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Katrick Pane Feb 2014
A tendency to attach
To something
Unable, that is to attract
Yet mending
A reversed revelation
Formed from
Your ***** linens
Tossed away
With good riddance
Then to learn
To appreciate non sense
Until bail-bonds send
To free the despicable  
And put away
The clean dishes
In a sink full of ****
***** water
Don't sip some
Feels confusing
Like an early starting night
Is sun losing
Here’s a locked box of anagram shazam
(Don’t open it
The crazies might come out)
There’s a sealed sack of angsty crank-clanks
Take it, go away
I’m simply not myself today
**! Yes, it’s true
I am sinking sads for you
Letting drinkies drown
My Anger Banger frown
Cryptic? Klik-kwik, and no, no
I was never there
Avaunt, begone, beware
I love words
Wk kortas Mar 2017
She has maintained a steadfast and prudent distance
From places she would have to fabricate answers to tiresome inquiries:
The ageless Rexall pharmacy, the gas pumps at the Kwik-Fill,
The scruffy, three-checkout Market Basket,
(Though that entails driving to Bradford or Dubois for groceries,
Inconvenient at the best of times,
Outright hazardous when February shows its teeth)
But her resolve can be a fleeting thing,
So oftentimes she will yield
To the siren song of the produce aisle,
Where she will, with what forbearance she can bear,
Submit to the interrogative small talk
Lobbed her way like so many verbal mortar shells
By squinting, smirking long-time acquaintances,
All variations upon the inquiry Why’d you come back?

All homecomings are secondary to some departure,
Mostly the mad flight of one marooned by birth,
Deciding, through some alchemy of grit and desperation,
That they cannot face a life of a spot on the line at the mill,
A haphazard and half-hearted marriage with the requisite offspring,
To be finished up with an unremarkable stone on Bootjack Hill.
Her farewell was not such a notion, not in the least;
She was beautiful, not small-town pretty
In the lead-in-the-senior-musical sense,
But breathtakingly so, the kind of radiance
Which held up to the forty-foot screen of the drive-in in St. Mary’s.
There was no question that she would go, must go,
As if the notion of her staying was absurd, even obscene;
So she went, to New York for a brief spell
(She found it gray and cold in every sense of the word)
Then later to Southern California,
Which she found, if nothing else, somewhat more comfortable.
She did not fail (to be fair, her beauty was of a type
Which transcended mundane concerns such as locality)
Securing bit parts on screen here, the odd photo shoot there,
Not well-off, perhaps, but living well enough,
Free from the endless cast-iron skies and ***** slush of January,
The pointless yet sacrosanct internecine struggles
Which rolled unheedingly across the generations,
The stifling intramurality of the tiny lives in tiny mill towns.

And yet she came back, with neither warning nor fanfare,
Greeted by a cacophony of mute and uncomprehending stares,
As if she were some spectre, lovely and yet unwelcome,
Dredging up emotions best forgotten,
Half-truths not bearing the weight of re-examination,
Any number of errors of commission and omission best left buried.
She will, on occasion, make her way to a barstool at the Kinzua House
Where she receives drinks and further ministrations
From out-of-town hunters or younger townsmen
For whom she is not an icon or grail,
And if she is asked what brought her back to the cold cow country
She would say, a bit acerbically but melancholy as well,
At some point, you get tired of being a commodity,
Just something to weighed and assayed,
Your face worth this, your *** worth that,

But, if she was deep enough into the evening’s proceedings,
She would murmur snippets of odd things:
How the falls would pour like the cheers of thousands
Over the spillways of the dormant mills,
The spectacle of the sand swallows returning
(Brown, chunky, unremarkable things
Skimming the disintegrating chain-link
Which surrounded the abandoned middle school)
To the abandoned gravel pit just below the cemetery,
The herds of elk, reintroduced by the state conservation boys
In a futile and wholly romantic gesture,
Which have not only survived
But prospered on the hillsides out of town,
And if those who knew her when overheard her,
They would whisper among themselves
As to how she was clearly on the run from something,
And how everyone knows that the unrelenting SoCal sunshine
Can lead someone from a place like this to madness.
think I know you
            knew you
before blue jumpers
football with tennis *****
weeping knees and benches
and reeling off hymns
            now look
at them singing the songs
of some not-quite-teen
mute squares of a life
apparently pristine
likes arriving like flies
            before
it was packed lunches
a place named Azkaban
afternoon kwik cricket
colourless pix
on Bebo
            now it's
a slurry of selfies
head-tilt lips-out
meme media excess
digital mausoleum
you've made your home
            so choose
I'll leave you to it
beeline for the Apple store
record what you can't get back
speak up **** your planet
or run
Written: April 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escparil challenge. The idea is that somebody older may look at the youth of today and, although there are differences, perhaps we were the same as them when we were younger, and maybe we're similar to them even now despite the age gap. I'm not sure I can explain it all too well, but anyway... Please note that 'Bebo' refers to the former social network site, 'Azkaban' to the prison in the Harry Potter universe, 'pix' to pictures and 'kwik cricket' to a form of fast-paced cricket. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Fugazi - The Argument (2001),
an album i liked to mention that
they forgot with Kwik Save supermarkets
and the 7 elevens - tangy twangy Boy Dylan
like lyrics about the mid-western
fake on punk, with the refused's the shape
of punk to come
, sonic youth,
and oddly enough cobra killer's l.a. shaker.
i knew tool were ****** when
their last album hit the supermarket shelves
along with cucumbers and lack
of kosher meat (10,000 days), even though
not punk; remain cool... remain cool?
remain alive you Hilly Billy.
the swedes never did no much suede
as Elvis with the shoes: chopstick tap dancing:
hey! a pair of drumsticks!
Maniacal Escape Jul 2020
Press forward!
Going nowhere.
Fire!
On a civilian standoff.
Count the dead,
10, 9, 8
0 casualty’s sir.
Great maths, soldier.
Joy Munde Aug 2018
I just wish you sent emissaries of truth,
Because my mind would be at peace with me,
I would have a nary a qualm,
And all these glasses would not be broken,
And all these tears would not be shed,
And now these words will never be taken,
And this day will never be forgotten!

I wish I got caught up a little at work today,
Because then you and your *** would have finished business,
And i would be met by the smell of a fresh shower,
And the sound of sheets doing turns in the cleaner,
And the sight of sugar coated lies!

I wish I passed by **** me kwik,
To kiss the bottle with the boys,
Watching the waitress sway her non-existent hips,
As we rant of all the greatnes around
Of the wonders of the green mamba on riparian
Than me coming here...
To witness your sacrilege on our matrimonial bed...
And me calling out to my gone ancestors.

Today I wished to be swept off by the floods
But it's a sunny dry month
Today I wished to have been hit by a bus
And got dragged down it's wheels along the tarmac
But again it's a sleepy village here
Nothing that we wish for ever happens
Yet here I am...
Having to hear the pleasure moans you have him...
Those I always beg for each time I visit your downtown!

Now I'm wishing for more...
I wish for the rumble of an earthquake
For the earth to open up and swallow me whole
For a cactus plantation to grow upon my unmarked grave
At least with that...
The pieces of my shattered heart shall find peace
Than watching the wind blow these pieces away
The pieces you managed to make of my heart.

Joy

— The End —