"maim" poems
My soul is a maelstrom
How dare you maim my son.
You’ll choke on my sea
My beasts will eat your heart.
I am god of the depths
You are fragile meat.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Michael Louviere was a man of the people,
Who held in his hand a book of the law,
And outside his belt a gun for his safety,
But never would he have used it for ******
I'm told he helped many but never killed any,
But Sylvester Holt did not believe it,
He said the actions of one create a whole guilty people,
And he took the matters into his own hands,
And killed poor young Michael for serving his people.
So I'm sorry young man, you been born with white skin,
In a world with the permissions to ****** and to maim,
But just to have freedom depends on your name,
But if you think its good I suppose ill let you,
Work for a cause that is just out to get you,
And keeping in line with the others before him,
Sylvester took the bait and the hook nearly gored him,
But the worm could've lived it was just his misfortune.
Sylvester laid down with a bullet in his chest,
And the gun in his hand had a burning hot barrel,
He assumed death was better than life and life only,
But in his last second he pulled out a small knife,
And cut in his gun small violent furrow,
It was then that he realized this all wasn't worth it,
He saw those two notches and handed himself in,
To a lifetime of no pain and and unwoken rest.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
You touch like Midas;
turn everything to an apricot hue.
I want to taste the honey off your breath
and lay my chest down next to you.
As timeless as salt air by the sea
my hand under yours
and your heartbeat beneath me.
I find myself in forever
counting the freckles upon your shoulder.
Gather up your handsome frame
and still wish a way to hold more.
This happiness, I will not let my misery maim,
I dare not even whisper your name
although to shout
I wish I could.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 3:41 AM UTC
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
I'm on the run
And not for fun
The police are chasing
My heart is racing
When my life is at stake
My morality I'll break
The police release the hounds
I can hear their deadly sounds
They want to maim me
I want to stay me
I decide to fight the charging canines
Because I just snorted a ******* line
My judgement loses length
To my influx of strength
I break the dogs' legs
Until they beg
That's not enough
Sorry Scruff
The steel gun I fire
A furry cop retired
The police attack me
For defending myself
They refuse to see
The danger to my health
They chose to use crazy canines
So I feel the fault isn't mine
That doesn't change their decision
For me to die slowly in prison
I am in the teeth of the government
Much to my human wonderment
This is the way I'll spend the rest of my life
For the decisions I made at the end of a knife
The irony is cops **** dogs all the time
Yet they obstruct their vision of the line
Where it ceases to be man versus society
And becomes man versus nature
When a man is in peril
He must turn feral
But in a country that blindly idolizes aggression
The police don't acknowledge this discretion
They dig their teeth into our skin
While draining us financially
The only way we'll ever win
Is if things change substantially
Sadism fervently fuels the flames of conflict
With an exasperated public sick of being kicked
Cruelty is what they witness
To lose their mental fitness
How can they protect their babies
When the police have rabies?
The police relationship with the effected public will never shift
When there's a Cereberus between them maintaining the rift
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
i want my poems to have teeth.
i want my words to cut,
to maim, to bleed.
with verses, i will raze
empires. with stanzas,
i will turn thrones to dust.
with nothing but a bit
of silver on my tongue,
i will take the life of god.
i’ll ply that same *****
like honey, taste the sweet
nothings dripping
between knocking knees.
quake and quiver for me,
let me slip, furtive
as nightshade
to sate your curiosity.
feel the weight of veracity
in these fingers patiently
transcribing forgotten melodies,
compressing ivory keys
to sing of all that was lost
and what was gained
from the process.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
ALLAHU-AKBAR, (TRUE)
GOD IS GREATER THAN THEY KNEW
Or why would they do what they do
And then pervert al-Islam too
BISMILAH – (IN THE NAME OF ALLAH)
They plant bombs inside of cars
To blow up strangers near and far
But they take things too ******* far
AL-HUMDILILAH – (PRAISE ALLAH)
But not by giving Islam a scar
Who the hell they think they are
Shaytan’s minions? They’re on par
ASTAGFIGALAH (MAY ALLAH FORGIVE)
Those not cursed by how they live
Chopping heads off especially with
A rusty knife known as a shiv
INSHALLAH (IF IT’S ALLAH’S WILL)
Those who maim and also ****
Will soon be presented with the bill
And their ambitions will get them nil
ALLAHU-ALUM (ALLAH KNOWS BEST)
The sins they will have to confess
To get those sins up off their chest
While facing hell fire nevertheless
WALAHI (I SWEAR BY ALLAH)
Hell will find them wherever they are
In their homes near or far
Because they have raised the bar
YA-HAMUKALAH (MAY ALLAH PROTECT YOU)
From those ****
Who constantly beat their war drums
And take advantage of the deaf blind and dumb
Copyright © 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
I've sat near the holy ones, and I've lost shame before the people.
I've torn my scarf into shreds; I'm all wrapped up in a blanket.
I took off my finery of pearls and coral, and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.
With my tears, I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over, and borne the fruit of bliss.
The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter, no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion; seeing the world, I wept.
Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder: now with love He takes me across to the further shore.
~~~~~~~
mere to giridhara gupaala, duusaraa na koii |
jaa ke sira mora mukuTa, mero pati soii ||
taata, maata, bhraata, baMdhu, apanaa nahiM koii |
ghaaM.Da daii, kula kii kaana, kyaa karegaa koii?
saMtana Dhiga baiThi baiThi, loka laaja khoii ||
chunarii ke kiye Tuuka Tuuka, o.Dha liinha loii |
motii muu.Nge utaara bana maalaa poii ||
a.Nsuvana jala siiMchi siiMchi prema beli boii |
aba to beli phaila gaii, aanaMda phala hoii ||
duudha kii mathaniyaa, ba.De prema se biloii |
maakhana jaba kaa.Dhi liyo, ghaagha piye koii ||
aaii maiM bhakti kaaja, jagata dekha roii |
daasii miiraa.N giradhara prabhu taare aba moii ||
____
Notes
I am the translator of this poem, "Torn in Shreds" by Mirabai. I did not copyright it; it's in the public domain and everyone is free to help themselves to it. I simply request that it appear with my name as the translator.
Johanna-Hypatia Cybeleia
4.8k
An afterthought of the day, evolves around me I have to say, I run and hide, not wanting to stay, the dominant side, wanting to play.
Control nothing not even my mind, I am tired of being so kind, the bright light doth shine, darkness comes over so blind, trying to find.
Leave me let me go, my light no more glow, yes I feel very low, these words my only flow, as my heart pulses to and fro, I just want to scream NO
Submission such a game, I am the one to blame, for I lost all of my aim, now I only just want to maim, end it all my life a tragedy a shame.
Reaper come quick, take me I do so pick, read my soul see it is sick, too deep in too thick, lost my way broken wick, let me partake of arsenic.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
My head aches from the assault of chance,
I refuse to kneel my resolve shall not pass,
I am who I am,
A man born of stars,
Made to Inhabit the heavens
I shall not let situation maim me,
Nor the tongues of ignorance impale me,
I am who I am,
Magnum opus of the perfect creative,
'A celestial being.'
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
She sits at night, spinning spells of love and luck,
Splashes inscense over hair and hides it under a rock,
Chanting affirmations through a darkened midnight mirror,
Making talismans with earthly blessings for the wearer,
Waxing moon, waning moon, full or half or crescent,
She will make pain go away, or teach someone a lesson,
Your deepest wishes she will grant, for that is what she does,
She draws upon the ocean tides without a hint of fuss,
But never will she use her power to hurt, or maim, or ****
A hedge witch only beckons love, but not against the will,
An alter made from beauty with the softest female touch,
And vestments worn with good intent, to teach us all so much,
Next time you see a hedge witch, tilt your head and say hello,
As she may find you love some day, and you might never know...
Oct 29, 2009
Oct 29, 2009 at 6:00 AM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Who is this person that I’m living alongside;
I don’t mean my girl; I mean myself.
Is there an alter with impeccable timing to hide;
a thought I think and feeling I’ve always felt.
She digs her hands into my armored flesh,
the areas I reassured could pass each test.
Instead of titanium she sees it’s made of mesh,
“I’m sorry that I’m not the best of best.”
We watched our house burn down
watched the last ember hit the ground.
I place missing posters of myself around town;
truth is I don’t care if I get found.
“A pox on your house,
you ****** knockout mouse.”
On your clean white blouse;
gasoline has been doused.
I wrongly take the blame,
and they keep saying it’s my name.
Isn’t it a shame how bad blood boils all the same?
Sometimes I feel like I’m presented as an open book,
with torn out pages and a cracked spine.
On full display but no one even stops to take a look,
missing the hidden message in each line.
We shoot the **** so incredibly breezily
but I’m reminded that I bruise very easily,
so I find a way to tap out without anyone noticing.
But it’s done just too feebly.
Burned bridges and scorched earth,
my decision to cover with AstroTurf.
Taking lives instead of giving birth,
and I’ll only strive to make it worse.
“A pox on your house,
you ****** knockout mouse.”
“The screams and the shouts
show us what you’re about.”
The beast I try to tame,
but can hardly even maim.
Isn’t it a shame how bad blood boils all the same?
I have this habit of never learning my lesson
and sometimes almost crashing my car.
It’d be tragic or it could be a hidden blessin’
what’s another addition of a scar?
“A pox on your house,
you ****** knockout mouse”
“We’ll turn you into scouse,
you ****** knockout mouse.”
“A pox on your house,
but not on your spouse.”
At least they aren’t that rouse.
“A pox on your house,
you ****** knockout mouse.”
On your clean white blouse;
gasoline has been doused.
I wrongly take the blame,
and they keep saying it’s my name.
Isn’t it a shame how bad blood boils all the same?
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 3:47 PM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
when there are several months in seven days
hearts soaking into carpet, it will leave a stain
drowning in stars is not enough to keep this appetite contained
empty chest cavity to blame
stop the pain
cut its reign
maim me
hang me
save me
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 12:24 AM UTC
As a matter of fact
"I Do"
This particular hospital visit has become an UnKnown drifting barge of cold,
Dismal,a bit austere and forlorn
Fatigue and tension was an early onset of the week.
Spent most the time looking for relief
Every attempt gave life to a unique defeat
An Inexorable desire for the calm to anoint me
I volunteer, then become abased, when they don't appoint me
Irritated When Lustful walls castigate me
Now the needle sings a seductive serenade of sedition,
Slowly, softening the soul to surrender to sleep and submission
That is the mental, and physical surrender, but what of the spiritual and emotional exhortation for permission?
I remain here not home
I prepare for the pain all alone
Dilaudid stirring up my veins and then some
Hoping to endow or maim some predilection from U,
-Alexis-
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:10 AM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Find me, chase me, pin me to the ground
I am yours, fierce lioness
Yours to hunt and hound
Hurt me, hit me, throw me to the wind
I am yours, fierce lioness
Yours to scar and skin
Toy with me, free me, let me run away
I am yours, fierce lioness
Yours to mark as prey
Watch me, stalk me, make me taste my fear
I am yours, fierce lioness
Yours to catch like deer
Wound me, eat me, use me for your game
I am yours, fierce lioness
Yours to **** and maim.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 10:31 AM UTC
His speech is rough,
his work is smooth.
Wait.
Don’t make him talk.
His tools can maim
or make an angel.
He has wrinkles like wood grain,
memories like wood scraps.
Wait, and he’ll carve one.
The stories come
gnarled, with knotholes.
Listen.
He chuckles like a chisel
working old walnut.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
it seeps
under my fingernails into skin
doused in clean! the filth is killed!
then I spit at it.
Demands:
caress my brow in a palm, any warm pocket of flesh
a grandmother’s *****
the spine of a leaf
my dog’s velvet-soft triangle-shaped ear
anything that will let my grief get some rest
sorrow is heavy trash bag to haul
find me a bellhop or a sidewalk construction man
something with biceps and a hardened face. someone who can clean **** up.
please,
sweep
these shards could maim a bystander
why force one to bleed such an unnecessary truth
wouldn't want to wreck these shiny floors
better to keep it hid, better tighten my lips around it
I mean,
how do -you- feel under these fluorescent lights?
who is studying who?
I understand now my circus of an existence was born
in a tight space
between the exhausted description of my histories
-the official ones- and
these secrets,
the juicy stuff
encrypted in me
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC