"lasered" poems
Poetry is like a tattoo
Stamped on me from birth.
Like a mysterious voodoo,
It's my charm on this earth.
Poetry is like a tattoo
Engraved on my DNA.
Like the diamonds of Mabutu,
It shines from p.m. to the a.m.
Poetry is like a tattoo
It will never be removed.
Like my love for fufu
Not until I'm disemboweled.
Poetry is like a tattoo
Like the Nile and Egypt,
It encompasses what we do
It's life's soundtrack and script.
Poetry is like a tattoo
It can now be lasered.
But in music, like a crescendo,
It can never be chiseled.
#IvanBrooksPoetry©
31/7/2018
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
bizarre world
it's a bizarre world
for in thailand men go white
they have their penis' lasered
destroying the pigment
so they can look white
while in england
it goes the other way
white men go big and black
getting their tool tattooed
and made three inches longer
with a silicone implant
some want to be white
and others want to be black
as the old saying goes:
china man too small
black man too large
white man just right
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
at a turbulent vortices of chance,
a backyard funeral,
shoebox burial
following immediately thereafter
last copies of a body
of work,
so very human
some really bad,
most highly
average
amidst the occasional
how-did-that-one-get-overlooked,
all human, all, time yellowed
some on paper napkins scribbled,
some as typos fired by a Remington,
some lasered, some inkjet sprayed,
all stored on papyrus memory cells,
but all
born,
all common ancestoried
in the dust of
turbulent vortices of chance,
all to the dust of loam and sand,
returned,
returned to sender
my shoebox of poems,
will soon to disappear,
following on and hard by
their author,
who like any poem possessed,
mad, insane, life cycle victims
defying,
nay denying,
the notion of
sustainability
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
My mother was a patch of smudged ink on
his arm, skin yet to close after being lasered
by the dermatologist. What were you thinking?
she had said to him before, and he answered
I love you, and as she touched herself
prodding her comical mouth with a finger
her shadows tenderly seeping into his pores
making her more vivid. Each time I’d see
my father pointing a knife at her, at her
smile wanting to tear it off. And I was his
death eater, quick to sew my mother shut
and burn her before she causes too much
damage. Then father would touch my
face as if he’s now seeing clearly through
the tears that clog his serpent eyes. How
in this chamber of secrets we dance
in a ballroom tiled with his pain. And I
was wearing ice slippers, his frozen tears
leaving a wet trail that clouds this rib vault
where our steps are quiet, where father I am
Yours,
your horcrux.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
A standardized suit.
A universal fit for
all those
who do not feel the nourishment of food.
A career path
cut
through the hem of childhood
and choked by a cheap thin
patterned tie.
The mothering
of a paranoid system;
“it’s not my fault,
just jump through the hoops.
I get paid to read you this book.
Lend me half your ear
and I will half teach you:
Think.
Don’t think.”
Spot the simile.
Dot the t and circle the i.
And I.
I am all in a room painted
with flyers.
They work like road signs,
luminescent with lasered ink
and ladled with pictures
of success.
You can.
You can’t.
You shall.
They hang
like smiling convicts on the wall.
A warning shot to remember
every time you catch yourself
staring into the sky.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Too many frightening dreams
These lasered rays can't burn them
Shuffled routines, let it flow
Unseen texts, missed calls
Guess the temperature is up
Under the sheets, worried
Shivering body isn't letting my mind
What else to think, to dig up?
Should I stare at the excuses
Evaporating from my head?
Coz it won't ever rain relief
I'm failing every medications
Not every meditations
Searching for the apt one
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 2:15 AM UTC
Assistance required, of a technical nature.
Urgent part need, optimal.
Insert a thought for the needy.
Satiate your own hunger, hurry!
New colors arrived after years, long wait, extra.
A trickle of lavender oil, burning towns.
The priest was not the savior, they all thought
Vow of silence briefly broken, to save another.
True sacrifice, his face is half lasered away
Insert the key. So close and far now, it goes.
Charity begins closer to home. Pilgrim, shame on you.
The light is out. Lend a candle then, a chunk of bread.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
My insecurities come and beat my skull ,my soul,
To a meaningless pulp.
Even when I am free,
Physically there are no chains,
And I can fly
But,
Mentally I am chained,
*****
Abused
By my own insecurities.
Countless nights, tossing and turning, I hear her/him.
I am nothing.
There is no love.
There is me, the living ****
And I do not love thy self.
God has no place in my mind, choosing to rot in my self pity, than to believe.
Choosing to believe the negative than the positive he gives me.
My insecurities beats the **** out of my energy,
Beats the **** out of my love,
Beats the **** out of my being.
Building a wall of thorns and demons,
There is no escape from it.
There is no savior.
There is only it and myself
Why fight a battle, that's been long lost...
It is morphed and carved into me.
A tattoo that cannot be lasered out.
It is me.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
The first line came easily,
so I seized the moment,
then stumbled through a jumble,
half memories, half queries.
It had seemed beautiful
when I spoke it to the night
but now wasted, wounded,
like a lasered tattoo.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Voices, broken in the boughs
sleepwalking on nulled roads
echoing in the rain, and
the swings, empty rocking in the winds:
dry withering to budding, scenes
we never saw, until now
the everyday season;
Long since time stopped and
vanished behind the screens;
Then, can I call you, 'The Day'?
Echoes in the alleyways and
the dreary skies all the same;
But I must mark The Day: now
I chore, then endlessly refocussing
juggle as broomed go we muggles;
Know who's lasered on next?
Worry not, as big realms have
no pockets but ours;
For the ledgers must roll on;
Unmarked, we may go, like this
The Day, BUT: now work galore
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 6:25 PM UTC
In this stained room I recall,
Happiness, tears, joy, sorrow,
Celebratory cigars hazing these walls,
And the nostalgic sunshine lasered through-
Flooding impulses into my eyes that contract my irises
Focused on white orchids riddled in aphids
Due to my daydreaming carelessness,
Her leaves and my skin dry and yellow-
Flaky, like that time mother baked that perfect peach pie
And I embedded crumbs in this carpet
Fallen from my voracious gaping mouth,
Held open again when here I gained the gift of fatherhood
And taken aback when my own passed on-
In this room I recall,
These walls of jaundice, there for me,
My punching bag and sliding back support
Painted in carbon dioxide and tar.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC