss
Laceration in hemikrania is conversing with the rest of my body,
Frequent as days turn nightly
I host the severe megrimly
Chapter 2 Vomiting;
A horendous bile builds up in my throat
Moaning like a ghoul; I banish the gloats
Disgorging from nothing, Heaving and heaving the dry
Although I force myself not, all the nosh turns into emit rye
Vital fluid very crimson soon came
From the cranium, I dislose, head pain
Frequent as the waves harsh blows
I host a ***** hose
Chapter 3 Tumor;
A neoplasm underneath I've found out
Unvisible but there; my flesh will start swelling undoubt
Below I feel like a mutant
All putant and disformed
Like globular liquids dripping from sewage waste
As long as I can still haste
Crescendo and surge won't ado
Frequent as traffic builds a rush hour
I host a cyst that is sour
Chapter 4 Deaf;
An absense of all frequencies
I daze everso daily;
Feeling like an earless statue; sound unaccompanied
Missing the wind's howls that ululate,
Clamors and bellows that spoliate
I can't sight the same verbiage
Without sonancy to inflicit, I see one big mirage
Frequent as birth enfolds
I host a soundless toll
Chapter 5 Brain Cancer;
A malignant fate told today
Disease spreading like a machine,
Programmed to enquire all it knows
A gruesome and hateful dose;
Withering casually away
Grown apart of, I'm the prey
As we hunt the beasts'
An invisible naked eye is poaching
Frequent as a house infested
I host a cancerous clothing
Chapter 6 Death;
A termination soon to unfold
I am as finished and ruined as story told
Biological function ending
Senescence through spending
User maat I haven't seen all wanted
Alas I am greatful for what has been daunted
Frequent as a death anew
I host a dissolution
My evolution; through.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
always in the fog, the klaxon sounded,
announcing another round of shelling
Tuck was terrified, for he
thought this was a hound
from hell, and it was
telling London to head
to the underworld--dank cellars
or shelters built for survival,
or mass burial
depending on where Gerry's
bombs decided to land
the lasses knew well the drill:
grab their favorite doll and say a
prayer,
going
down
the
stairs
Mum would grab Tuck--his shivering body
not soothed by her warm embrace
for when the hounds stopped their menacing moan
deeper doomed demons would begin their call;
the beast sensed this, and he had no god
to beg for salvation
he could only feel the rumbling of the ground
and not close his ears to the sound, which riveted
stakes through his bones
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
See her,
skinny lassie -
so aware,
stood there
at the counter.
The eyes
lifted from papers,
hooded and guilty,
leering
under sunglasses.
She knows nothing,
thinks
she's in charge.
Bless her.
Whatever's going to break her
hasn't happened yet.
Makes me shudder,
the thought.
The painful innocence.
"Just a fruit smoothie, please!"
she sparkles
at the man.
Thinks his approval
is unloaded,
worth seeking.
No eyes on me.
Glances fall off me.
If I catch a look,
I see it turn
to embarrassment,
pity
or scorn.
Firing blanks, guys.
I'll take those
over possessiveness,
lust,
crawling promises.
Over saccharine
strychnine
strangler smiles,
over violence, veiled
as love.
Your attention is toxic.
Better show it as such.
"Chips and cheese, please,"
I wheeze,
and his sneer
is a klaxon
of cruel jokes
he'll share with colleagues later.
Those
are the tiny victories
of victimhood,
as the twirling girl inside
stays protected,
unsuspected.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances
If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, **** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned
The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes
So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine ************
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan *** i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky ***** it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.
we had the same flight at two different altitudes.
and i loved you more.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
In youth, I bathed in television glow,
literature but some passing fragment
of old humanity; irrelevant
cries from sad-eyed, androgynous poets.
Yet, birthed from a collective klaxon of
marketable, modern joy, I found my
voice unremarkable when out of text.
Lacking magnificence; I turn to words.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Los frescos pintados en la pared
transforman el "Salón Reservado"
en una "Plaza de Toros", donde el suelo
tiene la consistencia y el color de la "arena":
gracias a que todas las noches
se riega la tierra con jerez.
Jinetes en sillas esqueletosas,
tufos planchados con saliva,
una estrella clavada en la corbata,
otra en el dedo meñique,
los tertulianos exigen que el "cantaor"
lamente el retardo de las mujeres
con ¡aves! que lo retuercen
en calambres de indigestión.
De pronto,
en un sobresalto de pavor,
la cortina deja pasar seis senos
que aportan tres ****
Los párpados como dos castañuelas,
las pupilas como dos cajas de betún,
***** el pelo,
negras las pestañas
y las extremidades de las uñas,
las siguen cuatro "niñas", que al entrar,
provocan una descarga de ¡oles!
que desmaya a las ratas que transitan el corredor.
La servilleta a guisa de "capote",
el camarero lidia el humo de los cigarros
y la voracidad de la clientela,
con "pases" y chuletas "al natural",
o "entra" a "colocar" el sacacorchos
como "pone" su vara un picador.
Abroqueladas en armaduras medioevales,
en el casco flamea la bandera de España,
las botellas de manzanilla
se agotan al combatir a los chorizos
que mugen en los estómagos,
o sangran en los platos
como toros lidiados.
Previa autorización de las ****
las "niñas" van a sentarse
sobre las rodillas de los hombres,
para cambiar un beso por un duro,
mientras el "cantaor",
muslos de rana
embutidos en fundas de paraguas,
tartamudea una copla
que lo desinfla nueve kilos.
Los brazos en alto,
desnudas las axilas,
así dan un pregusto de sus intimidades,
las "niñas" menean, luego, las caderas
como si alguien se las hiciera dar vueltas por adentro,
y en húmedas sonrisas de extenuación,
describen con sus pupilas
las parabólicas trayectorias de un espasmo,
que hace gruñir de deseo
hasta a los espectadores pintados en la pared.
Después de semejante simulacro
ya nadie tiene fuerza ni para hacer rodar
las bolitas de pan, ensombrecidas,
entre las yemas de los dedos.
Poco a poco, la luz aséptica de la mañana
agrava los ayes del "cantaor"
hasta identificar
la palidez trasnochada de los rostros
con la angustiosa resignación
de una clientela de dentista.
Se oye el "klaxon" que el sueño hace sonar
en las jetas de las ****
los suspiros del "cantaor"
que abraza en la guitarra
una nostalgia de mujer,
los cachetazos con que las "niñas"
persuaden a los machos
que no hay nada que hacer
sino dejarlas en su casa,
y sepultarse en la abstinencia
de las camas heladas.
1.2k
every night, the klaxon
wailed, like a hound lost in the fog
Mum and I would be sitting down
to dinner when the beast began bellowing
she would quip, them Gerrys want me
on thin rations, and to the cellar we scuttled
Mum would bring a votive candle, a pale of water;
I would grab Tag, our shivering terrier
in our tiny circle of timid light, we would wait and wonder,
how far were they? what would the next sun reveal?
on All Saints Eve, the house shuddered; the dust
from its two centuries drifted down on us like fine rain
then all was still, until we fell asleep--maybe she was
dreaming of Father, and what field now held him
I was not--sleep had taken me but a moment before
our tired beams moaned and gave way
Tag was then barking through his tremors, and she lay
still in the rubble, her eyes slit open
though only enough to see I was there to bury
her, in green pasture
far from this gloom, her quivering pet
and orphaned manchild
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
First the signs and then the noise -
Insistent, honking, grinning boys
Announcing City snow-ploughs
What's this raucous clarion call,
This four-note trumpet klaxon?
It's the boys who tell the world
To move its Ford, Corvette or Datsun.
A snowfull truck on squeaky chains
Creaks off to dump its ***** crystal load.
And four more trucks parked right behind
Sashay one notch along the road.
Truck number two clanks up beside
The blower which spews salt and snow
Into its built-up box beside.
See, grinding now, a baby plough,
With red-faced driver tucked inside,
Trundles bundles of frozen stars
Into someone's shoveled drive.
While upon this clanking ballet
Lacy snowflakes lazy drift
Lightly swirling fluffy piles
For moving by tomorrow's shift.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
Flight 93
by Michael R. Burch
I held the switch in trembling fingers ... asked
why existence felt so small, so meaningless,
like a minnow squirming feebly in my grasp ...
... vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms
as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch
to OFF ... I heard the klaxon’s shrill alarms
like vultures’ shriekings ... earthward, in a stall ...
we floated ... earthward ... wings outstretched, aghast
like Icarus ... as through the void we fell ...
till nothing was so beautiful, so blue ...
so vivid as that moment ... and I held
an image of your face, and dreamed I flew
into your arms ... the earth rushed up ... I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.
NOTE: This poem imagines the struggle in the cockpit for control of the Flight 93 airplane. The terrorists apparently intended to crash the plane into the White House. The heroic passengers kept that from happening, at the cost of their lives. Keywords/Tags: 9-11, sonnet, Flight 93, terrorists, terrorism, heroes, heroism, courage, bravery, loyalty, patriotism, sacrifice, love
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:54 PM UTC
white snakes the gallow
perdurance // a mottled core
three hundred galloped
tocsin! klaxon!
adorned with horns of yesteryear
tar and lynching rope.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
I am an open book -
Full of promise and hope -
An opportunity to enrich;
Relating the Human Being
To the greater Universe.
These words linking
Generations and minds,
Timeless, if not profound;
Thoughts solidified in
Byte-sized quanta of
Information rich echoes:
Rebounding and ringing
Afresh - klaxon-like -->
Warning all to heed:
A potentiality of insight;
A fractalised oversight;
A realisation into light -->
On the page, in Reality;
Free to you - A gift from me!
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
klaxon bleat
pounding cephalic cavity
overloaded with tensile pressure
two horse-wagons
chained afore and aft of the brain
pull in opposite ways
the resultant event
equal parts
vacuity,
and rapture
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
Night withdraws
and I alone inhabit
those Spanish eyes
We sit upon the hill
where El Greco once regaled
the arts with a masterstroke
We listen for dawning chimes
as she picks flowers
& passes explicit love notes
I catch the shadowed
reflection of erstwhile
against her naked back
How it resembles curiosity
& imperial city bells
ringing forth
A klaxon
a clarion
the siren call
To passions both painted
& fleshly achieved
by the same inspired hand
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC
On the offside, outside the factory where
the klaxon sounded every day at three
she would wait for me,
I would meet her and we'd walk back home
along the streets we knew paved with cobbled stones
and we'd imagine it was the road to Rome and
I was a centurion sent to save her,
we never
gave a thought to what may come, we
just enjoyed our moments marching
in the sun and then the lights
went out.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC