"launching" poems
1.
He lights another mortar
and the dog runs after it
barking and trying to bite it
he grabs it's back leg as the sky lights up
since he had barely thought to look over
and the words around here don't reach his mind
his ears defective as they are.
He says something with his hands
something foreign to me
but six people watching laugh
and so do I.
2.
His wife sits with her sons
her stomach wide with their third
another boy
she's gotten so used to talking with her hands
that her voice is rusty
and her vocabulary limited
but she's here as much as the rest
sitting and laughing and having a good time.
3.
The owner of the house sits off the side in the nicest lawn chair here
a cup in her hand
we've quit counting how many drinks she's had
but she only drinks a couple days a year
and nobody is giving her any problems
and she seems to be able to be her normal self.
She had been questioning me earlier today
seeing if I was really a good guy
testing whether she'd have to sit at the table with a shotgun
every time I spent any time with her niece.
4.
Her husband is launching his own collection of mortars off
with his brother
while her brother-in-law hands the teens the novelties
I launch off a dozen flowers
and a few spinny things.
She occasionally breaks her fingers away from mine
to launch off a flower, smokebomb or firecracker
and occasionally runs over to poke-chop her uncle
who keeps talking to the fireworks.
She always comes back and we'll wander by her mom and stepdad
(the latter always throws in some sort of comment
so we act careful around him)
and over to her cousins
or toward her aunt and roommate.
Occasionally we'll have to get something from the house
and we sneak three kisses
but we mostly just stay in each others arms
keeping each other warm in the almost warm 4th of July night
our hands both entwined
one of our heads always on the others shoulder
and in all the craziness
all the family drama
everything is perfect and she's smiling so hard her cheeks keep hurting
and she keeps telling me how little sleep she's gonna get
and I tell her I ain't gonna be able to sleep at all
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
From a distance they looked like shooting stars
but to us we knew what they really were
some enemy decided to attack
launching bombs from their fortresses while we are left to burn
all around us explosions
destroying schools, hospitals and homes
we've never done anything to this enemy
yet they try to end our lives.
Morning had come with a horrible smell
burning buildings for miles
thousands had died last night
more will die tonight
we're pleading for help
but no one is listening
we did nothing wrong to this enemy
why are we the ones left to die
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won
The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date
The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more
Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school
They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide
It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back
The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight
The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around
The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
America, she bleeds for a full week
fireworks, freedom, long sighs and holy nights
spend days with the couchless and meek
then light one up, sink between in her thick thighs
underage trickery, plastic cards
and daddies to sneak in clubs
lauv on the radio and fake love throbbing hard
forget ancient grudges, clean cars with new suds
party again, launching fire in the sky
avoid the cops and pray salvation
don't come around too soon, twilight and the sea
bug guts on my screen, drinking, repeat until the sun's return
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:28 AM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
**We’re Gonna Need Some Sunglasses For This Mushroom Cloud
Gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
it’s 6AM I’m in LA it’s been a long night for sure,
just gotta get into that cafe get that cappuccino,
then get safely unnoticed and back to the idling car,
Jar,
of Flies,
sorry I’m not sorry,
that’s a bad reference to 1995,
bad because Jar of Flies was a different year,
different year different name,
’95 was self-titled,
‘Alice In Chains’,
remind me again,
what the heck we’re talking about,
this poem has no parameters,
it’s off course but still going along,
gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
like my glasses like I like my roast,
with my Valentino’s and dark cappuccino,
and you with your mimosa my dear Yoda let us toast,
“To the Next Episode!” let’s go,
No Dre though it’s more of a Good Day,
not to be rude to Ice Cube but I got ice cubes in my flute,
in perpetual motion from chronic transitions of change,
and when I say Change I’m not talking about Rock The Vote,
because we all see where voting got us,
now we got ‘ Donald Duck Mr. Talk A lot of Nonsense’,
we got that stone cold soviet ****** Kim Jong-un launching stunner missiles like Steve Austin,
dropping finishing moves ’Cold Stunning’ but instead of a drop kick he’s bomb launching,
we can’t even stop him as in Kim Jong-un with bad movies and meetings with Dennis Rodman,
Oh My God Son!
We’re really gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
have you ever seen the magnificence of an Atom Bomb,
a mushroom clouds of the most beautiful hues,
a moment of infinite Light just before the moment we’re all eternally gone…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆**
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
Yet a tiny fraction, there is so much more
Such a prominent universe to explore
Numerous galaxies, planets and stars
Orbiting the Sun above just like Mars
Saturn has a ring, others have a moon
Planets filled with gas like a hot balloon
Travelling in light years, so far away
Yet our solar system is a vast array
Looking through my telescope, planets to see
Looking out for Jupiter and Mercury
There is icy Pluto further from the Sun
My curious journey has just begun
The strong pull of gravity, keeping into place
The days, months and years, yet moving at a pace
Fascinating satellites, informative machine
Launching of the space crafts, places never seen
If I were an astronaut, how would I feel?
Adapting to space food, a dried and sealed meal
Travelling on mission, in the atmosphere
Witnessing diameters that I can but revere
On that day however, was my teacher playing tricks
Looking through the glasses, viewing the eclipse
Yet the Milky Way has a spiral twist
Looking from our planet, where current life exists
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
Through mist of mind the thoughts again come lurking out of haze,
a time once given to a true love, giving rise to many blessed days.
Before a heart was torn and severed from my body's very soul,
a time where all of me was contented and felt complete and whole.
Seeming so long ago the memory yet not distant or younger past,
fates promise of true happiness, seemingly written in the di as cast.
Soft words yet still haunt me, once again tears run from my eyes,
as mind recalls the horror moment when heart learned all was lies.
Forever scared and left as broken, shards of who I was before,
no trust in love or hope, so never being able to be something more.
I cannot forsake the memories nor can I choose to hold them back,
for they always start at true love felt before launching a fatal attack.
The memory of that love I lost and the echo of mind "was it real?",
a soul will not let go that there was truth in how "true love" did feel.
So to keep the joy of love once known and how it should be still,
I have need for the memories that invade to hurt me at their will.
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 11:39 AM UTC
welcome to the world
milk larder
atlas killer
welcome to the universal mind
your presence has not been anticipated
no bells rung at your birth
but the cosmos shook about a
nanometer
from the force of your creation
spectacular birth even if your arm
is weak
doubtless your good looks will make up the rest
...
no luck there?
you're the down-trodden,
the eclipsed lantern,
the face in odd angles,
wearing the weight of someone's unconditional
..
Lust
but deep in your caved chest
your heart is beating the tribal song
of a jet launching for the sky
the way you felt when you switched wheat
for rye
the turn in your cerebrum going from gluten
to sigh.
but even as the birds coast beside
your jet-stream heart strings
I see your hesitation glistening
shivering at the start line from your magnum opus
and you are shattered
growling lioness courage running from the cannon
exhaust that running lion
until she's panting on her back
sweating vapor into the atmosphere
and you remember that all along
you have been the soulmate of the intangible
you just forgot
and you forgot again.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
Diminishing to spirals in a blue encircled churn
Giddying to balance in unsteady equilibrium,
Whilst canting to the left on a gyroscopic turn.
Vaulting to the heavens in gymnastical maneuvering,
Launching into ether in fanatical escape,
****** features grimacing through muscular contortion
With abdominal contractions in a pantomime of ****
Yowling to the darkness in a feline form of vocalness
Hissing through the teeth in a serpentine display,
Bellowing the bellicose of bovine innuendo
And bleeding feet in gumboots on a ****** raining day.
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
With ****** features grimaced on a ****** raining day,
Yowling to the darkness with abdominal contraction
In a bovine innuendo of a serpentine display.
Bellowing the bellicose of bleeding feet in gumboots,
Vaulting to the heavens in fanatical escape,
Giddying to spirals in contracting equilibrium
Just a ****** innuendo of a gyroscopic shake.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
On a ****** raining day.
7 August 2010
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
Pods routed back and forth
Inside
Cells linked to the central nervous system
Soulless
The cry of a sapling
Lush, primal sounds
But deaf to the neighbours
All distracted by a stream
A tweet
"Doors closing..."
Repeated beeps
Launching sprints
Rivalling Olympians
But not all pass the finish line
The end of the line:
School
Work
Leisure
Three modes activated
Upon the opening of pod doors
A hurry
Never stopping
Never hearing
Never open
Of hearts
Wallets
A song from yesterday
The flower withers
Pulp for pennies
The flower withers
Only so much could be done
Outside the system
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
For a moment, right now, pretend that forgiveness will never feel like taking a bet. That the phrase, "I love you," Is not just another form of turrets. Pretend that you've got a pocket heavy with change and you walk like a wishing well wind-chime. And you've got a nickel in there for every time you cried for something. And your chance to change is as easy as flicking your thumb. Launching a coin into a pool of water. Pretend that you've got a penny melted and molded from the iron in your blood. Pretend that that wish will come true. Pretend that I just put mine down on a bet on you. Double or nothing, because ********* kid, to me, you mean something. And I don't mean any big life success. This is deathbed memories type **** Who was there when it mattered type **** Pizza on the car hood when the mice are asleep in the oven and the birds have nested in the old stove burners. Finding safety in a hammock held up by the corners of a mouth. Warmth in arms when you realized how cold it was actually going to be down south. For a moment right now pretend. That you've got a friend with a body made of drawbridge and hands strong enough to close it when you need to. Eyes like a moat. A blanket quilted from your lover's muscles. For a moment right now pretend that that friend isn't me. It's you. Forget God. Forget finding forgiveness and love there. On the inside that friend is you. Making penny bets like a Philippino woman in the smoking section of a casino. Double or nothing. 50/50. Pretend now that I'll be there too. Tossing coins in a well. Wishing only the best for you.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."
as our bodies are programmed to die.
*thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.
he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty
he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade
he was 17 and his smile
and his curls
and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls
first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all
and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.
when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.*
i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years
and
and
piles of numbers spurting from a computer
and an echo of a splash.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
I am awoken from a restful sleep aware of the fresh air
the open window brings as she begins to sing
it is the sound of the loon calling me to her side
I stride towards the beckoning sound and her shore
as the door swings open to a new dawn and a rising sun
the early morning mist departing to reveal her beauty
she is glass like this day, stillness the allure
her stillness belies her truth that she can be rough enough
as I stand beside her admiring the horizon she willingly displays
my ears are attune to her lapping sounds, my heart calm
launching my canoe I begin to paddle amidst her blueness
each stroke like the combing of her hair with twirls and curls
today she allows me to glide with ease yet she can also be a tease
the gentle breeze now professed can transform into a mighty storm
it is within her grace that she allows me this place of serenity
for she could as easily sweep off my serendipity with a rough sea
sounds of gulls take my eyes upwards into the clear blue sky
watching them soar all the while jealous of their ability for flight
a honking sound now has me looking to my right to catch sight
of a gaggle of geese in mid-flight her back their launching pad
and without warning there’s a splash as a fish leaps into the air
in search of its morning dish of insect and bugs, as it dives
back into the water, its sanctuary, its home I am reminded again
of her kindness that she provides in sheltering bays
her gentle waves taking me on a journey into the depths
of this lake they call Placid
Andreas Simic©
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 7:16 AM UTC
You stood there
wearing your hurricane dress.
And all that swept across my mind
was how the gale would clash our bodies together.
After-party, the people were firmly rooted
bored, long-winded.
You were in the bathroom stall on the second floor
blowing me away,
blowing me in gusts
and launching a chilling breeze
down my spine.
Years later, the sweet tunes
clanged by the wind chimes
reminded me of you
wearing your hurricane dress
leaving me breathless.
Before you stormed off.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Calm was the air did its breath of slow utter
Slight given was the pressure against the trees' clutter
The tide gave toward the shore a bathing of fond
A raindrop tapping the ripple in the water's pond
Nature was it mothered to be the earth of pure
Land, air, and water were the children of cure
Howbeit born was the arrival of human error
For Nature a victim she became of this polluting terror
All content of luxury became poison when left forgot
Expense became the drain of Nature when industry was begot
Slave did she become with the negligent torture by all synthetic
Water was it forced to swallow hard all fluids of hectic
Land was it diagnosed with a cancer of slow plague in the cell
Air did bleeding of all fresh had it become from the settled hell
Human destined were they to rule yet abuse emerged their ego
Dying may be Nature but reaction will not treat with regal
Beware be the responsible for their prisoner has power of destructive
No longer shall Nature absorb mankind's terror with constructive
Balance of all earthly condition does support root from the wind
Tool of value has it forever been used to course the planet's skin
But in addition can poison fuel the wind's vehicle to maximum
Point of breaking can wind unleash Nature with the pendulum
Quiet will no longer be Nature idle in standing by
Foresight will come with the storms to punish those with might
A tower of gales shall it tear apart all houses of mankind
Tides will erupt with anger to wash all those to the bind
Burn shall explosion cooperate with volcanoes for the share
Extrapolated be all ends of the heat spectrum beyond repair
Survival can longer not it be for the humans to this breeze
Nature wages the unmatched war till gone be the disease
Launching from her fissure shall come the monsters' end
For her ally of wind will one make the closing amend
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
*When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. I told myself, "I want to see the stars and the planets up-close." I think probably we all had that stage in childhood where we all wished to be space walkers like Armstrong.
But eight years later, now I don't wish to be an astronaut anymore. I wish to be a writer. Because I have already seen all of the stars and the nebulae in your eyes. I wonder how they all got condensed in those two small circles like the moon. I whisper to myself, "It's so lustrous."
I already felt the weightlessness of space in your kisses, and your hugs are like oxygen tanks -- I need them to breathe. And when I see you-- just looking at your gait and smelling your perfume is even more enthralling than being in a launching rocket ship that pierces through the clouds and breaks the invisible mantle that separates the Earthly skies from the cosmic tapestry called "the rest of the universe". And I float away from reality and just revolve around the idea of you and nothing more like how the satellites of Jupiter revolve around it almost eternally.
I don't need to see the constellations anymore nor the planets or the meteors because I have seen them all in your skin-- I painted them on your skin. Others might call it bruises, but they do not understand that your body-- your neck, your arms, your chest are empty spaces and it'd feel like a sin not to embellish them with love marks -- the bruises that do not scream pain but* I love you's. *And I love you.
More than all the splendor of space, I still find your hair and the arch of your back and the gaps between your fingers and your clavicles so much more beautiful. Even this galaxy we live in seem to be unfit for its name: Milky Way. I think that name suits better your complexion alone. And when you smile-- oh, your smile! -- it is more radiant than the brightest comet and more warm than the hottest blue star; even the sun in the most arid summer-- it just gives me sunburns, but your smile, only yours, renders my heart melted.
When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut because I wanted to see the space. But now I don't anymore. Because I learned that astronauts are just spectators and I want to write about the universe. I want to write about you.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
-Audience!
Prepare for the magic act
*Hypnotically launching attacks
upon the helpless masses*
Won't pull a rabbit from a hat,
Rather false-flaggish gaffs
Practically exposed to radioactive madness
*(Feel the hurt disappear like doves
Gloriously soaring out your ***
Hijack these hijinks
Whilst laughing maniacally
Tornado alley to the trailer-park mentality
I call this a helluva brainstorm,
High-velocity lethality
Compose yourselves
Are your brain-stems intact?
-Okay. Now
*f
o
l
l
o
w
the swing
of
my pendulous
p e n m a n s h i p
Drearily drift into dreamy trance,
While I attempt
to initialize a feat
of mass hypnotization
Enchantingly dip
into deep illusory corridors
of thoughts limitless*
(Pay no attention
to any slippage,
Mental or otherwise
It's already dripping out your ears
& the seat of your pants)
Real ****
no gimmicks!
Abracadabra
Propaganda
Extravaganza
Gaze into my crystal ball
Mouths agape in awe
While I slay and lay waste
indiscriminate to the faceless plague
Come one, come all!
Phantom sorcerer I am, conjuring
unfathomable horrors
To the collective mind
procured through sleight-of-hand
Voila!
Still with us?
Alright, hold your breath
until you finally wake up
And illuminate the bogus
Hocus pocus front
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Shuffle the deck,
Reset Earth's debts
In a fabulous show
of m i s d i r e c t i o n
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Now, Ladies & Gents!
For my final performance
With this rope,
Suspended from the throat
I am going to bulls-eye myself
In the frontal lobe
Dead-center
In front of all you people
With this
.40 caliber desert eagle!
Graciously donated by our very own NWO
(applause)
This one's sure to be mind-blowing folks.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
Yet again, I am struggling to sleep,
Yearning for my soul to keep.
Day by day pass with no remorse.
Death scouring the lands on his tireless horse.
First there was Marcos,
Then there was Kain.
Death is coming for all of us,
As morale begins to wane.
Shots are fired in hot sporadic spurts,
I duck for cover as my shoulder hurts.
Blood flows down my arm as I grasp my gun,
I close my eyes as my comrades begin to run.
I am paralyzed, planted in the bunkered earth,
My comrades carry me as they flee.
I fight with sanity, refusing to see my own worth,
As bullets fly by, in an endless torrent of maniacal glee.
The pain sears, racing through my mind.
Muscles, tissue, bone, beginning to unwind.
Concern crosses my comrade’s face,
As he looks at my pained disgrace.
Earth spews from the ground to my right,
Launching us into the thick fumed air.
I scream again as my pain rears its roaring might.
My vision fading as our bodies land on our earthen lair.
Death’s whisper then did creep,
His cold breath in did seep.
I feel no pain as I know its time,
To join my mates, out here on the Rhine.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
2.1k
The tangerine stained race track
spread across our **** carpet, a turn
by the wooden bed frame, a loop
near the five piece drum set.
My brother’s fingertips gripped a Hot Wheel
by its rear end, its rubber wheels
greeting the track, propelling it forward,
launching it into another plastic vehicle,
and Crash.
I nursed the toy cars through emergencies,
playing doctor to replace cracked windshields
and torn plastic bumpers, victims
of one too many collisions. It alarmed me
how easily the 1976 Mustang could lose its wheel,
sending it spinning like a dreidel while my brother grinned
with splintered teeth, feeling nothing.
The car survived the impact, but people
don’t always walk away from accidents. They can’t be raised
on jack stands and tinkered with. The operation table,
home to drivers with fluttering heartbeats,
can hum to the deafening beat of a flat-line monitor.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
The fat lady came out first,
tearing our roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summinging the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
and dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmurings from the jungle of *****
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermtented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, ***** There's no other way.
It's not the ***** of hussars on the ******* of their ******
nor the ***** of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships,s taverns, and parks.
***** was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go.
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
2.1k
I painstakingly cut off my
fingertips
screaming as I dug out the
microprocessors
so we could live
free from their scanner
grids
The whir of drones
overhead
provide an ironically
soothing white noise
as we spend the night
huddled together in a ravine
The truth is
I'm not afraid of
them finding us
and launching
our firebomb execution
so much as I'm
afraid
you might want
at some point
to see other people
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
This is embarrassing and cheesy.
You said you’d be pleased if…
…So I wrote a poem
in hopes of…
to give us…
a new launching pad
into an old conversation.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 1:04 PM UTC
a funny odd thing happened when plato banished
the poets from his republic,
he invited the likes of mozart
into it... oh god the jealousy grew...
i say, the Platonic idea of music
never mind relations with men
and women gave us opera! hmm!
opera! if plato didn't banish the
poets from his utopia we'd have no
opera! the market is saturated though,
england the most musical nation
has become over-saturated with music...
in it, i could write philosophy on toilet-paper,
wipe my *** with it and tell you
it's candy-floss... honest to god, cross
my heart, stand leg tied like on a crucifix
and name all the scouts' honours
including the one about aiding an old
lady cross the street...
the music over-powered, no wonder
the poets have a battering ram with them
(there's so many of them! ooh, a mongolian horde
on the prowl),
they're thumping and with trébuchets
launching rotten cabbages and tomatoes
at the walls of this ridiculed utopia...
sure, banish poetry, create opera,
and everyone "suddenly" speaks less
eloquently...
darwinism is just a nice way of talking
about genocide our species did unto
humanoids in between resemblance
and the assembly line... where no
other species evolved to extract history
so far back as to carve an existential
chasm, a grand canyon of despair,
hoping that a little stream of celebrity
culture feeding us would "do the trick"
of becoming satiating...
i just laugh... atheism and darwinism
don't mix... mass ****** torture and sodomising
children and atheism fits to a crescendo!
applause.... encore... applause... ah...
now that's my jaw dropping thing to smile at.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC