"legless" poems
THEME: INJUSTICE
A Duet by:
Hassan B. Hassan(Mr Sophy)
Opeyemi Fuad (Gemini)
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇
An unsung warrior I am
One that serve his homeland
Now left to wallow in shame
Betrayed, with no treacle -
To my broken esteem
What an injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We doff our hat to them
Rubbing and cleaning it with their hands
We attain them the power
But they all create new edition
No to injustice!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Preserve the nation's flag
Yet, thrown into cell
Never to see the sun rise
merry-ing with Legless rats
An unproved innocence
Government's injustice
👈Gemini👉
The baby cry out when put to bed
The dog cry out when given birth to
But we all cry out when the molecule changed
But no reaction took place
Why?
Let Justice reign!
👈Mr sophy👉
I thumbed down, on the papers
Still, my worth doesn't count
I served the government
With my heart and soul on the platter
Staked to uphold their stand
But wronged, injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We put down our lives to save theirs
Yet they flow us with their power
Oh!what an injustice
fox government with fox Power
Justice reign!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Thou did nothing
Than bruise our humanity
And rub it on our fresh wound,
With pepper of your injustice
Oh, an insolence!!
Despite our sacred deeds
👈Gemini👉
Indigent we are today
richer we are tomorrow
They are to keep the flag flying
Yet they make the flag vapid
No to injustice!
No to fox government
Justice we want!!
👈Mr sophy👉
©Pen of a true Gemini ™
©Mr Sophy ™
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
****** and
*******
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it's not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it's dark
and cold
out
here.
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I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
Between the din of dusk and dawn
Runs Sleepy Pillow Lane,
Where gators guard the Gates of Thorn
And cryptid creatures reign.
They glide across the midnight sky
Like grime in sanguine sewers;
White canines long and talons drawn
Spike rodents on a skewer.
Gray giants glare from full-moon eyes,
A ghastly ghoulish spell;
Sweet sleepers swell the wells of Nile
While centaurs swing the bell.
Horned vipers writhe into your fears
Like scythes through strangled weeds;
And severed heads of angel hair
From shouldered stumps relieved.
A putrid pile of newly-deads
Awaits the devil's scorn;
And legless maggots gorge in beds
From which the fly is born.
Hungry hyenas howl in packs
While circling carrions crow;
And chunks of flesh are torn from backs
Cracking bones bare below.
Scavengers feast on man and beast,
No rotting limb is spared;
From hanging tongues to napping feet
Blood splatters everywhere.
Brimstone and thunder fill the air
With hail presaging doom;
Ten toothless witches shriek and cheer
As zombies creep from tombs.
Masked mummies stalk with stakes and stones
In search of sleeping heads;
They crave the skulls and living bones
Of bodies slumped in bed.
Through R.E.M. you toss and turn
And roll on restless wheels;
Alas Red Rooster blows his horn
To end your grim ordeal....
~ P
(January, 2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
The rabbit haunts from a distance, patrolling fields for one to bear witness.
Gracefully the tenderfoot stalks, keeping a watchful eye out for Mr.Fox.
The creature walks with a slight limp, other animals often call him a gimp.
This way, that way, it all seems wrong, keeping time with a lost robin's song.
His home constructed as a single story wonder, located within a large tree laying asunder.
Family life wasn't right, as fleeting an image as a wayward kite.
A field mouse, left without spouse,
Stumbled upon the home in a tree, accompanied by a group of songbirds filled with glee.
The field mouse was asked to go, the creature in response, simply said no.
A man stumbled up, as mad as a hatter, his portly girth made it hard to imagine being any fatter.
He spoke of intrinsic right, boundless visions beyond sight.
Told the rabbit he had a duty to the mouse, saying it immoral to deprive him of a house.
The rabbit, reluctant to accept , found out from the man of the true evils in neglect.
He was told that he didn't own the home, it had simply been gifted as a goodwill loan.
That meant it was as his as much as the rabbits, regardless of any perspective habits.
With that the moused moved in, and brought with him his prized snakeskin.
Over a meal the mouse spoke of danger, coming in the form of a wandering stranger.
He told the rabbit, this creature travelled light, but usually shrouded in the cover of night.
Said the creature was not large in size, though his methods of thievery seemed quite wise.
The rabbit recoiled in his chair, as the field mouse offered up a demonic glare.
The field mouse grinned from ear to ear, sensing this rabbit's new grasp on fear.
Pulling the snakeskin from his sack, the dried shell was quick to crack.
The mouse spoke of a brave duel, between him and this monster, which had downed a mule.
He used every ounce of his cunning, and sent the legless beat running.
It wasn't good enough for the mouse, who was certainly no louse.
He tracked the snake for six long hours, through a field of partially bloomed flowers.
In the end he killed the snake, then took its skin so listeners knew the tale wasn't fake.
He held the skin, I mean the mouse, and said he'd hang the shell within the house.
Mr. Rabbit was found dead two days after, his body lay desecrated next to the snakes, hanging from a rafter.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Sleepless nights
when I've
laid in
the thick darkness
listening to the
sirens scream
throughout
the city.
Drawn out sleepless
nights ,
nights that I spent
conjuring up
images of better
times.
Sleep deprived
lonely nights,
nights I spent
counting
someone else's
legless sheep.
Nights I spent
wasting hours
by thinking of
nothing but
the past.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
A stampede of elephants
Running through the rooms of my mind
As their legless bodies ask
"How?"
A toucan flies to rest on a thought
With two million and two branches reaching towards my heart.
"How many cans can a toucan can if a toucan could can cans?"
Now this monkey must be joking
Those are my feelings he's holding.
And he continues to toss them about.
He peels off the skin and throws it over his shoulder
And takes one big bite out of the happiest one.
And this little duck waddles,
Left foot, right foot.
The left side is fine, but his right
Sends a nerve that clenches a fist to a glass window.
"Quack, quack."
Snip snap,
And there goes the vertebrae in my spine.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Zoe was a clever girl, and I wasn't surprised when she wanted to try a haiku-style piece, but it was even cleverer than I had expected, with a correct syllable count and a delightful punch-line.
**Slow-worm in the grass
looks at me with beady eyes
and puts its tongue out.**
(Note: the slow-worm is a legless lizard that looks like a small snake, locally quite common in England.)
I love the suggestion that the creature is being cheeky by putting its tongue out, while we all know - don't we? - that lizards do this to smell the air around them.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
The two nurses
strip me off
for a blanket bath,
said Grace,
I lay here on the bed,
my blind eyes
staring at blackness.
They lift each leg stump
and wash them gently
and with care;
they wash me where
only mother ever touched
when I was a child;
they wash me
with the warm water all over,
talking between themselves;
they talk of the bombing
the night before,
of the people brought in
from the raid;
of the many dead
who lay
in the mortuary now.
One talks of her night out
with her boyfriend
home on leave,
the other asks questions;
I fail to listen to.
I think of Clive
and the last time
we made love
in my bed
before he went off to fight
and was killed at Dunkirk,
and the night my house
was bombed and my maid
was killed and I lost my legs and sight
and thrown into this dark night.
They dry me gently
and dress my stumps again
and the put on my nightie.
They have gone
and I lay here
musing on Clive
and the man Philip
who came with Guy
and who talked to me
and promised
to take me out.
Why would he want
to go out with a legless,
blind woman?
And where
would we go?
He never said
and I may never know.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
(AP) Chicago vicinity hit hard yesterday by fierce bracing winds approximating unmanned chainsaws violently cutting across streets sidewalks heavy lakefront blizzard icy snow resembling slivers of broken glass slashing stinging skin news alert of return of dreaded snow worms attacking women and children technically known as Kinorhynchan Oligochaetes Nemertines these deadly transparent parasitic creatures slither slightly ticklish creep inside boots preferring hairless legs of children slimy vipers dig between toes devouring traces of toe jam then gnawing toenails until they reach foot bed where they fester in bitter dark brown green milky juices crippling little boys and girls in shaven women the elongated legless carnivorous ice worms disguised as mere icicle drippings climb up calf knee thigh ****** ****** ovaries feasting on female eggs their favorite food many northern women choose not to shave during winter season so as not to fall victim to the snow worms
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 9:16 AM UTC
The death-filled battlefield lay foul and grey,
Its noisome stillness broken grimly by the groans
Of wounded, broken, bleeding, dying men.
But, cheer up folks, there's some good news:
Gently, slowly, through that desolate scene
Came an Angel all dresséd in nurses' kit;
She wandered, lovely as a cloud, starched in white,
Giving eager head unto the maimed and crippled.
"Me, me" a legless soldier wanly called,
More in hope than in serious expectation
Of a caring gobble before he croaked.
And then he passed on to the great ******** in the sky,
Another useless sacrifice to nothing what-so-fucking-ever.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Swirling colors
paint the market square,
shrimp lie heaped
next to the
bananas & chilis,
there's lemonade,
tires with rubber patches,
a sense of community
hangs in the air.
Deals are made
in hard currency
or in trade.
A natural flow exists,
as if everyone
is on autopilot.
And behind the scenes,
just under the surface,
one feels the depression,
pain is palpable.
You can see it in
the eyes of the dogs,
rib-poking-skinny,
hairless, manged & skittish.
They hang with the limbless ones,
half-humans,
legless & starved,
dragging themselves
on cobbled streets
through ***** matter & *****
wallowing in the mire,
begging for peanuts & money.
It ain't funny.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
“He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
—In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.”
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:23 AM UTC
you will thrive in your own cocoon—
legless arthropod wriggling out
of its leaved shell, crunching
on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel.
you crawl up the leaves like they’re
the steps of a winding staircase,
circling and circling to one day
step out of your cocoon.
you are your own skin—
a wing ripped in figure
eights of formative tearing.
at the bottom of a
wind-leaned green tower,
you are torn down as if starting all
over again, away from the pace of
a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.
you are not quite a monarch butterfly,
not yet the zebra-patterned black and white,
but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve—
thriving as a flower, swaying and alive.
you must visit the filial leaves and trace
their veins gently.
soon you will thrive in your own cocoon;
as those plant’d seeds will
soon leave legless arthropods wriggling—
for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither
without your leaves crinkling beneath it?
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 8:59 PM UTC
Holiday: a man backstrokes
oh so gently in the hotel pool.
It’s breakfast time. Bean juice
coagulates on my plate.
I watch the man’s languid, enchanting
backstroke and, for some reason,
it inflates my heart with sentimental joy.
This semi-corpulent middle-aged man,
is, right now,
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth:
His arcing limbs do not slap or thrash,
but plop into the drink like skipping stones.
He is a babbling brook. A water feature.
The splish-splosh trickle-truckle of a spa waiting room.
And what’s more, this forty-something baldy
gliding through the water
fills me with love for all humanity,
because he seems blithely rapt
in absolute peace
(despite the room rates at this place).
But then, I realise, all of this might be
free association of the mind
linking this moment to a scene in
the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump;
when a legless Lieutenant Dan
makes peace with God (for taking his legs),
and backstrokes with the same carefree beauty
into a pink and orange sunrise
(funny how the mind does that).
And suddenly the bubble of beauty is burst.
The portly swimmer becomes just that
(FYI: legs intact),
and my wife returns from the buffet
with a plate of vibrant fruit segments; Cheshire melon
and the greenest kiwi I’ve ever seen.
Lo! Only now have I tasted true kiwi.
And I remember: I’m on honeymoon!
And my wife, in this moment, and forever more,
shall be the only human to be known as:
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth.
Similar to the way Forrest felt about Jenny,
in the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
All the ones I
Love the most have
Someone they love
More than me.
The truth of it is
Beautiful;
That lonely knowing
Sets me free.
The legless fly,
The voiceless sing.
There's love in every
Living thing.
And in that love
I bask and laugh,
Composing my own
Epitaph:
*All gods are real, and
Therefore none,* and
*Hell hath merely
Room for one.*
All the ones I love
The most
May barely know a
Man from ghost.
I love their rains, their
Suns and soils,
Their loving others form
The spoils that go
To me right where I
Stand to see:
I need not even
Me.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
I called her once, then I called again
And I called throughout the night,
There wasn’t a message from Olwen’s pen
Nor the answering ‘ching’ of delight,
I’d begged forever her not to go
But she must have gone and went,
Down to the Fair at Cinders Flo
And into the strongman’s tent.
We’d been together to see the Fair
When the sun was riding high,
And all the rides and the Ferris Wheel
Were reeling up in the sky,
We rolled a ball at the grinning clowns
And we won a Teddy Bear,
The hairy woman and legless man,
All of the freaks were there.
But then we got to the Strongman’s tent
And I saw her eyes go wide,
He picked her up with a single hand
And I’ll swear that Olwen sighed,
I found I couldn’t drag her away,
She paid for a second show,
And after stroking his biceps once
She waved for me to go.
I had to drag her away from there
Or she would have stayed all day,
‘What do you find so interesting?’
I finally had to say.
‘Isn’t he such a mighty man
And his muscles ripple so,
He makes me feel like I want to squeal
Like a Tarzan’s Jane, you know.’
I finally went to Cinders Flo
In the middle of the night,
Thinking the end of me and Olwen
Seemed to be in sight,
I got to his tent, and there she was,
A-stare, a look aghast,
For what she had woken up was slim,
She saw the truth at last.
For there hanging up within the tent
Was the Strongman’s muscle suit,
With every ripple and every bulge
And a chest that was hirsute,
But he sat up in his lonely bed
And was pale and thin and white,
With a certain wiry toughness, though
He could never cause delight.
I think that it cured my Olwen though
She’s never been so still,
She spends her mornings and afternoons
Hung over the window-sill,
I try to get her to walk with me
But she can’t, she says, she hates,
She’s staring down at the guy next door
As he’s working out, with weights.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC
Late spring. Early morning.
Horseflies in my dream,
dissonant church bells, legless pigeons
I wake to the light’s sharp angle
that cuts this day open.
A breeze stretches its wrap
Lying here, dawn is brief
like a banner slowly raised
then dropped abruptly
Rising from bed
I slump
a prisoner waiting for a beating
The chilled air, a sword
stuck into my skin
Through the blinds
a snap of sun
my eyes rollback
colors pop
I stand barefoot
and become the sum
of a legless pigeon
a horsefly’s faint buzz
dissonant bells
I think of my dream
how it called me
inward
closer to the core
a caravan of pine coffins
lined up in the streets
a future template
Suddenly, church bells,
a fly dead on the sill,
a mournful pigeon’s coo.
--------------------------------------------
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2015
all rights reserved
"Horseflies Pigeons Coffins"
was first published in 'Secrets and Dreams Anthology'
(Kind Of A Hurricane Press)
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Today I didn't think I'd let go
of something truly dear to me.
My favorite umbrella. The first umbrella I didn't lose or break.
I bought it with a special someone. Held onto it even when he left.
I felt like it was me.
It was overturned and threatened by strong winds and falls,
graciously protecting it's Master under the strong heat of the Son,
and from the batting of the Reyn.
It served me well. I also, did well.
We survived two years
of wandering
actually running three next month,
but Umbra just had to go unexpectedly
found a diversion
when we saw a legless old woman
whose old wheelchair is slowly being pushed under the heat of December.
Her old man wearing a cap,
and she, wearing a small towel on her head.
Traversing the highway perhaps coz of the fare they can't afford.
Slowly nearing us. Umbra came out of my bag. Jumped out quickly but gripped me
to bid me a final goodbye.
My hands thinking between taking a last picture of my umbra and feeling her last grip.
Then the old woman smiled.
Umbra shook her hand.
And let me go.
I bowed to both Umbra and the grateful lady.
My eyes followed their acquaintance.
the sight of the lady's delight while opening Umbra
seeing Umbra at her most beautiful-
like a butterfly sprouting her wings
regretting that I didn't wash her as planned
had I known we'd part unplanned
Surely I will miss my Umbra
but I am utmost proud
that finally
she has found a purpose
full of purpose
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Father, I have sinned.
Ive compelled myself a mate and painted my body gold, pure and metallic and let him hang me around his lacey neck like a chained noose.
Father, i have sinned.
Ive disappointed my appointments and made allies with my enemies. Ive lied to get to where i am and i stand legless because of it.
Father, i have sinned.
Ive cut open skin and got drunk from the blood, letting it trickle down my breast, wearing it like a jacket, using it tirelessly to keep me warm during my winter
Father, i have sinned.
I scripted cursively with my left hand and pointed accusingly with my right. Ive fought like a thinker and forfeit my heart.
Father i have sinned,
I loved without thought.
I have slept in my ***** sheets and bathed in my discretions, Father, this bed is not big enough for our overexhausted lessons.
Father, please forgive me
for i have sinned in spite of the sun. Ive predicted light for the losing side and because of that,
i've won a temporary victory.
Ending with, not surprisingly, my mother clawing me senseless,
her knuckles blistering my jabbing jaw.
She said, "I never thought id see a side to you much darker than i ever saw."
Now she looks to me much older, decrepit and disgusted, and i look to her a doppelganger of the man that left her faithless.
Father, i have sinned and unwittingly beg for your conviction. But your faith is what left my mother living breathlessly without a face. A face hauntingly well known. but if i keep on keeping on this sinning, a face just like yours ill own.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
after the body has decomposed and decayed and is done being with being a body, the insects feast on the flesh, desperate for nourishment.
1. after: the close of
decompose: to separate into parts
decay: to decompose; to separate into parts; to rot
done: to be finished
feast: any abundant meal
flesh: the sweet, outer coating of a body
desperate: having an urgent need for nourishment: something that is necessary for life
First came the blowflies, then the maggots. They attacked you while you were breathing. They thought you were done: to be finished. They crawled in and out of your nostrils, through your gaping mouth, down your throat. Your body took the phrase "being eaten alive" too far.
2. maggots: legless larvae of flies
attack: to set upon in a hostile or violent way
nostrils: holes in a face that helps a body: the physical structure of a material substance breathe
down: on or to the ground
throat: the part where insects run through and burrow and live in the not living
You're imprinted into the ground now, your ribs a perch for vultures to peck upon your carcass. Your skull is laced with sand and other sedimentary rock as a nice garnish. Bodies are strewn here, peppered with dynasties of dust, ancestry of asphalt.
3. ribs: curved bones shaped like armor to protect the heart and other vital organs
carcass: a human devoid of being
skull: the bony framework of a head
laced: the lightly draping of a thing
garnish: the supply with; to decorate; to lace: lightly drape a thing
ancestry: generations and generations of sediment forming into people forming into lives forming into experience forming into decay: to separate into parts
~~a.s.f.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
The coroner called to ask how I am but i told him I’m not
You had two pillows in the house that you used, one
in the bedroom and one in the living room and while
I washed the other one three times to get your smell
out, the other i have yet to touch because
you’re coming home soon.
The coroner called to ask how I am but I told him I was.
The flowers didn’t bloom this year until midway through
May and I remembered because you begged me
to buy them and now they stretch their arms out on the
window box outside my bedroom, respect for
punctuality lost in a similar way that mine was.
I cut them down before they could reach their full
height and I gathered the clippings in a bag, burning
them the way they burned you.
The coroner called to ask how I am but I told him I’m trying to be.
Your sister came over the other day and asked for your
collection of playing cards because she said it was yours
and hers, that she had found most of them for you on road
trips and holidays. I remembered the way
she looked at me the first time you introduced us
and I shuffled a deck last night and could hear your voice
counting as you dealt.
I gave them to her anyway and thought I was signing a deal with the Devil.
The coroner called to ask how I am and I told him I’m barely.
Your shoes sit footless and your pants sit legless and I sit
you-less and cross-legged in your closet all that day, trying to
remember how to breathe.
The coroner called to ask how I am and I told him I’m almost.
The magnet on the fridge is crooked because the strip on the
back fell apart when you ran into that towering
block of tundra while chasing your niece and it fell to the
floor with a sharp crack.
I repaired it last Saturday and set it straight.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
You may record me in your over-edited, excerpts.
What men claim as their story.
Salty, bitter history, versus jaystory.
Throw my revolution in the sand.
But still, like the dust on your mantle,
I am lifted.
Even deceased I can stand.
Does my challenge anger you?
Are you overwhelmed with a match?
My words can open cans of worms
Your little politician promising can't patch
Up, or be swept under that with a broom
I will haunt you with my revolutions
Like I'm zeus in his own living room.
Like the endless universe to our moon.
To the fall of capitalism soon
To the 24 frames a second on networks of cartoons
Or those stuck in the trip of two caps of a shroom
Stay in tune
Like your high school's marching band
However I have to
I'll find ways to stand
I know someone would rather see me broken, crippled, legless, without feet.
A head hung low and eyes even lower so
Shoulders challenging one one another to how much closer to the ground one can go.
Does my attitude offend you?
Don't take my strength too too hard
I'll laugh like I've got El Dorado
Underneath my back yard.
You may shoot me with your thoughts
Your words, throwing heat from steamed pots
But me with your eyes, thinking it may do a lot
You may **** me with your hateful energy, maybe you can
But whatever state the world leaves me in
I will continue to stand.
Does my appeal make you angry?
It frequently comes as a surprise
I dance as if 50 carat diamonds lie between my two thighs
My history might have shame, lost in brutal command
But that's then, this is now, so regardless I stand
I'm an endless waterfall, unmeasurable in feet
The fact I can't hear myself is also funny to me.
Since water is a sound that my ears cannot reach.
But at least by my wonder to some I can teach.
That there is nothing you cannot withstand.
So with my my revolutionaries
Together. We stand.
I stand. To dawn and then back.
I stand. Regardless of your wrath.
I stand. I am the dream, and in hopes, the hope of the change.
I stand and I'll stand.
Till a new story's engraved.
I stand.
To when history is just a story.
Not belonging to a man.
vi.xx.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated by sea-sick phrases
Somewhere a long way from our
shore a man or woman, very desperate
to find their way on board a ship
going in the right direction
When those who could speak
a second or even third language
were called forward
this person’s mind reached far,
back to french lessons at school,
every country visited and greeting noted
and piped up: I speak very good French!
But French speakers were common
Try harder! shouted a polite man
I can speak Zulu!? silence...
*Pashto is very useful…
Ah! my mother tongue,
I dream in that language
Yes I am still in touch with my mother
with whom I speak, of course,
in Pashto*
Setting sail on the lonely sea
There is nowhere to hide
besides the engine room,
And in there you will be used as fuel
Put to good use
—Well I did think once that I was being summoned to an underwater land but in fact it was a ruse, a trick to rob me of wallet
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC